A Big Little Life

talking about that kind of thing,” Mike said.
    “We know it sheds. We’ll give it a long combing every morning.”
    “I’m not thinking about dog hair.”
    “It’ll go to a groomer for a bath and the full works everyThursday, so I’ll never have to express its anal glands myself.”
    “I’m not thinking about that stuff, either,” Mike said, “though I usually do think of anal glands when I think of you.”
    “You’re fired,” I said.
    “I’d be worried,” he said, “except who else would want to work for you?”
    “Maybe someone who’s actually built a house before,” I replied.
    Prior to committing himself to the ten years of planning and construction that our house required—including four years with three architects before the third one delivered what we wanted—Mike had been a mason and then a swimming-pool contractor. Our house was the first he built, and the two architects whose plans we did not use were always trying to get him fired, which is one of the reasons that Gerda and I let them go.
    Over the years, we have learned that the most important quality anyone can possess is character. If a person has true character—which always includes a sense of honor and duty, as well as a tough set of personal standards—he or she will not fail you. Experience matters, but an experienced homebuilder without character is forever a trapdoor under your feet, waiting to be sprung. When we asked Mike if he could take on a project as complex as this one, he said yes without hesitation, and we hired him with confidence. We never had a regret.
    Now on the morning of Trixie’s arrival, in the affectionate mockery that is a characteristic of our relationships with most of Gerda’s and my friends, Mike said, “By neat, I mean your days won’t be as structured as you’re used to, and your time won’t be used as efficiently anymore. You’ll find out what it’s like being a normal person after all these years of being so damned abnormal .”
    I said, “I think of myself as delightfully abnormal.”
    “Yeah, right,” Mike said.
    “The dog,” I predicted, “will not bring a tenth as much chaos into my life as you have, and because she’ll be bathed once a week, she’ll also smell better.”
    “It’s happening again,” he said. “I’m thinking of anal glands.”

IV
“if this dog does something wrong, the fault will be yours, not hers”
    LINDA, A COMPUTER maven and all-around talent, has been Gerda’s and my primary assistant for so long that she will need to be in therapy for the rest of her life.
    On the other hand, before she came to us, she did contract work for the state of California, instructing bureaucrats in the software they used. California government is so dysfunctional, by comparison with Koontzland, that itmust have seemed like an asylum to Linda, while our little corner of the world might well have struck her as a restful sanitarium.
    Back in 1998, Linda occupied an office in our house on the hill. But our second assistant, Elaine, who had come to us after retiring from another job, worked in our office suite in a commercial complex called Newport Center.
    Linda and Elaine had asked if they could meet Trixie when we did. They were friends as well as employees, and the addition of a dog to our lives made them happy for us. Besides, they were always looking for one reason or another to skip work, and this was a much better excuse than claiming for the sixteenth time that a beloved grandmother or beloved aunt had died.
    Also with us were Vito and his wife, Lynn, visiting from Michigan and staying in the beach house for two weeks. They had a dog they loved, a not-mooshy Labrador retriever named Rocky, so we figured they could help us adjust to our new daughter.
    Judi arrived with Trixie’s puppy raiser, Julia Shular, who also had with her a black Labrador in training for CCI. They had all of Trixie’s favorite toys, a bag of her kibble, and what seemed like 9,324 pages of instructions on her care.
    Joint surgery will force the retirement of any assistance dog because, in a pinch, it might need to pull its partner’s wheelchair. Even after healing, the problem joint puts the animal at risk. Having recuperated for six months, our daughter was fully recovered.
    When Trixie entered the house off leash, she had a sprightly step and an eager, inquisitive expression. Tail swishing, she came directly to Gerda and me, as if she had been shown photographs of us and knew we were to