Rachel Alexander 03 - A Hell of a Dog

never saw before. That’s really all you can hope for.”
    “Some of us won’t get it either,” I said.
    “Tell me about it,” Chip said.
    But I didn’t have to. Beryl was saying it for me.
    “And so of course any method that ignores breed character, that treats all dogs as if they were the same, is foolhardy at best. Sadly, to ignore character differences is also to miss out on—“
    “Who’s on after lunch?” Woody asked.
    “Audrey,” Chip said.
    I sank lower in my seat and concentrated on the stage as Beryl wrapped up.
    “And that in addition to breed character, we as trainers must pay attention to individual differences, how bright a particular dog is, how quickly he responds, to the limitations and determinations of body type, to humor and how each dog expresses his own version of it, to the level of dominance in each individual, to stubbornness and tenacity above and beyond what is to be expected for a certain breed and whether we are dealing with an issue of character or a training problem. So you can see, dear friends, that the underlying factor is always the character of the particular dog you are training, how to understand and best approach it for a successful dog-and-human relationship.”
    Then everyone was clapping, and Beryl was waving away the applause.
    “Is there a question period?” Woody asked. “God, I hope not I’m starving.”
    I pulled the program out of my jacket pocket, nearly dislodging the leopard bikinis along with it. ‘Weird. Sam put it at the end of the day, both speakers together.”
    “She does that to keep it lively. Where’s the lunch?” Woody asked.
    “The Nixon Room,” I said.
    “You’re joking.”
    “Right.”
    But before I got the chance to tell him where the lunch was, the fat lady who had shushed us was at the end of the aisle, and we weren’t going anywhere without her permission.
    “You’re speakers?” she asked.
    “Guilty as charged,” Woody said. “Rachel Alexander, Chip Pressman, and I’m Woody Wright.”
    “Oh,” she said, disappointed. That’s when I noticed the point-and-shoot camera in her hand.
    “Bucky’s in the front, on the left side,” I told her, hoping once she’d left I could get out of the aisle and on with my life.
    She looked over toward the front of the room, toward the crowd around Bucky, but she didn’t stir. “But you’re all on the program,” she said. “May I?” She held up the camera, and as we were about to lean together and say “cheese,” she held it out toward me. “Would you mind?” she asked.
    I took her picture with Woody and then with Chip. I was about to hand the camera to Chip so that I could pose with her, too, but she was thanking them, and then she was off, leaning first to one side and then the other as she duck-walked down to the front to have her picture taken with the king of dog trainers.
    “Lunch is in the Carter Café,” I told Woody. “I think we’re eating in the garden. You coming, Pressman?”
    “I’m going to take Betty out for a walk,” he said. “Want to join me?” He was staring at me the way Dashiell does when he has some desperate need he’s trying to communicate. But the only need I was interested in just then was my own.
    I needed answers. I needed to know who fell panting into Alan Cooper’s arms last night. And then what? Did she steal away before dawn, unable to find her panties in the dark and too considerate to put on the light?
    Or was she still there in the morning when Alan had slipped into the hot, soapy tub? And if so, considering the circumstances, what business was that of mine?
    “Rachel?” he said.
    “I can’t. I have something really important I have to do,” I told him, because at least I was sure about the answer to my last question. Even if I weren’t dying of curiosity, Sam’s check had made it my business.



I STUCK MY HAND INTO MY POCKET

    I ran up the stairs to my room. I needed some time to be alone and think. At twelve-thirty I took Dashiell for a walk around the neighborhood, dropped off the film I had shot on Sunday at the closest drugstore, and returned at one to hear Audrey’s talk. A worried-looking Sam, standing outside the door, called me over.
    “Audrey refuses to speak this afternoon. She says the vibes are too negative, because of Alan’s accident.”
    ‘Won’t anyone else switch with her?”
    “Yes, but I’m worried about all these last-minute changes. People expect to hear what’s on the