The Barker Street Regulars

near the door, sprang from her armchair, gave an enthusiastic cry, and darted around exclaiming, “A beauty! Isn’t he big! Isn’t he big!”
    Rowdy preened. I smiled. “You like dogs?” Although the inquiry was clearly unnecessary, I’d been trained to ask.
    Helen abruptly stopped dashing and chattering to concentrate on mulling over my question. She acted more or less the way I would if someone asked me whether I liked caducei. First, I’d have to remember what they were. Then I’d have to decide whether I had any feelings about them one way or the other.
    From a wheelchair positioned to give a good view out the big plate-glass window, a high-pitched, authoritative voice decreed, “Yes, but she prefers cats.”
    “I prefer...” Helen began unhappily.
    “You like dogs, but you prefer cats,” the voice informed her.
    Although the woman by the window was seated, it was immediately clear that she was the tallest person I’d seen at the Gateway, taller than any of the men, indeed one of the longest women I’d ever encountered anywhere. Her hands were so large that in the days when she’d needed outdoor clothing, before she’d entered the Gateway, she must have had to buy men’s gloves. I wondered what she’d done about hats. Her arms were tremendously long, and instead of resting her feet on the wheelchair, she stretched her legs way out in front to plant the soles of her orthopedic shoes flat on the floor. Her hair was short, white, curly, and so thin that her entire scalp was visible, as was the bone structure of her face. The skin on her forehead and cheeks had passed beyond what must have been a phase of lines and crinkles to a state of smooth translucency. Fine creases, however, surrounded blue eyes so pale that they were almost white, and folds of loose skin drooped from her elongated neck.
    Althea introduced herself. Early that morning, I’d tried to think of some way to avoid using only the first names of the people I’d meet. When, as part of a group of new volunteers, I’d trailed after an experienced therapy-dog handler and her Portuguese water dog on an orientation session at another nursing home, I’d felt uncomfortable with the practice. People in nursing homes were not schoolchildren; they had grown up in a long-gone era of formality; I wanted to follow the old rules. I couldn’t. For one thing, I didn’t always know what people’s last names or titles were. For another, I didn’t want to insult the staff of the Gateway by arrogantly diverging from the universal custom. And was I to be Ms. Winter instead of Holly? After only a few minutes, though, I felt okay about using first names, which were, after all, better than none. Furthermore, as I reminded myself, everyone in the world of dogs went by first names, and plenty of the people I trained and showed with were at least as old as the people at the Gateway.
    “I’m Holly,” I said. “And this is Rowdy. Do you like dogs?”
    Althea Battlefield thumped the padded arm of her wheelchair with an immense, bony hand. “Bring him right up here next to me, or I won’t be able to see him. Closer!” Her hand groped. I used a puppy-size dog cookie to lure Rowdy into position.
    “He is a big dog, isn’t he?” Althea said. “The other one that visits here is pint size. It’s what’s called a bichon frisé.” She didn’t anglicize the pronunciation, but produced a somewhat self-conscious nasal and a French r that would have left me with a sore throat.
    I was tempted to ask Althea whether she’d ever owned a dog, but felt uneasy about raising the topic. Although I’d rapidly abandoned my resolution to shun first names, I was determined never to ask a question I’d heard from a new and well-meaning volunteer on my orientation visit: Did you have a dog? she’d inquired of someone. I’d cringed at the unspoken preface to the question. Indeed, Back when you had a life, did you have a dog?
    Then, turning her attention from Rowdy to me, Althea referred to the Sacred Writings. As I’ve mentioned, I misunderstood her. She corrected me by pointing to a long row of hardcover books that sat on the windowsill. Arrayed in front of the volumes was a collection of objects that reminded me of the knickknacks sold at dog shows. Instead of depicting terriers, pointers, or spaniels, however, Althea’s figurines showed a pipe-smoking man who wore an Inverness cape and a deerstalker hat.
    “Oh,” I said stupidly, “do you like Sherlock