Rachel Alexander 03 - A Hell of a Dog

in airline crashes or train wrecks?
    Just because you see what’s coming doesn’t mean you can interfere, does it?
    I thought about Alan Cooper then, and the way he’d died. Could anyone have prevented that accident, or was it bashert? What a burden it must be to see the future if, no matter how well-meaning you are, you can’t do a damn thing about what you see.



HOME OF THE BRAVES

    T he mood at dinner was almost manic, people shouting across the table at each other instead of chatting sedately with the person to their left or right. They gesticulated, too, as if everyone were on uppers, celebrating some great victory we’d all worked so hard to achieve rather than grieving over the loss of a young friend who had died that very morning.
    For one thing, no one had considered Alan a friend—with one possible exception, I thought, glancing over at Sam. Perhaps our evening was merely a wake instead of a funeral. Surely we were drinking as if it were. Or maybe it was just the escape from reality we all needed. No one was anxious to retire and be alone with his or her own thoughts. It seemed the consensus of unspoken opinion was that we should do whatever was necessary to delay that eventuality for as long as possible. After all, what had happened to Alan Cooper could just as easily have happened to any of us.
    Months back there had been a little piece in the Times reporting the recall of some eight thousand hair dryers because they posed the risk of electrocution if dropped in water when they were plugged in, even if they were turned off at the time. I remembered the piece because until that time, I’d always thought an appliance had to be on, its juice flowing, to pose any risk.
    Juices were certainly flowing when the dessert was served. There were so many of us talking at once, so much loud laughter, that I don’t even remember for sure who did the first trick. As I recall, pickled as I was on vodka, drunk (in every sense of the word) the way Boris suggested, ice cold, neat, and not sipped but swallowed a shot at a time, it was Tracy. She put a piece of peach pie, just a mouthful, on Jeff’s nose, held up a finger for him to wait, and then told him Okay. We all watched while he flipped the morsel high in the air and then caught it in his mouth. When we applauded, most of the dogs began to bark. With that, Audrey led a group howl, dogs and trainers, all of us tilting our heads up toward the ornate molding that circled the chandelier and making mournful sounds. I remember thinking of Alan then, the sadness making my chest feel heavy.
    I think I made the first toast. It’s hard to be sure. There were so many. But I remember thinking even as I held my glass aloft, saying, “To Alan,” that I’d already had too much to drink. And I think I put my shot glass down without drinking. At least that time.
    Bucky’s toast was next. He asked us each to make a silent prayer, but the mood had been set, and it was far too late in the game for us to be serious twice in a row. “To Alan,” he’d said, but Boris couldn’t let well enough alone.
    “To Alan,” he’d seconded, holding his glass high, dipping his head for drama, then, looking back up so as not to miss our reactions, he added, “electrocutioner to the stars.”
    That gave Bucky the silence he’d been after. After a moment, to break the somber mood, he put Angelo up on the table and signaled him to stand on his hind legs and dance in a circle. Then Bucky stood and tapped his chest, and Angelo touched his front paws down, then launched himself forward, landing in Bucky’s arms. We all applauded, and those who could whistled, which got Sky up. He ran to the opposite side of the table, took the perfect balance point, crouched, and waited, as if we were sheep he needed to move as soon as his mistress gave him leave to do so. We all turned to look at Cathy to see what she’d do next; obviously, even if any of us were ovine enough to let the small dog move us toward her in other circumstances, there wasn’t one of us sober enough to have gotten up just then without tipping over.
    Cathy whistled twice, tilting her head to her left, which sent Sky moving to his right. Going from person to person, sticking his long, thin nose where it didn’t belong, Sky began to pick our pockets. Each time he found a set of keys, he’d snag them, continue around the table to Cathy, toss them onto her lap, and then go back to his search. When he came to me, I could feel