Love in Infant Monkeys Read Online Free PDF

certain the
Weimaraner was dead. The incident had taught him a valuable lesson, one he firmly believed he should have learned earlier: In the client-selection process, people must be subjected to far greater scrutiny than their dogs. He no longer contracted with unreliable owners. If he had reason to suspect an owner or family was not prepared to keep a dog for its lifetime, he did not take the job.
    It could be difficult. Sometimes a dog owned by one of these irresponsible persons had powerful appeal—grace, sensitivity, an air of loneliness. But the risk was too great. He made himself walk away from these dogs.
    Sir Henry emitted one short bark and he and the poodle stopped and stood, tails wagging, pointing to the left. The dogwalker stopped too. There was the violinist, wrapped in blankets, seated under a tree in his wheelchair with his attendant and an oxygen tank. The dogwalker was surprised. As far as he knew, the violinist, who was at the end stage of a long cancer, never came out of his penthouse anymore. The place had a large wraparound terrace from which the East River could be seen; there were potted trees and even a small lawn on this terrace, where the poodle spent much of its time.

    â€œBlackie,” said the violinist in his weak, rasping voice, and the dogwalker obediently let the two dogs approach.
    â€œA surprise,” said the dogwalker. He was not skilled at small talk.
    â€œFigured I should take one last stroll in the park,” said the violinist, and smiled. “Come here, Blackie.”
    The dogwalker handed the poodle’s leash to the attendant and Blackie jumped up into his owner’s lap. The old man winced but petted the poodle with a bone-stiff hand.
    â€œI need to know what will happen to her,” said the violinist. “When I die.”
    The dogwalker felt embarrassed. Death was an intimate subject. Yet it was close, and the violinist was quite right to plan for his dog.
    â€œDifficult,” he offered.
    â€œI wonder if, if I were to establish a trust . . . ample provisions, financially . . . would you consider—?”
    The dogwalker, surprised again, looked to the attendant who was holding the leash. She had a beseeching look on her face, and for a minute he did not know how to take this. Finally he decided the look meant the violinist would not be able to bear a flat-out refusal.
    â€œLet me think,” he said, stalling.

    It was not in his code.
    â€œThink fast,” said the violinist, though he was still smiling.
    â€œI will think about it overnight,” said the dogwalker.
    â€œYou like Blackie,” said the violinist, a quaver in his voice. “Right? Don’t you like her?”
    The dogwalker felt a terrible pity enfold him.
    â€œOf course I do,” he said quickly. “She is among my favorites.”
    The violinist, on the brink of tears, bent his head to his dog, petting her softly and rapidly as she patiently withstood the onslaught. His attendant shaded her own eyes and blinked into the distance.
    â€œI am very attached to Blackie,” the dogwalker bumbled on. “But the adoption of dogs is against my policy. Please give me till tomorrow.”
    â€œOK,” said the violinist, and attempted to smile again. “I’ll try not to kick the bucket before then.”
    â€œI would take her,” explained the attendant, apologetic. “But I just can’t.”
    She handed back the leash and Blackie jumped off the lap.
    â€œWe’ll see you back at the apartment,” called the attendant after him.

    They had more than half an hour left on the circuit. As the dogs trotted in front of him, he saw Sir Henry turn back to the violinist, checking up on him.
    If he accepted the dog, in a clear violation of established protocol, would his principles erode? Would he end up an eccentric with an apartment full of abandoned pets? By preferring dogs to humans he put himself at risk—myopia on the part