The bulldog has a squat, compact little body. He’s broad in the shoulders and thick in the chest, tight at the waist and kinda wiggly in the tail. Henry finds himself wishing they were going on a longer walk so he could watch those two juicy melons bounce in the seat of his clinging, uncuffed trousers atop his short, muscled legs for a while. The bulldog doesn’t have a suitcase, must have left it in his airline’s elite lounge, Henry figures. Or maybe in his suite at the Fairmont, just overhead. He looks like a five-star traveler. What Henry really wishes is that he was following this ass all the way to the Ritz or the Raffles or whatever sweeping drive must surely wait to welcome him at the end of his flight. Champagne at check-in, breakfast on the breathtaking balcony in the morning…