about twenty-five inches at the withers. She was perhaps twenty-three. His muzzle was slightly blockier than hers, his triangular ears a hint smaller. His eyes were a deep bittersweet chocolate, a little darker than hers, and he had a notably soft expression, mainly, I thought, because his face was white, whereas hers was heavily masked. Dark markings made goggles around her eyes and blended into a bar that ran down her muzzle and up to a sort of widows peak cap on her broad skull. Reveling in the tummy rub, she nonetheless studied me with the intensity of a fundamentally serious intelligence. The male, in contrast, sank into bliss with a carefree smile on his face.
But I have neglected to mention the newcomers’ most striking characteristics. First, the dogs were utterly and overwhelmingly beautiful. Second, both were dressed in red. She wore a sturdy-looking pack with heavy, bulging saddlebags that had shifted forward and twisted to one side. He was in a state of considerable dishabille: Three black straps with quick-release buckles fastened a red saddleshaped pad snugly to his back; one strap ran across his big chest, the others around his middle. Down the length of the pad and on each shoulder were strips of black Velcro that must have secured saddlebags like the female’s. He, however, had dumped or lost his pack somewhere. The jaunty red vest gave him the debonair look of a canine dandy.
Mindful of the hum of distant traffic, I said in fierce, quiet tones, “If you were my dogs, you’d never be allowed to run loose!”
I had to admit to myself, however, that the dogs showed obvious signs of responsible ownership. Although they’d been tearing around on their own, they were dragging red leashes that matched the packs. The leads were snapped to rolled-leather collars with brass fittings, from which dangled the tags I’d heard jangling. Fastened to the male’s collar was a bright circle of yellow with block capital letters announcing I AM A THERAPY DOG. Although I couldn’t imagine what the declaration meant, the message felt aimed directly at me. Therapy was exactly what I needed. The dogs, in a furry sort of way, clearly intended to provide it. In addition to the therapy-dog tag, the male wore a Saint Francis of Assisi medal. Both dogs were licensed in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and had been immunized against rabies at a veterinary clinic there. They had tags from the National Dog Registry. Identical owner ID tags proclaimed the dogs the property of one Holly Winter of 256 Concord Avenue in Cambridge, Massachusetts, 02138. Her phone number was listed. The dogs’ names were not. Whoever she was, she took good care of her animals. The dogs’ clean, gorgeous stand-off coats testified to an excellent diet and careful grooming. When the dogs had wiggled their feet in the air, I’d noticed that the nails were short and that the hair between the black pads had been trimmed to neaten the appearance of the feet. Even so, I felt a flash of outrage. This Winter person with the silly, Christmassy name should damned well have held tightly to those leashes! No matter what, you never let go of a leash! Never! My anger brought insight. Not for a second had I felt any fear of these big, powerful dogs. On the contrary, from the moment they’d barged out of the cloud that surrounded us, I’d felt increasingly strong and self-confident. Good! In what I now see as one of the monumental understatements of the millennium, I congratulated myself on being a person who liked dogs.
By now, I was on my feet. To my amazement, the female had stationed herself in a solid stand at my left side and hadn’t budged as I’d rested my weight on her and hauled myself up. I’d had to keep lowering my head to let the blood reach whatever disconnected bits of my brain had survived my crash. Each time my head descended, the handsome male planted wet kisses on my face.
Heartened, I finally took the practical step of searching my day pack and
But I have neglected to mention the newcomers’ most striking characteristics. First, the dogs were utterly and overwhelmingly beautiful. Second, both were dressed in red. She wore a sturdy-looking pack with heavy, bulging saddlebags that had shifted forward and twisted to one side. He was in a state of considerable dishabille: Three black straps with quick-release buckles fastened a red saddleshaped pad snugly to his back; one strap ran across his big chest, the others around his middle. Down the length of the pad and on each shoulder were strips of black Velcro that must have secured saddlebags like the female’s. He, however, had dumped or lost his pack somewhere. The jaunty red vest gave him the debonair look of a canine dandy.
Mindful of the hum of distant traffic, I said in fierce, quiet tones, “If you were my dogs, you’d never be allowed to run loose!”
I had to admit to myself, however, that the dogs showed obvious signs of responsible ownership. Although they’d been tearing around on their own, they were dragging red leashes that matched the packs. The leads were snapped to rolled-leather collars with brass fittings, from which dangled the tags I’d heard jangling. Fastened to the male’s collar was a bright circle of yellow with block capital letters announcing I AM A THERAPY DOG. Although I couldn’t imagine what the declaration meant, the message felt aimed directly at me. Therapy was exactly what I needed. The dogs, in a furry sort of way, clearly intended to provide it. In addition to the therapy-dog tag, the male wore a Saint Francis of Assisi medal. Both dogs were licensed in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and had been immunized against rabies at a veterinary clinic there. They had tags from the National Dog Registry. Identical owner ID tags proclaimed the dogs the property of one Holly Winter of 256 Concord Avenue in Cambridge, Massachusetts, 02138. Her phone number was listed. The dogs’ names were not. Whoever she was, she took good care of her animals. The dogs’ clean, gorgeous stand-off coats testified to an excellent diet and careful grooming. When the dogs had wiggled their feet in the air, I’d noticed that the nails were short and that the hair between the black pads had been trimmed to neaten the appearance of the feet. Even so, I felt a flash of outrage. This Winter person with the silly, Christmassy name should damned well have held tightly to those leashes! No matter what, you never let go of a leash! Never! My anger brought insight. Not for a second had I felt any fear of these big, powerful dogs. On the contrary, from the moment they’d barged out of the cloud that surrounded us, I’d felt increasingly strong and self-confident. Good! In what I now see as one of the monumental understatements of the millennium, I congratulated myself on being a person who liked dogs.
By now, I was on my feet. To my amazement, the female had stationed herself in a solid stand at my left side and hadn’t budged as I’d rested my weight on her and hauled myself up. I’d had to keep lowering my head to let the blood reach whatever disconnected bits of my brain had survived my crash. Each time my head descended, the handsome male planted wet kisses on my face.
Heartened, I finally took the practical step of searching my day pack and
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