Ruffly Speaking

us, but I assumed that she was listening, because she snorted. Before that, I’d always thought that snorters pursued their hobby strictly in private, but Alice Savery actually managed to agitate the air in her nose in some Way that produced a remarkably loud and scornful noise. If Stephanie hadn’t been there, I might even have asked her to teach me how she’d done it, just out of curiosity, of course. Scorn isn’t a reaction I often need to express, and when the occasion arises, words suffice.
    “Well,” said Stephanie, “if you have any of this, uh, gypsum, I’m sure that Matthew would be glad to help do whatever one does with it, Miss Savery. He isn’t home right now, but when he gets home, I’m sure he’d be happy to help. Maybe he could... Is it any use to dig up the affected area?”
    Alice Savery said nothing—it’s possible that the sight of Ruffly squatting on the lawn rendered her speechless. I touched Stephanie’s arm to get her attention. “Stephanie, uh, where do you keep your pooper-scooper? I’ll run over and get it.”
    “Oh, don’t bother,” Stephanie said.
    Alice Savery’s eyes narrowed. Mine probably did, too. Cleaning up after your dog is one of the basics. I wasn’t familiar with the program that had trained Ruffly and placed him with Stephanie, but the particular program didn’t matter. Every hearing dog organization drills its human students in the fundamentals of responsible ownership and emphasizes that every hearing dog is an ambassador for all hearing dogs. How could Stephanie possibly...?
    She redeemed herself. Pulling a plastic bag from a side pocket of her dress, she said casually, “I’ll take care of it.”
    While Stephanie was heading across the lawn, Alice Savery grumbled audibly. Her piercing eyes moved back and forth as if scanning for the presence of a sinister eavesdropper. When she spoke, her voice was rank with suspicion. “One sees what one sees.” The woman had the air of reluctantly granting me a glimpse into some vast store of secret knowledge. “One hears what one hears.” People who watch and listen often do, I thought.
     

22
     
     Existentialism died this year. Or, maybe, yesteryear; I can’t be sure. Its trappings survive. Take Leah: Camus and black. But the essence perished, and what killed it was the normalization of the absurd. I must be behind the times, or, maybe, unbeknownst to me, I’m stuck in some crucial stage of the grieving process. I’m working on it, though. I’ve practiced the sentence until I can get it out fine. All I can’t do is utter it with a straight face. “Hi, I’m Holly,” I say, “and this is my swine, Luigi.”
    Not that I have anything against pigs—or against any of the other pitifully inadequate dog substitutes with which the spiritually impoverished attempt to enrich their bleak, allergic lives. On the contrary, I’ve always been a fan of the theater of the absurd, and if you doubt me, consider the angst that’s plagued me ever since a neighbor of mine, Frank, acquired Leo, a Vietnamese potbellied pig. Not that there’s anything wrong with Leo. Far from it. He’s hideous, and his hoofs require rather frequent trimming, but he’s perfectly friendly. There’s nothing wrong with Frank, either. No, the sick individual in the family isn’t Leo or Frank, but Frank’s wife, a frigid woman with whom poor Frank endured five unspeakably frustrating years of sham marriage, sixty maddening months of abstinence with a so-called partner who denied him the most basic marital right of all: the right to a family dog. Her excuse? Not headaches. Sneezing. Painful, watery eyes. Asthma, I think. And when she was desperate to get out of it, hives, too. Frank’s dilemma? Roman Catholic. And, in fact, the Church is what saved his marriage: It was Father Leo Bianci, S.J., who proposed the solution—the pig. Hence, the name.
    My anguish? When I told Steve Delaney about Leo, I casually added something like, “Gee, I wonder what Rowdy and Kimi will make of a pig,” and, instead of pausing to mull over the situation the way he usually does, Steve had an instant reply: “Pork chops.”
    So when I arrived home from Stephanie Benson’s, I was glad to find Steve there, not only because I’m always happy to see him, but also because, ever since Leo’s arrival, I hate walking Rowdy and Kimi alone at night. In the daytime, I can always spot Leo from a distance and do a swift about-turn, but, after dark, I’m always