All Shots Read Online Free PDF Page B

dark brown cabinets and a floor of dark brown linoleum, but on the table in the dining area was a bright yellow tablecloth, and the refrigerator was plastered with photos of dogs held on by magnets. The little rooms were incredibly clean. The sink and appliances were white and unstained. Even the refrigerator magnets looked as if they’d been scrubbed. Francie had described Mellie as a model for independent living. I’d begun to wonder about the accuracy of the claim, but the sight of the well-kept house relieved some of my concern, as did Mellie’s pleasant, ordinary offer of coffee and her obvious competence in using her coffee machine and in setting out mugs, spoons, a sugar bowl, and a pitcher of half-and-half.
    As the coffee dripped, she showed me the photos on the fridge. “My dogs,” she said with a giggle.
    “Dogs you take care of?”
    “Rusty, I walk him. He’s a Yorkie. Celeste. She stays with me sometimes.” Most of the dogs were small or medium size, but there were a couple of Labs and a golden retriever. The highbrow names of some of the dogs gave Mellie trouble. The Pomeranian she called Kink and Guard was clearly Kierkegaard, but I was unable to translate a few of the others. To my amazement, she pointed to a picture of one of the Labs and said, “Milton has hip dysplasia.”
    Why shouldn’t Mellie have known the term? What right did I have to be surprised? But I was. When she’d finished reciting the names of all the dogs, she addressed Rowdy, who was still on leash. “And you’re a good dog, too,” she said. “Rowdy, you want a cookie?”
    Instead of pinching the treat between her fingers to offer it to him, she placed it on her flat palm, and when he scoured her whole hand with his tongue, she laughed so raucously that a tense dog might have been startled. Then she clapped the same moist hand over her mouth. “Bad! Be quiet!” In a near whisper, she said, “Good dog.”
    “Mellie, as long as you sound happy, he doesn’t mind if you laugh. Or even if you yell.”
    “Don’t yell!” she protested in a near yell before adding softly, as if repeating an oft-repeated phrase, “Pretty voice.”
    Someone had obviously tried to teach Mellie to modulate her voice. A special education teacher? A speech therapist? Interestingly, although she sometimes lost control of her volume and had changed an unfamiliar name to familiar words, she’d mastered hip dysplasia and, even more strikingly, had used the dog trainer’s term cookie in place of dog biscuit .
    When we were seated at the table drinking our coffee, I reluctantly raised the topic of Strike. “Mellie, it’s possible that she’s gone home. Where is that?”
    “Here.”
    “But when she isn’t here. She’s staying with you, but she belongs to someone else. Who is her owner?”
    Mellie’s face shut down.
    “It’s one thing if your own dog gets loose,” I said, “but when it’s someone else’s dog? It’s easy to feel really guilty about that, even though it’s not your fault.” For all I knew, Strike’s escape was Mellie’s fault, of course, but I had no intention of saying so.
    Mellie’s jaw was locked.
    “This probably isn’t the first time Strike has escaped from somewhere. Siberian huskies are escape artists. Some of them climb fences. They squeeze out under fences. Strike’s owner has probably been through this before. Does Strike live near here?” Feeling increasingly like an interrogator, I continued to press Mellie. How long had Strike been with Mellie? Awhile. Was her owner a man or a woman? A girl. A nice girl. Yes, Strike was wearing a collar.
    “With tags?” I made the mistake of calling Rowdy to me and showing Mellie the ID attached to his rolled leather collar. “Like these?”
    “Like Rowdy,” she agreed.
    I had the frustrating impression that she was responding mainly to my suggestion; in reality, Strike might or might not have been wearing tags.
    The only other piece of information I elicited was