The Outsider. But he was tormented by the feeling that he had overlooked a hole
in their defenses and that, come the crisis, he would need Einstein’s full
powers and strength to help him deal with the unexpected.
“You’re going to have to- get well as fast as you can,” he told the retriever.
“You’re going to have to try to eat even when you have no real appetite. You’re
going to have to sleep as much as you can, give your body a chance to knit up,
and don’t spend half the night at the windows, Worrying.”
CHICKEN SOUP.
Laughing, Travis said, “Might as well try that, too.”
A BOILERMAKER KILLS GERMS DEAD.
“Where’d you get that idea?”
BOOK. WHAT’S BOILERMAKER?
Travis said, “A shot of whiskey dropped into a glass of beer.”
Einstein considered that for a moment.
KILL GERMS BUT BECOME ALCOHOLIC.
Travis laughed and ruffled Einstein’s coat. “You’re a regular comedian, fur
face.”
MAYBE I SHOULD PLAY VEGAS.
“I bet you could.”
HEADLINER.
“You certainly would be.”
ME AND PIA ZADORA.
He hugged the dog, and they sat in the pantry laughing, each in his own way.
In spite of the joking, Travis knew that Einstein was deeply troubled by the
loss of his ability to sense The Outsider. The jokes were a defensive mechanism,
a way to hold off fear.
That afternoon, exhausted from their short walk around the house, Einstein slept
while Nora painted feverishly in her studio. Travis sat by a front window,
staring out at the woods, repeatedly going over their defenses in his mind,
looking for a hole.
On Sunday, December 12, Jim Keene came out to their place in the afternoon and
stayed for dinner. He examined Einstein and was pleased with the dog’s
improvement.
“Seems slow to us,” Nora said fretfully.
“I told you, it’ll take time,” Jim said.
He made a couple of changes in Einstein’s medication and left new bottles of
pills.
Einstein had fun demonstrating his page-turning machine and his
letter-dispensing device in the pantry. He graciously accepted praise for his
ability to hold a pencil in his teeth and use it to operate the television and
the videotape recorder without bothering Nora and Travis for help.
Nora was at first surprised that the veterinarian looked less sad-eyed and
sorrowful than she remembered. But she decided his face was the same; the only
thing that had changed was her perception of him. Now that she knew him better,
now that he was a friend of the first rank, she saw not only the glum features
nature had given him but the kindness and humor beneath his somber surface.
Over dinner, Jim said, “I’ve been doing a little research into tattooing— to see
if maybe I can remove the numbers in his ear.”
Einstein had been lying on the floor nearby, listening to their conversation. He
got to his feet, wobbled a moment, then hurried to the kitchen table and jumped
into one of the empty chairs. He sat very erect and stared at Jim expectantly.
“Well,” the vet said, putting down a forkful of curried chicken that he’d lifted
halfway to his mouth, “most but not all tattoos can be eradicated. If! know what
sort of ink was used and by what method it was embedded under the skin, I might
be able to erase it.”
“That would be terrific,” Nora said. “Then even if they found us and tried to
take Einstein back, they couldn’t prove he’s the dog they lost.”
“There’d still be traces of the tattoo that would show up under close
inspection,” Travis said. “Under a magnifying glass.”
Einstein looked from Travis to Jim Keene as if to say, Yeah, what about that?
“Most labs just tag research animals,” Jim said. “Of those that tattoo, there’re
a couple of different standard inks used. I might be able to remove it and leave
no trace except a natural-looking mottling of the flesh. Microscopic examination
wouldn’t reveal traces of the ink, not a hint of the numbers. It’s a small
tattoo, after all, which makes the job easier. I’m still researching techniques,
but in a few weeks we might try it—if Einstein doesn’t mind some discomfort.”