Phoebe enters, and the two ladies "admire" the view while letting us know that the Dolt is actually searching for Kit in the fireplace. Moron. Of course, he finds nothing but clumps of ash packed against the sides of the chimney, so he withdraws from the flue to ask if they've tried the animal shelter. They have, but no one has seen their gender-confused familiar with the distinctive triquatra-engraved collar. Piper rises to her feet to ask if the Dolt would like something to eat. "I'm sure you must be hungry after all that work." The Dolt pshaws with a smile. I must admit, Brian Krause looks almost boyish in these early episodes. He's obviously one of those guys -- you know, the kind of guy who wanders through far too many of his adult years looking like a college sophomore until one day all of the keg parties and bong hits and tanning sessions catch up with him and suddenly, overnight, he looks like a haggard, wizened rent boy several decades past his expiration date. See Woody Harrelson for another example of this unfortunate phenomenon. Kerr Smith? We're counting the hours, you jackass. Anyway, Phoebe snickers and, still trying to get herself a little Dolt action, instructs the idiot to think of Piper as his mother, what with the smothering offers of food and such. Piper shoots Phoebe a scorching side-eye that by all rights should boil the saline right out of her implants. The Dolt guhs that he'll take Piper up on her offer after he's hung some of the "Lost Cat" flyers around the neighborhood. He then dolts his way right into the forgotten fireplace screen, nearly falling face-first over the thing just so we can get a few more shots of his ass. Once he's wandered from the room, Phoebe swoons, "Quite possibly the finest glutes in the city." "In the state," Piper amends. "In all the land," Phoebe finishes with appropriate hand gestures. Don't make me hurt you, ladies. Knock it off. Both of you.
The gals bicker over who gets dibs on the Dolt -- Dolt dibs, if you will -- and then we're off to the street, where the Dolt affixes a flyer to a signpost. "Missing!" the flyer screams. "Reward!" the flyer promises. "555-0198!" the flyer urges. And then it fucks everything up when it gives the Manor address as "7571 Prescott Street." Wrong. Aviva testily sneers at the Dolt as he strolls past her vintage convertible, like, where did she get that car? It's always the little white-girl Princesses Of Privilege who paint their fingernails black and pen God-awful poetry while mooning over Robert Smith, when they're not busy conjuring baby-wearing Hindu Hell-goddesses in their bedroom mirrors. Typical. Aviva swivels her pretentious head to focus on the freshly-affixed flyer and squints. The blameless sheet of paper bursts into flame as Aviva smirks her way into the opening credits. Great. Another goddamned adolescent fire-starter.