Creature Discomforts

some kind of contraband into Canada. I’d made a note to ask my father about Horace Livermore. I’d also intended to ask Bonnie, the voice on the answering machine, about articles I might write: one about hiking with dogs, one about Acadia—the National Park that allowed dogs—and possibly—three question marks—the article Axelrod had proposed, an exposé about a professional handler who had dosed a client’s dog with arsenic.
    I’d evidently acted on my own orders. Here I was, on Mount Desert Island. Yesterday my dogs and I had been hiking in Acadia National Park. I’d been reading about arsenic and gathering scuttlebutt about its use as a coat enhancer for show dogs. As I’d intended, I must have spoken to the mysterious Bonnie about it. Hence the strange message she’d left on the answering machine. As to Horace Livermore, did I know him? Had I, in fact, asked Buck about him and about the supposed contraband? If so, exactly what had I asked Buck? Have you ever heard of a handler named Horace Livermore? Or maybe a question that assumed familiarity, something like, Ever heard any rumors about Horace Livermore? I knew Steve Delaney, and, as Ann’s letter had informed me, I knew Gabrielle Beamon and Malcolm Fairley, too, and I hadn’t recognized them, hadn’t remembered them at all. Might I also know Livermore? Norman Axelrod had constituted a threat to Livermore. Axelrod had plunged to his death. Nearby, I’d taken a bad fall.
    As I finally showered and dressed for the return trip to Dorr, the annoying hymn continued to pester me. Those “unseen things above”? Things I’d seen and forgotten? Could Horace Livermore have been one of them?
     

Chapter Fifteen
     
    LIKE VISITORS TO THE BEAMON RESERVATION , Rowdy and Kimi confront a horrendous list of prohibitions. The dogs need not, however, be enjoined to enjoy themselves; except in the presence of noxious stimuli, they always do. Now, for instance, while I am senselessly exposing myself to what Rowdy deems the most noxious stimuli of all—shampoo and running water—he and Kimi take advantage of the delightfully contingent nature of the rules that human beings impose on dogs. Human beings state these rules as moral assertions: Good dogs do not filch and devour greasy sponges from the sink, never ' think about hiking their legs indoors, and would not dream of chewing on junk mail and strewing the cottage with damp lumps of sweepstakes promotions and offers for over- I priced software. Translated into dog, however, these rules are practical if-then statements about context, act, and con- I sequence. Or so I suppose.
    Kimi. If the human being does not have her eye on me, then the consequence of snatching the sponge from the kitchen sink is the ambrosial taste of rancid butter mixed with bits of fried egg. As to the consequence of regurgitation, if at first the morsels of buttery, eggy sponge refuse to stay down, try, try again! Flat on the floor, the sponge in her jaws, Kimi glares at Rowdy and, in a low growl, addresses him. Mine! Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine!
    Rowdy. Ineffectively masked by the reek of furniture polish, one leg of the dining table radiates the almost irresistibly tantalizing scent of the aged urine of another male dog. Flirting with the urge to overmark, Rowdy executes a series of swift passes. No one is watching. Therefore, no one will yell, as has been yelled before, “Don’t even think about it!” Thinking about claiming that table leg as his own pleases Rowdy mightily: Mine! Mine, mine, mine, mine!
    Anthropomorphism? The sin of attributing human characteristics to animals. Well, if you don’t think a dog can think Mine, mine, mine, then you don’t know much about dogs.
    Anyway, having savored the pleasure of thinking about lifting his leg indoors, Rowdy strolls to the weathered wooden basket next to the fireplace where Gabrielle and her guests dump newspapers, magazines, catalogs, and direct-mail junk to be used in starting fires or tossed into the flames. At home, Rowdy regularly noses through a somewhat different basket, a large wicker one filled with fleece dinosaurs, tug ropes, chewmen, and dozens of other canine playthings that usually emit the delicious reek of his very own household. Now and then, these items briefly disappear and mysteriously reappear stinking of Ivory soap. The contents of this away-from-home toy basket, in contrast, exude the bouquet of ink, the intriguingly sweaty scent of many pairs of human