plant. As the deadly dawn brightened to a paler gray in the east and
the world prepared to murder dreams, I let myself into the shelter of
Sasha’s home.
In the kitchen, I immediately switched on the radio. Sasha was winding
through the last half hour of her show, giving a weather report. We
were still in the wet season, and a storm was coming in from the
northwest. We would have rain shortly after nightfall.
If she had predicted that we were due for a hundred-foot tidal wave and
volcanic eruptions with major rivers of lava, I would have listened
with pleasure. When I heard her smooth, slightly throaty radio voice,
a big stupid smile came over my face, and even on this morning near the
end of the world, I couldn’t help but be simultaneously soothed and
aroused.
As the day brightened beyond the windows, Orson padded directly to the
pair of hard-plastic bowls that stood on a rubber mat in one corner.
His name is painted on each: Wherever he goes, whether to Bobby’s
cottage or to Sasha’s, he is family.
As a puppy, my dog was given a series of names, but he didn’t care to
respond to any of them on a regular basis. After noticing how intently
the mutt focused on old Orson Welles movies when we ran them on
video-and especially on the appearance of Welles himself in any
scene-we jokingly renamed him after the actordirector. He has ever
since answered to this moniker.
When he found both bowls empty, Orson picked up one of them in his
mouth and brought it to me. I filled it with water and returned it to
the rubber mat, which prevented it from sliding on the white
ceramic-tile floor.
He snatched up the second bowl and looked beseechingly at me. As is
true of virtually any dog, Orson’s eyes and face are better designed
for a beseeching look than are the expressive features of the most
talented actor who ever trod the boards.
At the dining table with Roosevelt and Orson and Mungojerrie aboard the
Nostromo, I had recalled those well-executed but jokey paintings of
dogs playing poker and it had occurred to me that my subconscious had
been trying to tell me something important by so vividly resurrecting
this image from my memory. Now I understood. Each of the dogs in
those paintings represents a familiar human type, and each is obviously
as smart as any human being.
On the Nostromo, because of the game that Orson and the cat had played
with each other, “mocking their stereotypes,” I had realized that some
of these animals out of Wyvern might be far smarter than I had
previously thought-so smart that I wasn’t yet ready to face the awesome
truth. If they could hold cards and talk, they might win their share
of poker hands; they might even take me to the cleaners.
“It’s a little early,” I said, taking the food dish from Orson.
“But You did have a very active night.”
After shaking a serving of his favorite dry dog food from the box into
his bowl, I circled the kitchen, closing the Levolor blinds against the
growing threat of the day. As I was shutting the last of them, I
thought I heard a door close softly elsewhere in the house.
I froze, listening.
“Something?” I whispered.
Orson looked up from his bowl, sniffed the air, cocked his head, then
chuffed and once more turned his attention to his food.
The three-hundred-ring circus of my mind.
At the sink I washed my hands and splashed some cold water on my
face.
Sasha keeps an immaculate kitchen, gleaming and sweet-smelling, but
it’s cluttered. She’s a superb cook, and clusters of exotic appliances
take up at least half the counter space. So many pots, pans, ladles,
and utensils dangle from overhead racks that You feel as if You’re
spelunking through a cavern where every inch of the ceiling is hung
with stalactites.
I moved throughout her house, closing blinds, feeling the vibrant
spirit of her in every corner. She is so alive that she leaves an aura
behind her that lingers long after she has gone.
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