Creature Discomforts

campfires and no picnicking allowed. No alcoholic beverages. Soon after we reached the guests clustered near the clambake, Gabrielle offered me a drink from a giant cooler that held soft drinks, small bottles of Poland Springs water, cans of beer, and two recorked bottles of white wine.
    “Or if you like,” Gabrielle added, “someone will run up to the house and get you a real drink. It’s no trouble. Gin?”
    In the manner of people at parties, Wally, Opal, and most of the other adults had drinks of one kind or another. I felt a little embarrassed about refusing something real, as Gabrielle phrased it. “Maybe later,” I lied politely. “At the moment, I’m just thirsty.” Memory! It’s bizarre. It is possible, I assure you, for the mind to hide the name of your ailment while retaining the warning that if you suffer from whatever-it-is, you mustn’t drink.
    “All that hiking,” Gabrielle remarked. “Speaking of thirst, where has my wine gone to? Didn’t I leave it...?”
    “Sorry about that,” said a woman seated in a low folding beach chair. “One of the dogs knocked it over.”
    “Opal,” Gabrielle said, “you remember Holly.” With a coy smile she added, “My hero’s daughter. He’ll be here tomorrow.”
    Although Opal looked about fifty-five, her gray-streaked brown hair was pulled into a ponytail smack on top of her head and cascaded halfway down her back. Except for the juvenile hairdo, her appearance was unremarkable. Her skin was neither light nor dark, her features were moderately small and moderately attractive, her eyes were a medium hazel, and her makeup was unobtrusively flattering. She wore a heavy navy blue sweater and tan corduroy slacks. I wondered whether her character, too, had a jarringly childish element. The question struck me as comfortingly intelligent. Then I realized I’d forgotten the ponytailed woman’s name. I did, however, have the sense not to ask how my father, whoever he was, had become Gabrielle’s hero; the tale was obviously one I should know. I tried to smile comprehendingly. I probably simpered.
    But to return to rule breaking —no pets allowed — Gabrielle’s drink could have been knocked over by any of the three dogs, Pacer, Demi, and Isaac, who were enjoying the illegal freedom of the Beamon Reservation. I can’t remember Demi’s owners, but Pacer was Wally and Opal’s. Isaac, an apricot mini poodle, was now in Gabrielle’s care; he had apparently belonged to the late Norman Axelrod. Pacer was a golden retriever, Demi a black Lab. Pacer “bunny-hopped,” as it’s called; he ran like a kangaroo. His whole hind end rocked and rolled like a boat on a rough sea. Classic signs! Some deep social reflex kept me from asking Opal whether she realized that her dog probably had hip dysplasia. Had I been myself, I’d surely have blurted out the question.
    No swimming. All three dogs were drenched. No berry picking! Stay on marked trails! Twin red-haired boys of five or six appeared from the woods bearing saucepans they’d used, or maybe just intended to use, in gathering berries. No ball playing! A red-haired couple joined the twins in a game of catch. Since the only wildlife in sight consisted of gulls, there were no seals for anyone to feed or approach, and there were no bicycles or strollers being pushed and no boats being launched. No one was toting a gun. In other words, not every regulation was being broken. Even so! A clambake alone, never mind everything else! On conservation land! I kept my mouth shut about that, too.
    By now, I was sitting quietly on a reasonably dry rock near most of the other people, which is to say, close to the clambake. Rowdy and Kimi, having spent who knew hew much time tearing around on their own on Dorr Mountain, were models of canine good citizenship, especially when I patted my cheese-packed pockets. Big, flashy, friendly creatures that they were, they attracted considerable attention. Since it was apparent to me, the recent victim of a head trauma, that my dogs were content to roll onto their backs and accept the adulation of strangers, it should have been equally apparent to people whose brains hadn’t just been run through a food processor. But it wasn’t. No, no! My poor leashed dogs became the object of group sympathy: Don’t they ever get to be free? Just look at those precious faces! Oh, they’re just dying to play with the other dogs! And so forth, all of which palaver the dogs regarded as verbal