Black Ribbon

it expressed at the moment was intense curiosity about exactly how I intended to lay claim to that bed.
    I respect Rowdy too much to lie to him. “Very clever,” I remarked. He flattened his ears against his head. His wagging tail thumped the expensive-looking and probably hand-woven beige bedspread that I was supposed to protect from dog hair. His dark eyes smiled.
    Two seconds later, he was off that bed. The secret? Obedience training. How do dogs and people ever survive without it? It’s the essence of human-canine teamwork, perfect interspecies cooperation in which two radically different minds think as one. For instance, the thought on Rowdy’s and my joined mind happened to be food. When I reached into my pocket, extracted a small dog biscuit, and called, “Rowdy, come!” he instantly leaped off the bed. Rowdy is a brilliant trainer. He has shaped my behavior so that I exemplify what the AKC regulations call “the utmost in willingness, precision, and enjoyment.” I now have my CPX—Companion Person Excellent title—and you may look forward to seeing me in the Utility ring soon.
    There is, however, one training technique that Rowdy has yet to master. It’s frequently neglected by many human trainers as well. No one uses it anymore. No one but me. I’m the last true believer in the good old-fashioned talking-to. “That is my bed!” I announced. “Mine! And no one invited you on it, and furthermore, dogs are not allowed to deposit hair on the nice bedspreads here, and even if the other dogs were permitted to do it, you, buddy, would be forbidden! And the next time I leave you alone in this lovely room that’s a lot fancier than we are, I expect to return and find you on the floor or in your crate or somewhere else where you belong! I do not ever want to see you on that bed again unless I have specifically given you permission. Is that understood, buster? That is my bed!” I whirled around, raised my arm, and pointed dramatically at the bed.
    As it turned out, my fingers led my eye to a buff-colored envelope that rested on the pillow like a sort of stationery version of mints. I wondered whether it contained some tactful reminder to protect the good linens from my dog or whether it might simply be a note of welcome. I opened the envelope. The greeting card inside showed a small watercolor picture of pink-flowering trees, green hills, and a soon-to-set sun. Blue letters across the top of the card read: With Sympathy on the Loss of Your Pet. A sentence beneath the watercolor went on: Our pets are our better selves, honest, trusting, pure. Bewildered, I opened the card. The preprinted message inside was this: I know how much you loved your pet and how deeply you are grieving now.
    Thecard was unsigned.
     

 
    KIMI?IMPOSSIBLE. Her face appeared in my mind’s eye. As intensely as ever, she fixed her gaze on me. My heart pounded. I live with many ghosts. The dogs who wait for me keep permanent watch. Don’t they trust me? Of course they do. So why the scrutiny? It’s a reminder, that’s all, a necessary and even comforting reminder that I have no real cause for grief. The worst has not happened and never will. My dogs have merely died. They have not stopped loving me.
    This is a grotesque mistake, I thought. The sentiment felt hideously familiar. My last golden, Vinnie, died of cancer, or would have if I hadn’t stopped her pain first. Even so, her death felt like some vicious practical joke. Okay, enough! I kept wanting to shout. Hah-hah! Very funny! See what a good sport I am? Very clever! Sure had me fooled, you did. And now? Game's up! Did you hear me? Enough, I said! Give her back, do you hear me! Then my pitiful whisper: Please, please give her back. Give me back my dog. Give me back my wonderful dog.
    I groped for reality. Kimi was young and healthy. Vinnie’s death had felt like a horrible mistake; this sympathy card must actually be one. Maxine McGuire had wanted to offer condolences to some other camper who’d just lost a dog, but in her nervous frenzy about the opening of camp, she’d forgotten to sign the card and left it in the wrong cabin. Besides, if, God forbid, I really had lost Kimi, someone would have told me in person; leaving me an unsigned sympathy card would have been no one’s ludicrous idea of a gentle way to break the news.
    I shoved the card in a bureau drawer, slipped Rowdy’s training collar over his head, attached a six-foot leather lead, and set out for the