Gaits of Heaven

so that everyone is working together. This is a family that has experienced considerable conflict and considerable stress, including the recent loss of a family member. We need to pool our resources to relieve some of that stress.”
    Caprice interrupted. “My mother didn’t just wander off somewhere! She wasn’t lost. She was murdered.”
    Before she’d finished, Ted said, “Traumatic stress.”
    Without uttering a word, Rita nodded at Caprice and then at Ted in some clever psychotherapist way that conveyed nothing about the content of what either had said, but nonetheless seemed to make both feel acknowledged. What’s more, she didn’t let the interruptions interrupt her. “In other words,” she continued, “we’re going to work toward a cohesive, integrated approach.” Vee Foote was almost bouncing on the couch in her eagerness to say something, but Rita was too quick for her. “Here’s our general framework. We’re going to start by clarifying who’s who and who does what in this system.”
    Here, I just have to take a second to express my admiration for Rita. In the words of the AKC’s Guidelines for Conformation Dog Show Judges , “As the judge, you have full authority over all persons in the ring.” I was happy to see that Rita not only intended to exert her authority, but to do so in the thoughtful and considerate manner that the AKC advocates in that same publication.
    Probably because Dr. Needleman was shamefully unfamiliar with AKC guidelines, rules, and regulations, she failed to share my appreciation for Rita’s skill. “Roles,” she said with high-toned condescension. “I, for one, am not concerned with all these superficialities of social psychology. I treat introjects”—she paused dramatically—“and not objects!”
    Although I didn’t understand the distinction, I got her point: I breed top-winning show dogs, not mutts.
    Addressing everyone, Rita said, as if performing a routine introduction, “Dr. Nixie Needleman. Dr. Needleman was Eumie Brainard-Green’s individual therapist.” Dr. Needleman, who clearly considered herself to be a high-ranking member of the Professional Handlers’ Association, had tried to use her presumed clout to undermine the judge’s authority. Rita, however, had dealt with the challenge by incorporating it into the ordinary process of checking the presence of all dogs in all classes to be judged. “So,” Rita went on, “once we’ve finished clarifying who’s who here, so everyone knows everyone else, we’ll break up into subgroups, and we’ll come up with some recommendations and guidelines to share with everyone about preventing recurrences of some of the recent difficulties and about helping each member of the family and the family as a whole to thrive.”
    I practically expected Rita to start handing out armbands. If I’d been chosen as one of her stewards, I’d have been tempted to do just that. At a show, the armbands display only the numbers that appear in the show catalog, but at this special event, names would’ve been acceptable. Dr. Needleman’s armband would have identified her as the late Eumie’s handler. Peter York would’ve been prominently labeled as Wyeth’s, Missy Zinn as Caprice’s, and so forth. Still, with a relatively small entry like this one, perhaps armbands weren’t strictly necessary after all. In particular, anything remotely like those “Hi, I’m So-and-so” name tags would’ve mocked the seriousness of the gathering. By the way, as a little aside, I might mention that the Cantabrigian woman was indeed the hospital social worker and was wonderfully named India Cohen. India! What’s more, this India had exactly the same air of calm yet alert self-confidence, intelligence, and protectiveness that characterized Steve’s German shepherd bitch. I use bitch strictly in its technical and hence entirely inoffensive sense; there was nothing even remotely bitchy about India Cohen or, for that matter, Steve’s female dog.
    “Family members,” Rita said. As she named them, she gestured toward each person in a welcoming way that didn’t even hint at finger pointing. “Ted Green. Ted’s first wife, Johanna Green. Their son, Wyeth. Monty Brainard, Eumie Brainard-Green’s first husband. Their daughter, Caprice Brainard.”
    “And Dolfo,” Ted interjected. “Dolfo is a full member of this family.”
    With a friendly little wave of her hand toward the tall, brown-haired man seated on the couch