Rachel Alexander 03 - A Hell of a Dog

getting up too. I walked toward the stairs, hoping to avoid another embarrassing exchange, but then Betty was in the hall and there was no way I could get Dashiell’s attention without being obvious.
    “This is pretty much why I don’t do these things,” he said.
    “But Sam seduced you this time.”
    “The money was irresistible,” he said quietly. “You, too?”
    “More or less,” I said.
    “That’s usually not how I make my decisions. But Ellen—” He stopped and looked at me for the first time. “She’s been talking about moving to California, so the extra cash will come in handy.”
    Why did my stomach tighten at the thought of never seeing Chip again? What difference did it make if he was in New York or California? He was cementing himself to someone else, not me. Next thing I knew, he and Ellen would be having another kid. My sister and brother-in-law were about to go on a cruise. Jack and I had redecorated, as if a little paint or a new couch would do the trick and bridge the void between us. The things people did when their relationships were deteriorating always astonished me. Anything seemed preferable to the thought of being alone.
    “California. That sounds great,” I said, starting to hate the sound of my own insincerity. Who was I fooling here?
    “Rachel, it’s—”
    “Time to turn in,” I said. “Dashiell needs his beauty rest.” And before he could finish whatever he had started to say, I called Dashiell and headed for the stairs.
    I guess Chip still had to walk Betty, because when we’d walked up the flight to three, the hallway was empty. I unlocked the door to 305, tossed my jacket onto the end of the bed, and without bothering to turn on the light, walked over to the window and pulled the drape aside.
    It was raining lightly. The park across the street looked as pretty as it did in those picture postcards tourists from Iowa send home to their neighbors.
    “We saw the Today show.
    “I had my hair done at Macy’s.
    “Wish you were here.”
    The maid had turned down the bed, and Dashiell was on it, smack in the middle, licking himself noisily. I looked back out the window and saw Chip and Betty walking along the stone wall that limned the western border of the park. Betty was slightly ahead of him, looking out for danger. I watched until they turned into the park and I could no longer see them.
    Every dog person has an Achilles’ hock joint. Mine was a recurring flare-up of the Jiminy Cricket syndrome, the belief that despite overwhelming odds what I wish for might come true. I watched a moment longer before letting the drape fall closed.
    I tossed my things onto a chair, brushed my teeth, washed my face, then gave Dashiell a nudge so that he’d move over and give me some room.
    I lay in the middle of the bed, where he had been, suddenly aware of something trainers stricter than myself didn’t know. If you let your dog up on the bed, you get to sleep on a wet spot without the mess and bother of actually having sex.
    Despite exhaustion, I stayed awake for what seemed like ages. It wasn’t until I heard die jingle of Betty’s ID tags out in the hall that I was able to fall asleep.



I WATCHED CHIP CROSSING THE STREET

    W e were a quiet group, quite a change for dog people. You usually have to call the cops to get any one of us to stop offering gratuitous opinions. But at six in the morning, after a night of heavy drinking, heated discussions, cigar smoking, and frustrated sex drives—though in truth I could only speak for myself on the latter—no one was saying much of anything.
    There were ten of us huddled together without exactly touching at the Sixty-fifth Street entrance to the park. We had walked our dogs and left them in our rooms. This was to be a demonstration, with Betty tracking and then Chip talking to us about her performance at breakfast. Chip was wearing a wind-breaker and jeans, his hair rumpled as if he’d rolled out of bed two minutes before. Betty was in harness, whining and pacing, wondering why she couldn’t get started. Still, there was no Alan.
    “Boris,” Chip finally said, “why don’t you just show us where the track begins, since Alan isn’t here.”
    “Sure. Easy for you to say.”
    “Didn’t you and Sasha go with him?” Chip asked.
    “Boris not see him since dinner when he promise to meet me quarter to five. He want to give you track one hour old. But when I show up, no one here. I wait I wait. No Mr. Know Everything. I go