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to the ground, Chip hanging tight to the long line attached to her padded harness. Going at a moderate pace at first, she headed farther and farther into the park. Every once in a while she’d stop and search the ground, circling or moving left or right. Or she’d sneeze, clearing the way for new scents, just as the family dog riding with his head out the car window does, then she’d be off again, pulling Chip behind her.
    We all followed, running to keep up, finding ourselves being led through thick low bushes, our shoes sinking into the wet earth, winding our way around trees, being careful not to trip over roots and fallen branches as we snaked around the park. Betty was going at a steady clip, across the path and onto the grass, all of us following after her.
    â€œCouldn’t just do it straight,” Bucky mumbled, starting to get out of breath as we all hurried to keep up with Chip and Betty. “They had to make a big production out of it.”
    â€œBe quiet,” Tracy said. “Let’s just do this.” Her face was damp, as if she were a plant someone had just misted, but unlike Bucky, she kept up.
    Betty veered toward the copse of trees where just yesterday I had taken Dash and then seen Alan working his dog in the meadow. So it was Alan after all, going exactly the same way he had gone yesterday. No imagination.
    But Betty was already off in another direction. She didn’t go into the meadow, nor did she continue along the way Dashiell and I had yesterday, toward the lake. She was heading north now, and she was covering ground fast.
    We crossed over the bridle path, half our band having to wait for some early-morning riders to pass and hopping around the fresh manure as they rushed to catch up. Betty was whining, moving at a full clip toward a deserted pathway thick with trees on both sides. Suddenly her cries rewed up. Whatever Alan, Boris, and Chip had cooked up, we were there. But for those of us expecting the big gag, there was only disappointment. Sure, Betty had followed the track. She held a glove in her mouth to prove it. She and Chip were doing tug-of-war with it now, her reward for a job well done. But that was it. We had been promised tracking, and tracking was what we got. It was time for breakfast at the Ritz and no doubt a continuation of last night’s argument about the relative merits of tracking versus air-scenting.
    I wondered why I’d thought Alan would be waiting for us with a picnic of goodies from Zabar’s, or be lying faceup in the dirt, a small red circle over his heart and ketchup drooling out of his mouth. Alan Cooper, as far as I could tell, had no sense of humor whatsoever. Perhaps that was why he used a shock collar to train dogs, because he lacked the capacity to laugh at himself when a dog made him look like a fool. Hell, you can’t do that, you don’t belong around dogs.
    So what did this all mean—that Boris was simply telling the truth? If so, where was Alan?

8
    OLD-FASHIONED
    â€œThat’s what Jack Godsil always told me,” Bucky was saying between bites of bagels, lox, and cream cheese in the Ritz breakfast room. “Every handler ends up with the dog he deserves.”
    Chip tugged at my sleeve, just like the old days, to let me know he, too, knew the real source of that quote.
    â€œâ€˜Bucky,’ he’d say …”
    â€œPut a zipper on it, King,” Rick Shelbert said. Then he looked startled by his own boldness.
    â€œIt’s amazing how many students a trainer picks up after he’s died,” Woody said. He put some milk into his coffee and took a sip. “Rachel, weren’t you telling me the other night that you were taught by Blanche Saunders?”
    â€œYou know, my dears,” Beryl said, “none of the students coming today would have any idea what you are talking about.” She picked up a knife and slid a little pot of marmalade closer to her plate of toast. We