A Hell of a Dog Read Online Free PDF Page A

month.
    â€œHe’s happy to get the chance to—”
    She pulled a card out of her pocket.
    â€œI’m only trying to help.”
    Tiny beads of sweat were forming on her upper lip, and I noticed she could have used a shave, too.
    I wiped my wet, dirty hand off on my leggings and took her card. It read, “The Positive Pooch. Tracy Nevins, canine behaviorist.”
    In my neighborhood, positive means you’ve gotten unfortunate results on your HIV test. In dog training, it means the trainer is a foodie, a practitioner of what my friend Mike Chapman refers to in his dog column as “dog training lite.” Basically, the dog is viewed as a gaping maw into which you keep dropping treats. It’s the method used to produce a dancing chicken, ergo an important skill to have on the odd chance you’ll meet a dog with that spectacularly low an IQ.
    Tracy had a 914 area code, which meant she lived out of the city. She was probably in town for the symposium, but I didn’t ask. Dashiell was back, and I had my work cut out for me.
    I pocketed the card and walked closer to the lake so that I could give Dashiell more of a swim when I tossed the stick. Later, when I turned around, I saw that we were alone.
    Being a firm believer that a tired dog is a good dog, and wanting to make sure that Dashiell would be appreciative of the long down he’d have to do during dinner, I kept tossing the stick until his tongue hung down to about mid-chest level. Then, as wet as he was, because what’s the point of shaking if it’s not going to soak your mistress, I called to him and we headed back toward the hotel.
    Coming around the lake, we heard the strangest sound. Dashiell looked at me, and I nodded, meaning he could follow it, and so we left the path and once again walked into the copse of trees that snaked around the lake.
    There, side by side on a flat rock, we discovered the source of the sound, a small woman with a black pug, each with a huge white handkerchief covering her head. The pug stood as immobile as a lawn ornament, while the woman, sitting with her head tilted toward the sky, her nose poking up in the middle of the handkerchief, chanted.
    Dashiell and I froze in place, just watching. I had been unable to extract the names of the speakers from Sam. Walking through the park, I was finding out what the program was on my own; a shock collar trainer, a foodie, and the self-described “dog psychic,” Audrey Little Feather, here with her faithful companion, Magic. Not wanting to interrupt their meditation, and preferring my meditation in motion, I headed back the way I’d come.
    Audrey Little Feather, née Audrey Louise Rosenberg, had emerged on the scene when I was still in business as a trainer. She made house calls to dog and cat owners with pet problems and spoke for their pets, explaining what was wrong and how the pet thought it should be remedied. I couldn’t wait to hear her talk. But I didn’t want to hear Audrey chanting now and spoil the freshness of her performance during the symposium. Nor did I want to leave the park, the air so fragrant with flowers, the trees thick with leaves, and the birds singing so loud they all but blocked out the distant sound of traffic.
    There was no rush. I still had plenty of time to toss Dashiell in the tub, take a shower, and poke around the hotel before the dinner at eight. And I was sure, through my own brand of psychic revelation, that Dashiell was as reluctant to go back indoors as I was.
    We parked ourselves on one of the slatted wooden benches that lined the footpath, a good place from which to watch the passing parade. Across from us, his glasses pushed up onto his forehead, his newspaper almost touching his nose, an old man in baggy plaid pants sat reading the Times . A few benches down was a young priest. He sat all by himself, smoking a cigarette, his legs crossed, one foot nervously moving up and down. But then