Watchers

man.”
     
     
    Twenty-four hours later, on Sunday evening, in Jim Keene’s surgery, Einstein was tottering around as if he were a little old four-legged man.
    Nora scooted along the floor on her knees beside him, telling him what a fine and brave fellow he was, quietly encouraging him to keep going. Every step he took thrilled her as if he were her own baby learning to walk. But what thrilled her more was the look he gave her a few times: it was a look that seemed to express chagrin at his infirmity, but there was also a sense of humor in it, as if he were saying, Hey, Nora, am I a spectacle—or what? Isn’t this just plain ridiculous?
    Saturday night he had eaten a little solid food, and all day Sunday he had nibbled at easily digestible vittles that the vet provided. He was drinking well, and the most encouraging sign of improvement was his insistence on going Outside to make his toilet. He could not stay on his feet for long periods of time, and once in a while he wobbled and plopped backward on his butt; however, he did not bump into walls or walk in circles.
    Yesterday, Nora had gone shopping and had returned with three Scrabble
    games. Now, Travis had separated the lettered tiles into twenty-six piles at one end of the surgery, where there was a lot of open floor space.
    “We’re ready,” Jim Keene said. He was sitting on the floor with Travis, his legs drawn up under him Indian-style.
    Pooka was lying at his master’s side, watching with baffled dark eyes. Nora led Einstein back across the room to the Scrabble tiles. Taking his head in her hands, looking straight into his eyes, she said, “Okay, fur face. Let’s prove to Dr. Jim that you’re not just some pathetic lab animal involved in cancer tests. Let’s show him what you really are and prove to him what those nasty people really want you for.”
    She tried to believe that she saw the old awareness in the retriever’s dark gaze.
    With evident nervousness and fear, Travis said, “Who asks the first question?”
    “I will,” Nora said unhesitatingly. To Einstein, she said, “How’s the fiddle?”
    They had told Jim Keene about the message that Travis had found the morning Einstein had been so very ill—FIDDLE BROKE—SO the vet understood what Nora was asking.
    Einstein blinked at her, then looked at the letters, blinked at her again, sniffed the letters, and she was getting a sick feeling in her stomach when, suddenly, he began to choose tiles and push them around with his nose.
    FIDDLE JUST OUT OF TUNE.
    Travis shuddered as if the dread he had contained was a powerful electric charge that had leapt out of him in an instant. He said, “Thank God, thank you God,” and he laughed with delight.
    “Holy shit,” Jim Keene said.
    Pooka raised his head very high and pricked his ears, aware that something important was happening but not sure what it was.
    Her heart swelling with relief and excitement and love, Nora returned the letters to their separate piles and said, “Einstein, who is your master? Tell us his name.”
    The retriever looked at her, at Travis, then made a considered reply.
    NO MASTER. FRIENDS.
    Travis laughed. “By God, I’ll settle for that! No one can be his master, but anyone should be damned proud to be his friend.”
    Funny—this proof of Einstein’s undamaged intellect made Travis laugh with delight, the first laughter of which he had been capable in days, but it made Nora weep with relief.
    Jim Keene looked on in wide-eyed wonder, grinning stupidly. He said, “I feel like a child who’s sneaked downstairs on Christmas Eve and actually seen the real Santa Claus putting gifts under the tree.”
    “My turn,” Travis said, sliding forward and putting a hand on Einstein’s head, patting him. “Jim just mentioned Christmas, and it’s not far away.
    Twenty days from now. So tell me, Einstein, what would you most like to have Santa bring you?”
    Twice, Einstein started to line up the lettered tiles, but both times he had second thoughts and disarranged them. He tottered and thumped down on his butt, looked around sheepishly, saw that they were all expectant, got up again, and this time produced a three-word request for Santa.
    MICKEY MOUSE VIDEOS.
     
     
     
     
    They didn’t get to bed until two in the morning because Jim Keene was intoxicated, not drunk from beer or wine or whiskey but from sheer joy over Einstein’s intelligence. “Like a man’s, yes, but still the dog, still the dog, wonderfully like,