Rachel Alexander 03 - A Hell of a Dog

believe she was correct. It’s the best thing for you, to plunge ahead, do what’s expected of you; it’s absolutely therapeutic.”
    Audrey took a big breath. “I know you’re right. I’ll tell Sam I’ll speak tomorrow afternoon.”
    “Brilliant. You’re exactly what we need, too. Meditation. Good for the soul.”
    “Are you talking about Audrey’s talk?” Tracy asked. “Oh, please say you’re doing it. You’re one of the reasons I came.”
    “We’d best head back, dears. It’s getting to be that time.”
    “Who’s speaking this afternoon?” Tracy asked. “I forgot to look.”
    “Boris Dashevski,” Beryl told her, and we all groaned.
    “Audrey, would you do the walking chant on the way back? It’ll make us all feel so good,” Tracy said. “Is that okay with you guys?” she asked me and Beryl.
    “Certainly,” Beryl said.
    “I’d love it,” I told them, hoping no one I knew was in the park For a hard-boiled New Yorker, being seen chanting in Central Park would be almost as bad as being spotted waiting on line for the elevator to the top of the Empire State Building or catching a breeze on the ferry that went to Liberty Island.
    Audrey Little Feather stopped, closed her eyes, and moved her arms in circles, the way old ladies do at the beach, splashing handfuls of water on their sunburned bosoms, chanting about what a blessing the coolness is with each splash.
    After a moment Audrey’s eyes opened, and her arms were still. Magic was sitting right in front of her, looking adoringly at her face. I thought about the way Dashiell always comes close when I practice t’ai chi, wanting to bathe in the sea of moving energy.
    “Ah la,” Audrey sang, her voice as clear and poignant as the call of a bird looking for a mate. “Ah la.”
    And so we walked back toward Central Park West, “ah la,” the dogs running ahead, lagging behind, chasing each other in circles around us. Audrey reached out her hands for ours. I took one, Tracy the other, and then Tracy reached for Beryl’s hand. We couldn’t fit four abreast on the narrow walk Instead we moved in a wavy line, holding each other’s hands and chanting as we worked our way back to the Ritz.
    Something funny happened in the park I began to feel a pleasant buzz, the mantra sweeping through me and leaving a feeling of serenity in its wake. I no longer felt silly about chanting in the park, no longer cared if someone I knew spotted me. I was starting to like these women too, even when that meant getting past a training method I didn’t think much of. There was a generosity here, and camaraderie.
    The fighting that had been going on since we got here was mostly among the men. Males were, after all, the major perpetrators of violent crimes. They were more prone to aggressive outbursts, less likely than women to talk things out. Or work things out. They were more competitive, too.
    That was also the way it was in most other species of animals, certainly among any of the Canidae. For wolves, survival is based on competition. When there isn’t enough food to go around, the fact that the stronger, smarter, and therefore higher-ranked animals eat first ensures the survival of the species.
    Were we more like animals than we wanted to admit, sleeping in a heap with our dogs for the physical comfort of another warm body, putting up with nearly unbearable unhappiness rather than choosing to live alone, the way my sister was doing, the way Chip seemed to be doing? In the wild, a lone wolf would not survive, unless he was somehow able to get himself accepted by another pack. More often than not, he’d find no takers. Wasn’t that true for us, too, especially as we grew older?
    I’d been thinking these “accidents” might be the work of a black widow spider, one who wore leopard underwear, underwear I didn’t believe belonged to my clever employer. But maybe she was right about one thing, that the mating practices of the species had nothing at all to do with the deaths.
    So what was happening here? Were the “accidents” the results of one of the men killing off the competition in order to safeguard his own survival? Wasn’t it exactly that fear that had inspired Sam to hire me? Perhaps one of the seemingly civilized wolves she’d brought together found himself unable to stop at scent-marking and posturing in order to assure himself that the territory was his, that he was top dog after all.



BORIS TELLS IT LIKE IT IS

    W hat could you have