The Barker Street Regulars

descriptions of the animal’s condition. A white bandage wrapped around the cat’s head covered the torn ear, but highlighted the foolish splotch and birthmark that disfigured its face. From what Steve was saying, I gathered that the cat had lost a piece of the ear. I already knew that the missing piece wouldn’t grow back. Steve demonstrated how to apply ointment to the cat’s eyes. I was also supposed to put drops in the unbandaged ear twice a day.
    “We had to assume that she’d never seen a veterinarian before,” Steve said, “so we went ahead and immunized her. Her feline leukemia test was negative, so we gave her...”
    On the wall behind Steve was a huge poster that depicted dozens of breeds of domestic cats. My eyes drifted to it. A few months earlier, I’d happened to see a cat-food commercial on television that had made a powerful impression on me. The feline star was a large, incredibly beautiful short-haired gray cat with what I’d later described to Steve as immense deep-yellow eyes. I’d told him everything about the gorgeous cat in the ad in the hope that he’d identify the breed so I’d know what it was I wanted if I ever decided to get a cat. He said it sounded like a Russian blue, but when I looked up the breed on the poster and in a book at the library, the Russian blue was somehow different from my immense gray cat with its stunning amber eyes.
    “...most common birth defect in the domestic cat,” Steve was saying severely.
    I hadn’t been listening. “You mean the birthmark?”
    “Double paws.” Eyeing me, Steve delivered a short lecture about the presence of an extra toe. Then he asked whether I knew how to trim a cat’s nails.
    “I’ve owned cats,” I said defensively. “Vinnie was absolutely wonderful with cats. So was Danny. So was Rafe. And if I do dogs’ nails, I can do cats’. Besides, at the risk of repeating myself, let me point out that this is not my cat.”
    Ignoring the disclaimer, Steve explained that if I failed to give the cat regular manicures, the nails on the extra toes would grow in big circles and work their way hack around and into the flesh of the toes. He’d trimmed the cat’s nails for me, but I was to remember to do it regularly. Also, the cat had roundworms and several other internal parasites for which it had received initial treatment, but I was to pick up medication on my way out. As to her teeth, which were in poor condition, he’d take care of those when he spayed her.
    “You must be kidding,” I said. “How old is this cat?”
    He shrugged. “Six, maybe. Eight.”
    “Steve, it’s a hideous cat. I’m covered with scratches from it. All it does is hiss at me.” I reached toward it. It cooperatively hissed. “You see? It’s missing half an ear, and now you’re telling me it has worms and bad teeth, it needs to be spayed, and it’s six or eight years old? Who on earth is ever going to adopt this thing?”
    “You are,” he said. “Make an appointment in a couple of weeks for me to spay her and take care of her teeth. We don’t know what she might be harboring. I don’t want to take the risk now.”
    “The dogs will kill it,” I said.
    Steve smiled. “Not with you around.”
     

Chapter Ten
     
    I EXPECTED TO FIND IRENE Wheeler in a shrouded sanctuary seated before a crystal ball. Or maybe her office would be a sham version of Steve’s, and she’d wear a white coat or even green scrubs. In fact, I encountered a thin, bright-eyed woman in a conservative navy wool suit who welcomed me to the front room of a pleasant, light apartment that occupied the ground floor of a three-story house almost identical to my own. My house is bam red, hers was white, and since I don’t have clients, I don’t have the kind of cupboard-size waiting room Irene Wheeler did, but if I furnished my living room as a prosperous Cambridge professional’s home office, it would look just like Irene’s. My own office, my study, occupies what was originally a small bedroom. Everywhere are pictures of Rowdy, Kimi, Vinnie, Danny, and lots of other dogs; and ribbons and trophies old and new. A gold-framed copy of Senator Vest’s Eulogy on the Dog hangs near my new computer. “Faithfull and true,” proclaimed Senator Vest, “even to death.” A wooden um containing Vinnie’s ashes rests on a bookcase. Her collar is looped around her earthly remains. I finger it now and then, and read her tags almost as if the information on them might have been