A Big Little Life

not intend to try to bribe him, and I didn’t think a death threat would be taken seriously, so when I wept and begged him to have mercy on my four-legged daughter, I could do so with confidence that the story of my shameless groveling and my plea for special treatment would not end up on a tabloid TV show.
    As he finished repairing my hand, the doctor said, “So, in the future, maybe you should have more cats in your books and fewer dogs.”
    After thanking him for his good work, I made one last pitch for him to join me in a conspiracy against the forces of law and order run amok. “Trixie was a CCI assistance dog, she retired young because of elbow surgery, she’s as sweet as a dog can be, and I hate the idea that she’s going to have a police record. You know, it is Christmas Eve.”
    He smiled, shook his head, gave me a prescription, instructions, and a date for the removal of the stitches.
    Gerda drove us home, and Trixie greeted us with much love, which we repaid with interest.
    Using a terrific spot remover, we quickly cleaned up all the blood on the carpet, and then decided to present Trixie’s gifts to her, as planned, though later than expected. We were determined not to let her know that the terrible hammer of the law might come down on her at any time.
    No child ever received gifts with more excitement and delight than Trixie did. The rustle of tissue paper in particular caused her to wriggle with anticipation. We played a little with each toy, then unwrapped the next one, encouraging her to sniff and paw at every package.
    Before we retired for the night, we disposed of all the torn wrappings and ribbons and boxes, and we lined up the twenty-one unwrapped gifts on the L-shaped family-room sectional.
    Every morning since she had been with us, Trixie followed the same routine. When we came out of the bedroom with her to take her on her first walk of the day, she raced down the back stairs and turned left into the kitchen, padding straight to the pantry, where her kibble was stored in a large airtight can.
    On this first Christmas morning as a Koontz, however, she descended the back stairs with even greater haste than usual and turned right, not toward the kitchen but into the family room. As we watched, she went from one gift to the next, smelling each of the twenty-one, as if astonished to find that the previous evening had not been a dream and that all these toys were in fact hers. When she checked out the twenty-first and then looked at us, her grin was endearing.
    I believe the ER doctor filed the report with animalcontrol, as required, but I suspect he might have added some exculpatory comments. We never received a call from the authorities, and Trixie gamboled through the rest of her years, happily unaware that her spotless reputation had been at risk because of her dad’s lack of athletic prowess.

XI
things that go boom
    OUR FIRST JULY Fourth with Trixie, we lived in Harbor Ridge, where we enjoyed a panoramic view of Newport Beach all the way to the sea, northwest to Long Beach, and north to the San Bernardino Mountains. On a clear Independence Day evening, we could see four or five major fireworks displays, some nearby and others at a distance.
    Generally speaking, dogs aren’t cool with fireworks. The pretty patterns of color and light don’t impress them, but the boom-bang-crackle-crash makes them nuts. Most memoirs about dogs have a chapter detailing how Fido, left alone on a July Fourth evening or during a big thunderstorm, did more damage to the house than would have a runaway logging truck.
    In this matter, as in so many others, Trixie behaved differently from our expectations. When the fireworks started, we watched them from an upper-floor balcony, and our golden girl stood with us, intrigued. She even put her head between two of the balusters to have a better view of the spectacle. Her tail wagged when the sky filled with girandoles, palm trees, magnesium peonies, and other types of fireworks that at most hissed or crackled but did not boom. During the louder flash-bangs, her tail stopped wagging and she stiffened slightly, but she didn’t tremble or whimper.
    Over time, she lost enthusiasm for skyrockets and Roman candles, but never became terrified of them. She trembled when the loud ones went off, but cuddling was sufficient to soothe her.
    In southern California, we seldom experience pyrotechnic storms. Whether light or heavy, rain comes with subtropical languor. Thunder and