Gaits of Heaven

splash some cold water on your face. Right now, please.”
    “I feel so—” she started to say.
    “Wash your face in cold water,” said Steve. “Now. If I’m going to help Sammy, I’ll need some information.”
    I had the sense to leave things to Steve. Here was Sammy, standing a few feet from the hideous mess he’d brought up, still looking ghastly, and what did Caprice have to say for herself? I feel ... If I’d opened my mouth, it would’ve been to inform her that no one gave a single sweet goddamn about her feelings. I was right to keep quiet. Still crying, Caprice made her way to the bathroom and emerged about a minute later with her face and her baby curls wet.
    “First of all,” Steve said, “I don’t see anything about Sammy that’s got me worried. At least not yet.” He sounded as if he were speaking to a distraught pet owner instead of to the person who could’ve killed our dog. “But I need to know what he swallowed. And there are three categories of things I need to know about. One is chocolate. Another is medication. Sedatives, antidepressants, marijuana, anything. Anything at all. And the third is foreign objects. Things. Socks. Underwear. Anything that could get lodged in his digestive tract.“
    “Nothing,” she said.
    Without showing a hint of impatience, he said, “Let’s start with an inventory of what’s on the floor of your room. Put the light on. Good. Okay, there’s a wastebasket in there. I want you to pick up everything, one thing at a time, tell me what the package or the wrapper was for, and then put it in the wastebasket.”
    “There’s a bag that had oatmeal cookies,” I said. “It’s here.”
    “Tortilla chips,” Caprice said thickly. “Potato chips. Corn chips. Pralines. Butterscotch.” She paused to blow her nose. Then she continued to name the junk she’d kept in a cache in her room. Eventually, she said, “Chocolate chip cookies.” Steve must’ve heard me take a sharp breath. “Probably not enough chocolate to do any harm. Is that it?”
    “Yes,” she said.
    “Medications. Do you take anything? Ever.”
    After a pause, Caprice said, “Sometimes. For sleep.“
    “Take a look where you keep anything like that. Your purse. Anywhere you could’ve put any sleeping medication.” I was watching Sammy, who was beginning to perk up. From Caprice’s room—our guest room—I heard a drawer open and close and then the sound of a zipper. “It’s all here,” Caprice said.
    With endless patience, Steve said, “Objects. Anything missing? Any scraps of fabric on the floor?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Check whatever you were wearing today. Socks. Underwear.”
    “All here.”
    “Then we’re probably out of the woods,” Steve said. “We’ll need to keep an eye on you, Sammy, and watch out for dehydration. Or further developments. But it looks like you’re doing fine.” To Caprice, he said, “I’d like you to come on downstairs with us. There are a few things we need to go over. You want to get dressed? Or get a robe. Before we talk, there’s a mess here to clean up. I’ll get you what you’ll need.”
    My first thought was a Ted-like one: chutzpah! The nerve! And how uncharacteristic of Steve! Then I realized that he was simply telling Caprice that fair was fair: since her carelessness had made Sammy sick, she was the one responsible for mopping up after him. Still, I took pity on her and helped out. Even for me, the task was challenging. In a lifetime with dogs, I’d developed a strong stomach. That night, I needed one. I have to admit, too, that I had a selfish motive, which was to make sure that Caprice didn’t damage the floor. When Rita had moved up to the third-floor apartment and we’d redone the second floor, we’d had the hardwood sanded and refinished. In the normal course of things, dogs who realize that they are on the verge of puking all over the place will immediately hasten to the spot where they’ll do the maximum amount of damage to valued human possessions. If a dog is seized with queasiness while he’s in the kitchen, will he considerately upchuck on the linoleum or tile? Never. Why? Because linoleum and tile are easy to wash. So, rather than create a mess that can be cleaned up at no expense and with no permanent harm done, he overcomes his nausea for the few seconds it takes to dash into the living room and leave an ineradicable splotch in the center of a light-colored rug, and not just any rug, either, but one that