Ruffly Speaking

outside.”
    Which square? Porter, Central, Kendall? Here in Cambridge, if it goes without saying, it’s like the letters that spell the name of God, best not pronounced aloud.
    “And it was so nice out that you decided to go to a funeral,” I said.
    “At the table in back of me, there were these two men, and I couldn’t help overhearing, and so one of them said something I didn’t catch. And then the other one said something like, ‘No, I can’t. I have to go to Norris Lang’s funeral.’ Or, anyway, that’s what I heard."
    “He died?” Norris Lang, I should tell you, was—still is and ever shall be—Rita’s analyst.
    “No. Would you let me finish?”
    “Of course.”
    “So I could hardly believe my ears!” Rita held out her hands, fingers splayed, palms up. “My analyst is dead, and no one’s even bothered to let me know! And then, instead of looking in the Times to see if Lang’s obituary was there, I turned around and said something like, ‘Pardon me, but I couldn’t help overhearing,’ and then I said what a shock it was, and they said it was to them, too. So I asked when the funeral was, and it turned out to be today, and after all the work Lang and I have done on grieving, not to mention the unbelievable termination issues and simply this overwhelming sense of loss and betrayal, I had to be there. So I got all the details, and it was at eleven-thirty, and if I’d been thinking straight—”
    “But, Rita, naturally, you weren’t. I mean, if somebody mentioned Roz’s funeral and I hadn’t even heard she was dead—”
    “Holly, Lang is my analyst. Roz is your dog trainer. It isn’t—”
    “It certainly is,” I said. “So Norris Lang isn’t d—”
    “No! And I should’ve known, because, really, if nothing else, someone would’ve called to cancel our next hour, but I was so thrown that I... Why I was so ready to believe that Lang was dead is another matter. That one’s going to take years. But what I did was go tearing back to my office, and I managed to reach my patients and cancel, and then I went flying over to this church on Brattle Street, which was jammed with people, and I should’ve...” Rita stopped to catch her breath. “But it never crossed my mind to ask if it was the right funeral. And there I was, sitting in this pew, and then, finally, I started looking around, and maybe a few faces looked a little familiar, but other than that, I didn’t recognize a single person, which seemed kind of peculiar, because I should’ve known half the people there. So finally, finally, I looked at that little program they hand you, and there it was. I’d cancelled five patients to go to the funeral of this guy I’ve never even heard of. I felt like such a jerk. And what was I going to do? Get up and walk out?”
    “Well, I hope it was at least a nice funeral,” I said. “Actually, it would’ve been right up your alley.”
    “I can’t handle funerals,” I reminded her. “You know that.”
    “Well, you could’ve handled this one. The priest brought her dog.”
    Gets me every time. “Oh. What kind of dog was it?”
    “Cute.” Rita is a person who refers to Shelties as “miniature collies.” She recognizes dachshunds because she used to have one. She probably knew what a Scottie was even before she got Willie. She can tell a Dalmatian from a German shepherd, but probably not from a pointer or any other medium-size spotted dog. She’s learned not to call my dogs “huskies,” which malamutes aren’t, and as I’ve informed her, even if they were, they’d be “Siberians” or Siberian huskies, but all she says when I tell her that is, “Then why aren’t yours Alaskans?” Unbelievable. This woman has a Ph.D.
    I refilled our mugs. “Rita, maybe I missed something, but I still don’t understand. How did you end up...?”
    “Because of the name. The guy at Au Bon Pain was mumbling, plus, of course, my unconscious contribution. The guy who died was named Morris Lamb. Norris Lang? So it was—”
    And that’s how I heard about Morris.
     

3
     
     At the risk of excommunication from the Dog Writers’ Association of America, I spouted the inevitable my-God-I-wonder-what-happened-the-last-time-I-saw-him-he-looked clichés. As a matter of fact, Morris had looked fine. His young bitch, Jennie, had just gone Best of Breed out of Open, and Morris... Have I lost you? Well, if you don’t speak dog, let’s just say that Jennie had done well, and, if you’re