grinned at her, but when my eyes caught her ears, I almost gasped. She’d pierced the right lobe in five places, the left in three. One more hole, and she’d have had half a golf course. And eight different earrings, one gold stud, one small gold hoop, one huge silver hoop... Well, you get the idea—ritual scarification, the symbols of a rite of passage.
The rear of the Volvo held an even larger collection of Leah’s possessions than it had last year—suitcases, a backpack, a duffel bag, an assortment of cardboard boxes, a boom box, and a CD player. Real dog person, are you? Compact disc. As far as I know, there’s no such thing as a Companion Dog player, but if there is, do let me know; Dog’s Life is always interested in new and unusual canine products. Regardless of what Leah’s stuff was, Arthur offered to carry it in. I declined. I offered him a cup of coffee. He declined.
Leah seconded his refusal. “It’s a long drive back. He doesn’t have time.” I frowned at her, but her father looked more relieved than hurt.
Fifteen minutes later, when Arthur must have been fighting the Friday traffic north, Leah was unpacking, and Rowdy and Kimi were still in a state of paralyzed bliss. At their first sight of Leah, they’d wagged all over, fallen to the floor at her feet, bounded up, and again hurled them-selves to the linoleum. After they recovered, they merely collapsed on their backs, tucked in their paws, and let their tongues loll out while she scratched their tummies. Then she smacked her lips and said, “Gimme kiss!” Rowdy and Kimi will do anything she asks. They scoured her face. She was home.
When Leah saw the guest room, her room, she looked genuinely surprised and made a big effort to sound happy. “You redid it!” I had: fresh white paint, white miniblinds picked up for virtually nothing at Grossman’s Bargain Outlet, paisley Laura Ashley comforter discovered at Marshall’s at one-third the original price, all chosen for the person Leah had been last year. If only I’d known, I’d have replaced the bed with a bohemian pallet on the floor. French novels would have barricaded the windows. Candles tucked in Chianti bottles would have provided the only light.
Fortunately, though, Leah has a sunny disposition. Also, she hadn’t yet realized that black is the color created by God to display the undercoat and guard hairs of Her chosen breed, the Alaskan malamute. Beryl’s packages had contained a couple of defurring gadgets. While I prayed that they worked, Leah merrily unpacked a tremendous number of black garments and tried to reassure me that the redone room was very pretty.
“It’s a little, uh, unsophisticated for you,” I said, looking around. “But it’s also my guest room, when you’re not here.” I tried to imagine my father curling up on a pallet, blowing out a Chianti-bottle candle, and resting his head on a stack of existentialist novels. After five insomniac minutes, he’d end up in a red-blooded American L.L. Bean sleeping bag outside in the yard, and in the morning, he’d have a serious talk with me about moving back to Owls Head, Maine.
“Really, I like it a lot,” Leah said for the tenth time.
Within a few days, however, Leah’s room was so shrouded in black clothing, so thick with dog hair, and so stacked with unreadable books that my misguided redecoration didn’t show. Let me point out that I did not nag her to clean up her room. I train dogs; I knew better. As any sane dog person realizes— Sane dog person. Oxymoron. As any wise dog person realizes, nagging gets you nowhere. If you don’t like it when your neutered male mounts your bitch? Don’t watch. So that’s what I did with Leah: I kept the guest room door shut.
Besides, Leah and I had better things to do than clean and nag. We talked. We trained the dogs. Last summer, I’d been the expert. Over the winter, I’d merely been living with dogs, working my dogs, attending obedience classes, going to
The rear of the Volvo held an even larger collection of Leah’s possessions than it had last year—suitcases, a backpack, a duffel bag, an assortment of cardboard boxes, a boom box, and a CD player. Real dog person, are you? Compact disc. As far as I know, there’s no such thing as a Companion Dog player, but if there is, do let me know; Dog’s Life is always interested in new and unusual canine products. Regardless of what Leah’s stuff was, Arthur offered to carry it in. I declined. I offered him a cup of coffee. He declined.
Leah seconded his refusal. “It’s a long drive back. He doesn’t have time.” I frowned at her, but her father looked more relieved than hurt.
Fifteen minutes later, when Arthur must have been fighting the Friday traffic north, Leah was unpacking, and Rowdy and Kimi were still in a state of paralyzed bliss. At their first sight of Leah, they’d wagged all over, fallen to the floor at her feet, bounded up, and again hurled them-selves to the linoleum. After they recovered, they merely collapsed on their backs, tucked in their paws, and let their tongues loll out while she scratched their tummies. Then she smacked her lips and said, “Gimme kiss!” Rowdy and Kimi will do anything she asks. They scoured her face. She was home.
When Leah saw the guest room, her room, she looked genuinely surprised and made a big effort to sound happy. “You redid it!” I had: fresh white paint, white miniblinds picked up for virtually nothing at Grossman’s Bargain Outlet, paisley Laura Ashley comforter discovered at Marshall’s at one-third the original price, all chosen for the person Leah had been last year. If only I’d known, I’d have replaced the bed with a bohemian pallet on the floor. French novels would have barricaded the windows. Candles tucked in Chianti bottles would have provided the only light.
Fortunately, though, Leah has a sunny disposition. Also, she hadn’t yet realized that black is the color created by God to display the undercoat and guard hairs of Her chosen breed, the Alaskan malamute. Beryl’s packages had contained a couple of defurring gadgets. While I prayed that they worked, Leah merrily unpacked a tremendous number of black garments and tried to reassure me that the redone room was very pretty.
“It’s a little, uh, unsophisticated for you,” I said, looking around. “But it’s also my guest room, when you’re not here.” I tried to imagine my father curling up on a pallet, blowing out a Chianti-bottle candle, and resting his head on a stack of existentialist novels. After five insomniac minutes, he’d end up in a red-blooded American L.L. Bean sleeping bag outside in the yard, and in the morning, he’d have a serious talk with me about moving back to Owls Head, Maine.
“Really, I like it a lot,” Leah said for the tenth time.
Within a few days, however, Leah’s room was so shrouded in black clothing, so thick with dog hair, and so stacked with unreadable books that my misguided redecoration didn’t show. Let me point out that I did not nag her to clean up her room. I train dogs; I knew better. As any sane dog person realizes— Sane dog person. Oxymoron. As any wise dog person realizes, nagging gets you nowhere. If you don’t like it when your neutered male mounts your bitch? Don’t watch. So that’s what I did with Leah: I kept the guest room door shut.
Besides, Leah and I had better things to do than clean and nag. We talked. We trained the dogs. Last summer, I’d been the expert. Over the winter, I’d merely been living with dogs, working my dogs, attending obedience classes, going to
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