glove compartment in the truck to obtain the candy bar), or if no one was
watching (as when it had turned on the water faucet).
This was a preposterous idea because it suggested that the dog was not
only highly intelligent for one of its species but was aware of the
extraordinary nature of its own abilities. Dogs—all animals, in fact—simply did
not possess the high degree of self awareness required to analyze themselves in
comparison to others of their kind. Comparative analysis was strictly a human
quality. If a dog was especially bright and capable of many tricks, it would
still not be aware it was different from most of its kind. To assume this dog
was, in fact, aware of such things was to credit it not only with remarkable
intelligence but with a capacity for reason and logic, and with a facility for
rational judgment superior to the instinct that ruled the decisions of all other
animals.
“You,” Travis told the retriever, gently stroking its head, “are an enigma
wrapped in a mystery. Either that, or I’m a candidate for a rubber room.”
The dog looked at him in response to his voice, gazed into his eyes for a
moment, yawned—and suddenly jerked its head up and stared beyond him at the
bookshelves that flanked the archway between the living and dining rooms. The
satisfied, dopey, doggy expression on its face had vanished, replaced by the
keen interest Travis had seen before, which transcended ordinary canine
alertness.
Scrambling off the sofa, the retriever dashed to the bookshelves. It ran back
and forth beneath them, looking up at the colorful spines of the neatly arranged
volumes.
The rental house came fully—if unimaginatively and cheaply—furnished, with
upholstery chosen for durability (vinyl) or for the ability to conceal
ineradicable stains (eye-searing plaids). Instead of wood, there was lots of
wood-finish Formica that was resistant to chipping, scratching, abrasion, and
cigarette burns. Virtually the only things in the place reflecting Travis
Cornell’s own tastes and interests were the books—both paperbacks and
hardcovers— that filled the shelves in the living room.
The dog appeared to be intensely curious about at least some of those few
hundred volumes.
Getting to his feet, Travis said, “What is it, boy? What’s got your tail in an
uproar?”
The retriever jumped onto its hind feet, put its forepaws on one of the shelves,
and sniffed the spines of the books. It glanced at Travis, then returned to its
eager examination of his library.
He went to the shelf in question, withdrew one of the volumes to which the dog
had pressed its nose— Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson— and held it
out. “This? You’re interested in this?”
The dog studied the painting of Long John Silver and a pirate ship that adorned
the dust jacket. It looked up at Travis, then down at Long John Silver again.
After a moment, it dropped back from the shelf, onto the floor, dashed to the
shelves on the other side of the archway, leaped up again, and began sniffing
other books.
Travis replaced Treasure Island and followed the retriever. It was now applying
its damp nose to his collection of Charles Dickens’s novels. Travis Picked up a
paperback of A Tale of Two Cities.
Again, the retriever carefully studied the cover illustration as if actually
trying to determine what the book was about, then looked up expectantly at
Travis.
Utterly baffled, he said, “The French Revolution. Guillotines. Beheadings.
Tragedy and heroism. It’s . . . uh . . . well, it’s all about the importance of
valuing individuals over groups, about the need to place a far greater value on
one man’s or woman’s life than on the advancement of the masses.”
The dog returned its attention to the tomes shelved in front of it, sniffing,
sniffing.
“This is nuts,” Travis said, putting A Tale of Two Cities back where he’d gotten
it. “I’m giving plot synopses to a dog, for God’s sake!”
Dropping its big forepaws down to the next shelf, the retriever panted and
snuffled over the literature on that row. When Travis did not pull any of those
books out for inspection, the dog tilted its head to get into the shelf, gently