out of him, and he relaxed, as if he had heard they would be allowed to remain
close by, and was immensely comforted.
The morning passed at an agonizingly slow pace. Dr. Keene’s living room had a
television set, books, and magazines, but neither Nora nor Travis could get
interested in TV or reading.
Every half hour or so, they slipped down the hall, one at a time, and peeked in
at Einstein. He never seemed worse, but he never seemed any better, either.
Keene came in once and said, “By the way, feel free to use the bathroom. And
there’s cold drinks in the refrigerator. Make coffee if you want.” He smiled
down at the black lab at his side. “And this fella is Pooka. He’ll love you to
death if you give him a chance.”
Pooka was, indeed, one of the friendliest dogs Nora had ever seen. Without
encouragement, he would roll over, play dead, sit up on his haunches, and then
come snuffling around, tail wagging, to be rewarded with some petting and
scratching.
All morning, Travis ignored the dog’s pleas for affection, as if petting Pooka
would in some way be a betrayal of Einstein and would insure Einstein’s death of
distemper.
However, Nora took comfort from the dog and gave it the attention it desired.
She told herself that treating Pooka well would please the gods and that the
gods would then look favorably upon Einstein. Her desperation produced in her a
superstition just as fierce as—if different from—that which gripped her husband.
Travis paced. He sat on the edge of a chair, head bowed, his face in his hands.
For long periods, he stood at one of the windows, staring out, not seeing the
street that lay out there but some dark vision of his own. He blamed himself for
what had happened, and the truth of the situation (which Nora recalled for him)
did nothing to lessen his irrational sense of guilt.
Facing a window, hugging himself as if he were cold, Travis said quietly, “Do
you think Keene saw the tattoo?”
“I don’t know. Maybe not.”
“Do you think there’s really been a description of Einstein circulated to vets?
Will Keene know what the tattoo means?”
“Maybe not,” she said. “Maybe we’re too paranoid about this.”
But after hearing from Garrison and learning of the lengths to which the
government had gone to prevent him from getting a warning to them, they knew
that an enormous and urgent search for the dog must be still under way. So there
was no such thing as being “too paranoid.”
From noon until two, Dr. Keene closed the office for lunch. He invited Nora and
Travis to eat with him in the big kitchen. He was a bachelor who knew how to
take care of himself, and he had a freezer stocked with frozen entrées that he
had prepared and packaged himself. He defrosted individually wrapped slabs of
homemade lasagna and, with their help, made three salads. The food was good, but
neither Nora nor Travis was able to eat much of it.
The more Nora knew of James Keene, the more she liked him. He was lighthearted
in spite of his morose appearance, and his sense of humor ran toward
self-deprecation. His love of animals was a light within that gave him a special
glow. Dogs were his greatest love, and when he spoke of them his enthusiasm
transformed his homely features and made of him a handsomer and quite appealing
man.
The doctor told them of the black lab, King, that had saved him from drowning
when he was a child, and he encouraged them to tell him how Einstein saved their
lives. Travis recounted a colorful story about going hiking and almost walking
into an injured and angry bear. He described how Einstein warned him off and
then, when the half-mad bear gave chase, how Einstein challenged and repeatedly
foiled the beast. Nora was able to tell a story closer to the truth: harassment
by a sexual psychopath whose attack had been interrupted by Einstein and who had
been held by the retriever until the police arrived.
Keene was impressed. “He really is a hero!”