As noted here previously, the house in which I’m currently living, in Society Hill, Philadelphia, is on the market for $1,600,000.00. (N.B.: I get none of this. I’ve earned none of this. I deserve none of this. I’m what’s best called a “hanger on.” And if you say “moocher,” well, I’ll cut you off. But I can’t really do that, can I, this site being free and all?)

Since there’s no exclusive, the customary six-percent realtors’ commission, normally reduced to five percent in what these people like (or get really, really excited about) calling “the upper brackets,” typically is reduced to five percent.

Now, my bulldog, Mildred, during the numerous (multiple, constant, ongoing, seemingly unending) showings of said “million-six” property, has proved herself to be a major selling point among more than a majority of prospects.

(Hint: Once you get above “a million two,” you encounter a large number of doggie people. Mostly on the wifely side. Today’s prospect proof in point.)

I didn’t say anything at first, and I still haven’t, but as we approach closing, which I expect will occur before or by mid-August, I’ve always known Mildred could be, would be, a major asset. She has not done me wrong.

And so I’m writing up a little agreement. In the event a prospect, or more important, the buyer, gushes at closing or previously has gushed about Mildred, we’re asking for a 0.25 percent finders’ fee.

You don’t like it? See you in court. (And we’re open to a modest settlement.)

Before I get sued, file under: humor; see also: parody.

[Post-publication addendum: Have you hit the Rittenhouse tip box lately? It’s sitting, awfully lonely, in the sidebar at right, under the heading “Summer Drive.” Thanks a million. No . . . thanks a few bucks.]

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