open, and took a few swallows. He was not concerned that the can had been in the
dog’s mouth. He was too excited by the animal’s amazing performance to worry
about germs. Besides, it had held each can by the bottom, as if concerned about
hygiene.
The retriever watched him drink.
When he had finished a third of the beer, Travis said, “It was almost as if you
understood that I was tense, upset—and that a beer would help relax me. Now, is
that crazy or what? We’re talking analytical reasoning. Okay, so pets can sense
their masters’ moods a lot of the time. But how many pets know what beer is, and
how many realize what it can do to make the master more mellow? Anyway, how’d
you know there was beer in the fridge? I guess you could’ve seen it sometime
during the evening when I was fixing dinner, but still . .
His hands were shaking. He drank more of the beer, and the can rattled lightly
against his teeth.
The dog went around the red Formica table to the twin cabinet doors below the
sink. It opened one of these, stuck its head into the dark space, and pulled out
the bag of Milk-Bone biscuits, which it brought straight to Travis.
He laughed and said, “Well, if I can have a beer, I guess you deserve a treat of
your own, huh?” He took the bag from the dog and tore it open. “Do a few
Milk-Bones mellow you out, fur face?” He put the open bag on the floor. “Serve
yourself. I trust you not to overindulge like an ordinary dog.” He laughed
again. “Hell, I think I might trust you to drive the car!”
The retriever finessed a biscuit out of the package, sat down with its hind legs
splayed, and happily crunched up the treat.
Pulling out a chair and sitting at the table, Travis said, “You give me reason
to believe in miracles. Do you know what I was doing in those woods this
morning?”
Working its jaws, industriously grinding up the biscuit, the dog seemed to have
lost interest in Travis for the moment.
“I went out there on a sentimental journey, hoping to recall the pleasure
I got from the Santa Anas when I was a boy, in the days before . . . everything
turned so dark. I wanted to kill a few snakes like I did when I was a kid,
hike and explore and feel in tune with life like in the old days. Because for
a long time now, I haven’t cared whether I live or die.”
The dog stopped chewing, swallowed hard, and focused on Travis with undivided
attention.
“Lately, my depressions have been blacker than midnight on the moon. Do you
understand about depression, pooch?”
Leaving the Milk-Bone biscuits behind, the retriever got up and came to him. It
gazed into his eyes with that unnerving directness and intensity that it had
shown before.
Meeting its stare, he said, “Wouldn’t consider suicide, though. For one thing, I
was raised a Catholic, and though I haven’t gone to Mass in ages, I still sort
of believe. And for a Catholic, suicide is a mortal sin. Murder. Besides, I’m
too mean and too stubborn to give up, no matter how dark things get.”
The retriever blinked but did not break eye contact.
“I was in those woods searching for the happiness I once knew. And then I ran
into you.”
“Woof,” it said, as if it were saying, Good.
He took its head in both his hands, lowered his face to it, and said,
“Depression. A feeling that existence was pointless. How would a dog know about
those things, hmmm? A dog has no worries, does it? To a dog, every day is a joy.
So do you really understand what I’m talking about, boy? Honest to God, I think
maybe you do. But am I crediting you with too much intelligence, too much wisdom
even for a magical dog? Huh? Sure, you can do some amazing tricks, but that’s
not the same as understanding me.”
The retriever pulled away from him and returned to the Milk-Bone package. It