Black Ribbon

appeared a lean, tired-looking man dressed in battered boots, green work pants, and a wrinkled plaid shirt. Although Everett Dow just stood there doing absolutely nothing, hackles rose. As if the dogs had consulted with one another and agreed to act in unison, they leaped off the ground, turned toward the man, f and barked a chorus of loud alarm. In my years of dog watching, I’d never before seen so unequivocal a display of apparently unprovoked alarm.
    When dogs speak with one voice, dog people listen.
     

 
    TOURIST BUREAUS in Down East Maine and on the Canadian shores of the Bay of Fundy have a hard time persuading tourists to venture north of Bar Harbor. I don’t understand why. When the fog clears, the view of the tiny islands and the healthy green ocean is spectacular, and in mid-August, the temperature of the Atlantic rises to a swimmable sixty-five degrees. The trillions of barely submerged ledges along the rocky, winding coast make for exciting sailing. And the food! Well, you haven’t tasted anything till you’ve sampled pickled whelks. But as I’ve said, it’s still tough to convince summer visitors that the trip is worth it. Directors of visitors’ centers must find the situation frustrating. Even the wildlife won’t cooperate: The newly emerging puffin-watching industry is hampered by the birds’ refusal to nest on the mainland, and the seals continue uselessly to sun themselves on inaccessible rocks instead of flipping out of the water and onto fishing piers where they might productively whirl beach balls on their noses and bark out adorable approximates of spoken English. Historic sites? The event known as
    the Machias Rubicon simply will not lend itself to reinterpretation as a turning point of the American Revolution, and, in the absence of a snack bar or, better yet, a tiny theme park, there’s nothing to do where the incident occurred except leap back and forth across a brook, an aerobically beneficial activity, but not one likely to hold a crowd for long. So all I can say is, thank God for Franklin Delano Roosevelt, who, in an act of awe-inspiring self-sacrifice, came down with polio while vacationing on Campobello Island, thus forever luring tourists to the pond where he is supposed to have contracted the disease.
    I thought of the FDR Memorial Polio Pond because it was the last place I’d gone swimming, and I was wishing I were there instead of standing on sharp stones in the shallow water at the edge of this lake listening to Eva Spitteler make fun of Rowdy, who was wading happily enough, but had balked at exposing his belly to water. In all other respects, I should add, the scene was idyllic. Mountains surrounded the lake, which must have been at least a mile and a half across and was dotted with picturesque tree-covered islands. On that hot, windless Sunday afternoon, canoes moved silently, sailboats lay becalmed, Jet Skis zoomed, and water skiers zipped back and forth across the wakes of a few noisy boats. If you looked carefully, you could see quite a few docks and floats on the distant shore, but the houses and cabins were set back from the water, their earth-toned rooftops and stone chimneys visible through the trees. Thirty or forty campers and at least that many dogs were swimming in the cove and frolicking along the shore in front of the resort.
    “The big sissy,” said Eva Spitteler, who looked even more like a bulldog wet than she did dry. The soaking hair plastered against her head revealed the exceptionally large size of her broad, square skull. Her forehead was flat, her cheeks protruded sideways, and her jaws were not only massive but undershot. In lieu of a bathing suit, she wore green shorts and a long dirt-colored T-shirt. Glued to her torso, the shirt revealed so many rolls of fat on her midriff and belly that she seemed to possess multiple rows of squishy bosom.
    I shouldn’t have tried to coax Rowdy into the lake, but I’d fallen for the sight of the other dogs. Elsa the Chesapeake kept going after a blue-and-white rubber water-retrieve toy that Eric Grimaldi patiently tossed for her. Joy was gently easing her Cairn, Lucky, in for a dip. Westies played. Cam’s sheltie, Nicky, barked and dashed. At some distance from the others, the kissy-face Lab, Wiz, circled Ginny, who swam a smooth old-fashioned sidestroke. A man, a woman, and two English setters peacefully shared one of the resort’s red canoes. Am I neglecting the mixed breeds? They were there, too,