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care and homeopathic medicine. Everything at her place is pure and natural. You know the type?”
    I did.
    â€œApparently she’d been doing the same thing I was, switching from one brand to another, looking for the perfect dog food. Running the boarding kennel she had plenty of dogs who were upset about being away from home, and that meant plenty of bad eaters. After a while she simply started making her own food, mixing everything together in big bowls and baking the kibble in the oven.”
    â€œWhat’s in it?”
    â€œIt’s a rice and chicken base, with lots of garlic and corn meal, and God knows what all. The dogs love it. Ziggy, too. It’s expensive, but it’s worth it.”
    â€œYou mean she sells it?”
    Jenny nodded. “I was just up there last week and business is booming. Lots of her customers were pleased with the way their dogs came home and asked what she was feeding. Pretty soon she was selling as much kibble as she could make. She calls it Crystal’s All Natural Dog Munchies. You might want to give it a try.”
    The name was a little overly cute, but then again so were lots of things people did to dogs, like putting Dachshunds in raincoats and tying bows on Poodle’s ears. If Faith would eat it, I could manage to deal with the label.
    â€œThanks,” I said. “I’ll look into it.”
    â€œWhen’s dessert?” asked Davey.
    His plate was suspiciously clean. I wondered how many mouthfuls of lasagna Faith had enjoyed while my attention had been elsewhere. At least that might put a little weight on her.
    â€œDessert’s when everybody’s finished,” I informed him. “Grown-ups like to eat more slowly. Why don’t you go and play for a little while and I’ll call you when we’re ready?”
    â€œOkay.” He hopped off his chair and left the room. Faith went with him. She’s only been around a month, but clearly the puppy knows which side her bread is buttered on. Davey turned on the TV in the living room and found Roseanne in syndication. He liked to root for D.J. and was trying to develop a big belly laugh like Roseanne’s. There are worse goals.
    â€œI hope you didn’t send him away on my account,” said Jenny. In contrast to Davey’s plate, hers was still nearly full. She pushed the lasagna around with her fork, but didn’t pick any up. “I think he’s great.”
    â€œHe is great. But like every five-year-old, he has no patience. He knows full well there’s cake for dessert, and we’ll be lucky to get a moment’s peace from now until he gets his.”
    â€œI can sympathize.” Jenny laughed. “I have a sweet tooth, too.”
    I looked, but the lasagna on her plate still didn’t seem to be going anywhere. Maybe that was her way of telling me she was finished. “Right,” I said. “On to the cake.”
    I’m not a good enough cook to get offended when people don’t eat something I’ve made. But the chocolate mousse cake I had for dessert came from the St. Moritz bakery in Greenwich, which means it was probably about the best in the world. But when I’d piled the dinner dishes in the sink, brewed some coffee, given Davey his dessert in the living room, then served our cake, Jenny started pushing that around her plate, too.
    Well, that made me wonder. It’s probably possible that there are people in the world who don’t like lasagna or who don’t like chocolate. But both? I doubt it. Jenny didn’t look thin enough to be anorexic, and though I’d invited her over to cheer her up over Ziggy’s death, she didn’t seem terribly depressed.
    I’ve never been one for finesse when bluntness will work just as well. It’s a family trait.
    â€œNot hungry?” I asked.
    â€œHmm?” Jenny looked up. She finally had a piece of cake in her mouth and was chewing slowly. She seemed to be