Writer Wayne Wilson shares another account of his friend Frizz Fuller:
In the early 1970s I was living on the second floor of one of those dismal stucco apartment complexes in Pomona. One summer night, a friend, Phil, dropped by with a beagle puppy, no more than a few weeks old. He clipped the puppy’s leash to the wrought-iron railing outside. It was a hot night, and I left the front door open so we could keep an eye on the dog, who promptly went to sleep on the warm concrete. My pal and I were chatting, possibly downing a beverage or two, when we gradually became aware of this faint, spectral voice from somewhere in the darkness outide: “Phil . . . Phil . . .”
We looked at each other. “Did you hear something?”
“I’m not sure. Did you?”
“It sounded like somebody calling your name.”
We listened. Nothing.
“Nah—we must have imagined it.”
So we returned to our conversation. Suddenly there was that ghostly voice again, a little more urgent this time: “Phil . . . Phil . . .”
I got up and went to the screen door. There was Frizz, rigid with terror, pinned against the railing by the tiny beagle—wagging its tail excitedly and pawing the songwriter’s shoes, hoping to be petted.
Frizz spotted us at the door. “Phil,” he croaked. “Call off your dog.”
Bob “Frizz” Fuller 