"Okay,man," Juan says, letting go of the Door Open button and offeringa shaky thumbs-up. "I, like, trust you."

Theelevator zips up to the top floor, where it opens into Alison'spenthouse. I peer down the front hallway, don't see or hear the dogs,then quietly wheel the Vespa inside and lean it against a wall in thefoyer next to a Vivienne Tam sofa bed.

Itiptoe silently toward the kitchen but stop when I hear the hoarsebreathing of the two chows, who have been intently watching me fromthe other end of the hallway, quietly growling, audible only now. Iturn around and offer them a weak smile.

Ican barely say "Oh shit" before they both break out intomajor scampering and rush at their target: me.

Thetwo chows—one chocolate, one cinnamon—leap up, baringtheir teeth, nipping at my knees, pawing at my calves, barkingfuriously.

"Alison!Alison!" I call out, trying desperately to bat them away.

Hearingher name, they both stop barking. Then they glance down the hallwayto see if she's coming. After a pause, when they hear no sign ofher—we're frozen in position, red chow standing on back legs,its paws in my groin, black chow down on its front paws with Gucciboot in mouth—they immediately go to work on me again, growlingand basically freaking out like they always do.

"Alison!"I scream. "Jesus Christ!"

Gaugingthe distance from where I'm at to the kitchen door, I decide to makea run for it, and when I bolt, the chows scamper after me, yelping,biting at my ankles.

Ifinally make it into the kitchen and slam the door, hear both of themskidding across the marble floor into the door with two large thumps,hear them fall over, then scamper up and attack the door. Shaken, Iopen a Snapple, down half of it, then light a cigarette, check forbites. I hear Alison clapping her hands, and then she walks into thekitchen, naked beneath an open Aerosmith tour robe, a cell phonecradled in her neck, an unlit joint in her mouth. "Mr. Chow,Mrs. Chow, down, down, goddamnit, down."