The Wicked Flea

kennel run? In any case, the curb was lined with contractors’ trucks and vans. Hammers banged. There weren’t any tricycles in the front yard or anything like that, and Dr. Foote was a little old to be the mother of toddlers. She looked forty-five or fiftyish, my senior by a decade or more, and had long, dark, gray-streaked hair that fell loose around her shoulders, Cambridge style, even though she lived in Newton, the suburb of suburbs, which according to an article in one of the Boston papers had recently won an award for being the safest city in America. The rankings were based on crime statistics, not on psychotherapy ratings, but Newton had also made the news lately for having the highest number of psychiatrists per capita of any city in the U.S. A connection there?
    Anyhow, especially because I’d never consulted a therapist before, it felt comforting to know that I was seeking help in not just any old safe place, but in the safest city in the entire country. Dr. Foote’s office had apparently been furnished to convey that same impression. The walls were lined with books, the carpet was a tweedy tan, and the chairs were upholstered in a velvety brown. There was nothing threatening-looking about Dr. Foote, either. She wore a loosely draped dress in gray jersey with a red-patterned scarf and chunky gold earrings. Her footwear consisted of black flats, not boots.
    “Steve,” I repeated. “No matter how we’d split up, I’d miss him. Even before he fell into Anita’s clutches, I was lonely for him. In so many ways, we liked the same things. Hiking with our dogs. Eating out. I don’t really cook. For people. I cook for dogs. But that was okay because Steve likes restaurants. And no one could ask for a more attentive—” I stopped. As maybe you’ve noticed, I don’t hold back a lot, but I didn’t feel like talking to Dr. Foote about sex. “Except that asking for someone else was basically what I did. I was unappreciative and ungrateful. And stupid. I miss Steve a lot. And India and Lady. With India around, I used to be able to let Rowdy and Kimi off leash once in a while, in the woods, where there were no cars anywhere nearby, because India would watch out for them. She’s a shepherd. German shepherd dog,” I explained. “Very responsible. Incredibly obedient. The perfect dog. I’ve thought about getting one myself.” Dr. Foote raised her eyebrows. For some weird reason, her mouth twitched.
    “A shepherd.Or a Border collie. But I can’t, really, not where I live. If I got a male, there’d be trouble with Rowdy, and Kimi wouldn’t accept another female, and I don’t have room for kennels. The timing’s bad, too. I’m not back to normal yet. I’m a lot better, a million times better. My memory is fine, except that once in a while, I have trouble—I’ll read an article, and when I get to the end, I’ll have trouble remembering the beginning. And I don’t exactly have insomnia. I just wake up too early. Like four A.M.”
    “That is early,” Dr. Foote agreed.
    “And then I can’t go back to sleep.”
    “What do you do then?”
    “Get up. Feed the dogs. Work. Not that I exactly enjoy writing at five o’clock in the morning, but I get a lot done. I’m doing an article on fatal dog attacks, which is a fairly depressing subject, obviously, but it’s particularly depressing before dawn. Or sometimes I take the dogs to Fresh Pond, which is the kind of thing I always tell other people to do instead of going to singles bars or taking adult ed courses.”
    Dr. Foote looked puzzled.
    “World’s best dating service,” I explained. “A flashy dog. Two of them. The theory is perfectly sound, and I don’t want to take up swing dancing, and I don’t believe in personal ads—I think they’re dangerous— but I walk the dogs all the time, so I already know all the other dog walkers at Fresh Pond and in the rest of my neighborhood, and I’m not interested in them.”
    “Have you let people know that you’re interested in meeting men?” Dr. Foote asked.
    I thought the question over. It struck me as sensible. Had I let people know? “More or less,” I replied.
    She smiled. “More or less?”
    I smiled back. “Less.”
    ‘They may assume that you’re not ready. Or not interested. You do have an air of self-sufficiency, you know.”
    “Me?”
    “You.”
    “Well, in a way it’s true. I mean, Rowdy and Kimi and I are... How do I say this? There’s a way in which we’re complete.