he was probably perfectly healthy.
In the pantry off the kitchen, Einstein used the Scrabble tiles to tell them:
FIT AS A FIDDLE.
Stooping beside the dog, stroking him, Travis said, “I guess you ought to know
better than anyone.”
WHY SAY FIT AS A FIDDLE?
Replacing the tiles in their Lucite tubes, Travis said, “Well, because it
means—healthy.”
BUT WHY DOES IT MEAN HEALTHY?
Travis thought about the metaphor—fit as a fiddle—and realized he was not sure
why it meant what it did. He asked Nora, and she came to the pantry door, but
she had no explanation for the phrase, either.
Pawing out more letters, pushing them around with his nose, the retriever asked:
WHY SAY SOUND AS A DOLLAR?
“Sound as a dollar—meaning healthy or reliable,” Travis said.
Stooping beside them, speaking to the dog, Nora said, “That one’s easier. The
United States dollar was once the soundest, most stable currency in the World.
Still is, I suppose. For decades, there was no terrible inflation in the dollar
like in some other currencies, no reason to lose faith in it, so folks
said, ‘I’m as sound as a dollar.’ Of course, the dollar isn’t what it once was,
and the phrase isn’t as fitting as it used to be, but we still use it.”
WHY STILL USE IT?
“Because . . . we’ve always used it,” Nora said, shrugging.
WHY SAY HEALTHY AS A HORSE? HORSES NEVER SICK?
Gathering up the tiles and sorting them back into their tubes, Travis said, “No,
in fact, horses are fairly delicate animals in spite of their size. They get
sick pretty easily.”
Einstein looked expectantly from Travis to Nora.
Nora said, “We probably say we’re healthy as a horse because horses look strong
and seem like they shouldn’t ever get sick, even though they get sick all the
time.”
“Face it,” Travis told the dog, “we humans say things all the time that don’t
make sense.”
Pumping the letter-dispensing pedals with his paw, the retriever told them:
YOU ARE A STRANGE PEOPLE.
Travis looked at Nora, and they both laughed.
Beneath YOU ARE A STRANGE PEOPLE, the retriever spelled: BUT I LIKE YOU ANYWAY.
Einstein’s inquisitiveness and sense of humor seemed, more than anything else,
to indicate that, if he had been mildly ill, he was now recovered.
That was Tuesday.
On Wednesday, December 1, while Nora painted in her second-floor studio, Travis
devoted the day to inspecting his security system and to routine weapons
maintenance.
In every room, a firearm was carefully concealed under furniture or behind a
drape or in a closet, but always within easy reach. They owned two Mossberg
pistol-grip shotguns, four Smith & Wesson Model 19 Combat Magnums loaded with
.357s, two .38 pistols that they carried with them in the pickup and Toyota, an
Uzi carbine, two Uzi pistols. They could have obtained their entire arsenal
legally, from a local gun shop, once they purchased a house and established
residence in the county, but Travis had not been willing to wait that long. He
had wanted to have the weapons on the first night they settled into their new
home; therefore, through Van Dyne in San Francisco, he and Nora had located an
illegal arms salesman and had acquired what they needed. Of course, they could
not have bought conversion kits for the Uzis from a licensed gun dealer. But
they were able to purchase three such kits in San Francisco, and now the Uzi
carbine and pistols were fully automatic.
Travis moved from room to room, checking that the weapons were properly
positioned, that they were free of dust, that they did not need to be oiled, and
that their magazines were fully loaded. He knew that everything would be in
order, but he just felt more comfortable if he conducted this inspection once a
week. Though he had been out of uniform for many years, the old military
training and methodology were still a part of him, and under pressure they
surfaced more quickly than he had expected.
Taking a Mossberg with them, he and Einstein also walked around the
house, stopping at each of the small infrared sensors that were, as much as