Gaits of Heaven

gracefully that when you’re his partner, you know that with your voice, your treats, your footwork, your timing, and, most of all, your relationship with the other half of the team, you’ve performed a damned miracle—what you started out with was a dog, and what you’ve ended up with is the honest to doG reincarnation of Fred Astaire. And that, let me tell you, takes work. But talking about your mother? Your father? Your parents’ painful divorce? To my mind, that’s just not work. It’s talking, isn’t it? Rita vehemently disagrees. In fact, when I told her about the miracle of Fred Astaire, she said that it was a pretty good analogy, except that it described patients who started out in pieces and ended up whole. But then, Rita has never trained a dog to heel like a dancer, and I, of course, have never practiced psychotherapy.
    “I’m sorry to hear about the divorce,” said Steve, “but if you’re going to lose weight, you’re going to need to decrease calories and increase exercise. It’s real simple. Eat less. Do more.”
    If you’re a dog, it is simple! Get an owner who decreases your calories and increases your exercise. In fact, as I hoped Caprice didn’t realize, Steve was delivering exactly the same lecture he’d given a million times before... in a slightly different context. Fortunately, he stopped before he reached the part about obesity’s contribution to the clinical signs of canine hip dysplasia.
    “There’s a group,” I said hesitantly. “It’s called Overeaters Anonymous. OA. There are meetings in Cambridge. I know someone who goes. If you’re ever interested, I know she’d be glad to have you go with her.” The someone was a member of the Cambridge Dog Training Club, but I didn’t say so. Caprice wouldn’t necessarily have been flattered by the canine nature of our concern for her. To prevent any misunderstanding that might ever arise, let me say outright that if Steve and I treat you as we’d treat a stray mutt, if we phrase our advice in veterinary terms and refer you to dog trainers for help with your human problems, please don’t be insulted. You should, on the contrary, feel honored: if we treat you like a dog, it means that we’ve peered into the depths of your soul, recognized a familiar essence, and are fulfilling the religious obligation to worship the goD within.
    Caprice groaned. “Twelve steps.”
    “I’m afraid they’re unavoidable,” I conceded.
    “This’d be more than twelve steps,” Steve said with a smile, “but you could try walking Lady. She could use the attention. And before we all get some sleep, let’s go over what you’re doing this summer. If you don’t have a job, you should get one.”
    Vets rush in where shrinks fear to tread.
    Caprice looked stunned. “A job?” She sounded as if he’d suggested that she drop out of Harvard and start panhandling in the Square.
    “Paid employment. Or you could volunteer. Or take a course somewhere. What’s your, uh, field of concentration?” Harvard doesn’t have majors, and not because it’s a bastion of antimilitarist liberalism. The real reason is that majors would suggest the possibility of minors , whereas at Harvard, everything, simply by virtue of being at Harvard, is always preeminent.
    “Physics,” Caprice said.
    “You could tutor physics,” I said. “Or math. Paid or volunteer. But no one has to decide anything now. Your eyes are drooping.”
    “Have you taken any medication tonight?” Steve asked.
    Caprice was silent for a moment. Then, addressing Steve, she said, “No. I ate myself to sleep. But I’m okay now. I’m actually tired.”
    “Hey, this isn’t going to be hard,” Steve told her. “We live real well. We eat well. We sleep well. We work hard. We have fun. We’re glad to have you here. Now, go to bed. You want Lady with you?”
    “If you trust me with her,” Caprice said.
    We did.
     

CHAPTER 24
     
    Tellers of entomological tales may long to be flies on walls, but I dislike insects and have no desire for even the briefest metamorphosis into one. What I’d like the power to become is an invisible dog on the floor, preferably a golden retriever, a peaceful, ancient creature given to snoozing and eavesdropping. If Monty Brainard had owned a dog, visible or otherwise, I’d have mentioned it by now; he did not. Even so, if others may imagine themselves as flies on walls, I am entitled to listen in on Monty through the ears of that old golden, who is