decide to have any.”
Travis lunged toward the dog.
Einstein flew off his perch and was already out of the room when Travis, unable
to halt, fell over the armchair.
Laughing, Nora said, “This is vastly entertaining.”
“Where’d he go?” Travis demanded.
She pointed to the hallway that led to the two bedrooms and bath.
He found the retriever in the master bedroom, standing on the bed, facing the
doorway. “You can’t win,” Travis said. “This is for your own good, damn it, and
you’re going to have those shots whether you like it or not.”
Einstein lifted one hind leg and peed on the bed.
Astonished, Travis said, “What in the hell are you doing?”
Einstein stopped peeing, stepped away from the puddle that was soaking into the
quilted bedspread, and stared defiantly at Travis.
Travis had heard stories of dogs and cats expressing extreme displeasure by
stunts like this. When he had owned the real-estate agency, one of his
saleswomen had boarded her miniature collie in a kennel for two weeks while away
on vacation. When she returned and bailed out the dog, it punished her by
urinating on both her favorite chair and her bed.
But Einstein was not an ordinary dog. Considering his remarkable intellect, the
soiling of the bed was even more of an outrage than it would have been if he had
been ordinary.
Getting angry now, moving toward the dog, Travis said, “This is inexcusable.”
Einstein scrambled off the mattress. Realizing the dog would try to slip around
him and out of the room, Travis scuttled backward and slammed the door. Cut off
from the exit, Einstein swiftly changed directions and dashed to the far end of
the bedroom, where he stood in front of the dresser.
“No more fooling around,” Travis said sternly, brandishing the leash.
Einstein retreated into a corner.
Closing in at a crouch, spreading his arms to prevent the dog from bolting
around either side of him, Travis finally made contact and clipped the leash to
the collar. “Ha!”
Huddled defeatedly in the corner, Einstein hung his head and began to shudder.
Travis’s sense of triumph was short-lived. He stared in dismay at the dog’s
bowed and trembling head, at the visible shivers that shook the animal’s flanks.
Einstein issued low, almost inaudible, pathetic whines of fear.
Stroking the dog, trying to calm and reassure him, Travis said, “This really is
for your own good, you know. Distemper, rabies—the sort of stuff you don’t want
to mess with. And it will be painless, my friend. I swear it will.”
The dog would not look at him and refused to take heart from his assurances.
Under Travis’s hand, the dog felt as if he were shaking himself to pieces. He
stared hard at the retriever, thinking, then said, “In that lab . . . did they
put a lot of needles in you? Did they hurt you with needles? Is that why you’re
afraid of getting vaccinations?”
Einstein only whimpered.
Travis pulled the reluctant dog out of the corner, freeing his tail for a
session. Dropping the leash, he took Einstein’s head in both hands and forced
his face up, so they were eye-to-eye.
“Did they hurt you with needles in the lab?”
Yes.
“Is that why you’re afraid of the vet?”
Though he did not stop shuddering, the dog barked once: No.
“You were hurt by needles, but you’re not afraid of them?”
No.
‘Then why are you like this?”
Einstein just stared at him and made those terrible sounds of distress.
Nora opened the bedroom door a crack and peeked in. “Did you get the leash on
him yet, Einstein?” Then she said, “Phew! What happened in here?”
Still holding the dog’s head, staring into his eyes, Travis said, “He made a
bold statement of displeasure.”
“Bold,” she agreed, moving to the bed and beginning to strip off the soiled
spread, blanket, and sheets.
Trying to puzzle out the reason for the dog’s behavior, Travis said, “Einstein,
if it’s not needles you’re afraid of—is it the vet?”
One bark. No.
Frustrated, Travis brooded on his next question while Nora pulled the mattress
cover from the bed.
Einstein trembled.
Suddenly, Travis had a flash of understanding that illuminated the dog’s