Rachel Alexander 03 - A Hell of a Dog

unable to extract the names of the speakers from Sam. Walking through the park, I was finding out what the program was on my own; a shock collar trainer, a foodie, and the self-described “dog psychic,” Audrey Little Feather, here with her faithful companion, Magic. Not wanting to interrupt their meditation, and preferring my meditation in motion, I headed back the way I’d come.
    Audrey Little Feather, nee Audrey Louise Rosenberg, had emerged on the scene when I was still in business as a trainer. She made house calls to dog and cat owners with pet problems and spoke for their pets, explaining what was wrong and how the pet thought it should be remedied. I couldn’t wait to hear her talk. But I didn’t want to hear Audrey chanting now and spoil the freshness of her performance during the symposium. Nor did I want to leave the park, the air so fragrant with flowers, the trees thick with leaves, and the birds singing so loud they all but blocked out the distant sound of traffic.
    There was no rush. I still had plenty of time to toss Dashiell in the tub, take a shower, and poke around the hotel before the dinner at eight And I was sure, through my own brand of psychic revelation, that Dashiell was as reluctant to go back indoors as I was.
    We parked ourselves on one of the slatted wooden benches that lined the footpath, a good place from which to watch the passing parade. Across from us, his glasses pushed up onto his forehead, his newspaper almost touching his nose, an old man in baggy plaid pants sat reading the Times. A few benches down was a young priest. He sat all by himself, smoking a cigarette, his legs crossed, one foot nervously moving up and down. But then Dashiell’s tail was moving. I could hear it slapping against the bench. I turned in the direction he was staring and saw a large, tweedy older woman heading our way with a small border terrier bitch trotting along at her side. It was the bitch, of course, who’d caught Dashiell’s fancy, and he immediately left my side to get acquainted.
    Some people would be terrified to see a wet pit bull speeding their way. Not this lady. Despite the fact that Dashiell could have inhaled her little dog through one nostril, she was all smiles.
    I knew that smile, didn’t I?
    “Oh, isn’t he a handsome chap,” she said.
    As soon as I heard that voice, I knew who she was. Of course, in the tapes I had, made from her British TV series on dog training, the most popular show on the air at the time, she was twenty years younger. She’d had no jowls, no crosshatch of wrinkles on her upper lip, and her hair had been flaming red. But even if my eyes had been closed, there was no way I could have missed that voice, as strong as ever, her speech dotted with her own quirky inflections. How cagey of Sam not to mention this coup—unless, like me, she’d been a last-minute addition.
    “Mrs. Potter?”
    “Oh, forgive my rude ness. Have we met?”
    “No, but I’m a dog trainer, so of course I know who you are.“
    „How nice. But you must call me Beryl,” she said, turning her attention back to Dashiell. “He’s a lovely boy, isn’t he, dear? How old is he, about three or four?”
    “He’s three,” I said. “And your girl?”
    “Still a pup. Only eight months old. But such a cheerful girl, and so clever.” She looked down proudly at the little dog.
    Dashiell had lain down on his back, paws in the air, in the dead cockroach position, and the little border terrier was running in circles around him, barking all the while, stopping every now and then to tug vigorously on his ears or tail.
    “Gently, Cecilia,” Beryl said. “We don’t want to harm that nice boy now, do we, pet?” We sat on a bench and let the dogs race around behind us in the grass, enjoying their play and the lovely weather. “I used to bring my little girl here,” she said. “Oh, we’d come every day, rain or shine, for our walk in the park.” Her eyes seemed to tear up at the memory, which must have been as ancient as the brown leather purse she wore crosswise over her bosom. It might have been thirty-five years or more since she brought her little girl to the park. She was probably fifty when she did the TV series, and that was two decades ago. “Was it different then?” I asked.
    ‘Was what different, dear?”
    “The park.When your daughter was little. Was it safer then?”
    “Yes and no,” she said. “You know how it is, dear. We tend to romanticize the past, but even