Gaits of Heaven

their lights and wait for their medications to act. Dolfo, however, falls immediately to sleep. Or so I imagine.
     

CHAPTER 5
     
    At three o’clock on Friday afternoon, I managed to find a parking space only a half block from the address Eumie Brainard-Green had given me that morning when we’d set * the time for our meeting. I’d spent the day indoors working on a reminiscence of my late mother for the official publication of the American Kennel Club, the AKC Gazette , which was planning an issue focused on the golden retriever. Both of my parents bred and showed our goldens, but my mother was a grande dame of the breed. My father, I thought, would be pleased with what I’d written about Marissa, and I’d tried to avoid saying anything that would distress his second wife, Gabrielle, whom he’d married only a few years earlier. As I’d taken pains not to mention in the article, my mother was a hypercompetent martinet who set high standards for her dogs and for me, and who vigilantly monitored our performance with the intention of correcting deviations from perfection. In contrast, Gabrielle was warm and easygoing. I not only adored her but felt grateful to her for marrying the most impossible person I’ve ever met, thereby relieving me of the burden of worrying about him all alone.
    Anyway, I’d squandered a beautiful spring day by spending it indoors, and as I took care not to trip on the uneven brick sidewalk, I mulled over my goals for the meeting with the Greens and Dolfo, the principal goal being to do whatever we did outside in the sun and fresh air. In the universal manner of overconfident fools, I assumed that my experience and expertise would carry me through; except to pack a tote bag with a collar, a four-foot leash, a clicker, and six different kinds of dog-delicious food treats, I’d made no preparations. If the animal-loving forces that govern the universe had wanted to reward me for my efforts to improve the lot of the creatures who had helped Homo sapiens to evolve, I’d have lost my footing on the rough sidewalk and taken the kind of hard fall that might have warned me of the consequence of pride.
    As it was, I walked smoothly and confidently past a parking area paved with cobblestones to the steep flight of steps that led up to the Greens’ house, which was a big, rambling brown-shingled place with a rose-covered fence, bright flowers, and a charming veranda. The fence, the steps, the porch, the shutters, and the other trim were neatly painted in cream. Arrayed on the veranda were wicker chairs and end tables, and from the beams hung baskets of flowering plants and ivy that were being tended by a well-muscled, dark-haired young man in a T-shirt printed with words that I’d just read on a van parked on the street: Year After Year: Perennial Care far Perennials. The front door had a shiny brass knocker and matching doorbell. Mounted on the frame was a little brass cylinder that I recognized as a mezuzah, a container for a tiny scroll, a fixture of traditional Jewish households. A Jewish friend had explained to me that the mezuzah was a reminder of God’s presence and commandments. Had I known what I was in for, I’d have paid attention to the mezuzah and found comfort in the knowledge that if my own efforts failed, I could turn to a truly High Power for help with Dolfo and the Greens. In fact, after giving the mezuzah no more than a glance, I rang the bell and, as I waited, made unproductive use of my brain by wondering why Year After Year was taking care of the lobelia, nasturtiums, and other annuals in the baskets. The answer should have been obvious: because the company was paid generously. Had I put my mind to work, I’d have focused on the row of shoes and rain boots to the right of the doormat. What’s more, when Eumie opened the door, I’d have taken in the rows of shoes and sandals in the foyer, realized their significance, and wondered how any sane person could exist in a shoeless house with an unhousebroken dog. That answer, too, should have been obvious: chez Green, sanity had nothing to do with anything.
    That’s not what Eumie said when she greeted me, of course. And greeted is an understatement. Just as she’d done with Ron, she squealed, threw her arms around me, and welcomed me as if I were a beloved old friend she hadn’t seen for years. “Holly, come in!" Gesturing to the footwear on the floor, she said softly, as if confiding a secret, “This is a shoeless