Gaits of Heaven

those trees or buried a dead squirrel. This one’s mine. And so’s the bastard that did it.”
     

CHAPTER 23
     
    As soon as Kevin left, I suddenly and belatedly thought of Sammy. “I’ll go get him,” I told Steve. “You stay here with the others.”
    Neither of us was alarmed. Sammy was probably in Caprice’s room. The privilege of staying with her was new to Sammy, who was probably curled up on the bed next to her. Still, he was a sociable dog, and it was unlike him not to have come dashing down the stairs to greet us when we’d arrived home. Furthermore, he must have heard me dishing out ice cream, and any sound even remotely suggestive of food, the alpha and omega of malamute existence, usually sent him flying toward its source. It did not, however, occur to me that Sammy was in serious trouble. I casually checked the downstairs rooms and did not run upstairs, but tiptoed to avoid awakening Caprice, whose bedroom door turned out to be ajar. The room itself was dark. I heard her snoring lightly. Still on tiptoe, I checked the other rooms and then waited outside Caprice’s for a moment as I tried to decide whether to leave Sammy to keep her company or to make him have one trip outside before he settled in for the night.
    Just when a rustling noise made me resolve to inch my way in and lure Sammy out, his big head emerged from the room. In his mouth were the damp remains of a bag of Pepperidge Farm cookies. His formerly white face was smeared with what I at first mistook for dirt. A second later, the smears registered on me as chocolate. Chocolate contains a substance called theobromine that is toxic to dogs. A large amount of dark chocolate can kill a small dog. To a dog Sammy’s size, a small amount of chocolate, especially milk chocolate, isn’t usually fatal, but dogs vary in their sensitivity to chocolate. Without hesitation, I snatched the bag out of Sammy’s mouth. To my relief, it had contained oatmeal raisin cookies. Having examined the bag, I turned my attention to Sammy and immediately saw that he was simply not himself. His characteristically bright eyes looked at once wide and dopey, and his expression was puzzled and unhappy. Bending over, I ran my hands over his belly, which was frighteningly enlarged.
    “Steve!” I screamed. “Steve, get up here now! Steve, help me!”
    Before I’d even finished yelling, Sammy provided his own veterinary treatment by lowering his head and vomiting copiously on the hallway floor. Kneeling at his side, I rested my hands on his heaving abdomen and whispered gently to him. “Good boy. Poor Sammy. Good boy. Get it all up.” Reaching out a hand, I banged Caprice’s door open and shouted, “Caprice, get up! Sammy is sick. Get downstairs this second and tell Steve to lock up the other dogs and then to get up here. Go get him! Now!” Hearing Steve at the bottom of the stairs, I called, “Steve, Sammy is sick. Don’t let the other dogs up here. Do something with them, and then get up here. Please! I need you!”
    In the light that spilled from the hall into Caprice’s room, I saw that the floor was littered with torn food packages and crumbs. The scene told the whole story: Sammy had raided a stash of food. And a big one at that. Strewn around were torn bags that had held potato chips, tortilla chips, candy, and yet more cookies. I was enraged. When Steve and I had welcomed Caprice, we’d carefully explained the house rules, most of which were about dogs. Caprice had understood those rules perfectly. Only this evening, she’d recited the ones that governed the safe and unsafe combinations of loose dogs. She’d been explicitly warned about malamutes and food, and she’d seen the precautions that Steve, Leah, and I took to prevent them from devouring every edible morsel in the house. Damn it! In return for our hospitality and our generosity, she’d done exactly what she’d been told not to do! I kept my temper only by thinking of Eumie’s death.
    Steve was cool. He calmly led Sammy a few feet away from the stinking puddles and lumps on the floor and slowly checked him out. Caprice had finally appeared at the door to her room and was leaning against the door frame. She wore a gargantuan red T-shirt. Her skin was blotchy, and tears ran down her face. She looked drugged with sleep-Or maybe just drugged. In a child’s voice, she said, “You’re angry with me.”
    Before I had the chance to tell her that she was right, Steve said, “Caprice,