PW01 - Died On The Vine Read Free Page B

And such a sweet little puppy! Doc Harding knew a patsy when she saw one, and immediately began talking mournfully about how hard it was going to be to find a good home for this wonderful little dog. “She’s going to be a big one – look at those feet. Most people who want big dogs want purebreds, and whatever this little love is, she certainly isn’t purebred.” She handed me the fuzzy bundle, who emitted a high-pitched bark and licked my chin.
    Of course I wound up going home with an angry old cat and a happy little puppy. Jack was silently astonished at the new addition, who even required midnight feedings until she got bigger. I named her Pollyanna, after the Glad Girl of children’s literature, and as Doc predicted, she grew into a monster.
    Polly is now a long-legged, multihued creature with a stand-off coat in various shades of black, brown, and red. Her tail curls jauntily over her back in a northern manner and her ears start out standing up straight, until folding down just at the tips. The vet now speculates that her pedigree is “part shepherd, part husky, and part pony.” And true to her name, she is ninety-five pounds of galloping optimism.
    We reached the river and Polly showed every sign of preparing to dive. “Polly, come!” I commanded, and she raced back to me and sat in front of me obediently, panting happily with her brown eyes shining. I gave the good girl a piece of freeze-dried liver, and then scanned the pines.
    No sign of life yet. Eagles return to the same nest every year, unless a strong wind blows it down, not unheard of since the nests are as big as dog houses. That’s why nesting pairs are never satisfied with one nest, but also work on a second, an emergency backup home. Both the primary and smaller secondary nests were still in place from last year, and still awaiting the return of their tenants.
    I hadn’t really expected them to be back yet. I called Polly to heel and started along the river to Julia and Bob’s house.
    Julia and Bob Barstow are also retirees. They’re a bit older than Jack and I, in their early sixties. The two of them seem to have this retirement business down pat. Bob makes wooden toys in his shop and he and Julia sell them at craft fairs.
    Julia and I have the same commonalities of interest that made Nancy my best friend a generation ago. Instead of tots in diapers, we had empty nests with grown children scattered around the country. Instead of fighter jock husbands, we dealt with retirees starting new and more laidback careers.
    Julia also raises vegetables and an occasional litter of Labradors, so she’s a good source of advice for my new avocations.
    I had Polly heeling smartly as we approached the house from the back. Julia does believe in well-behaved dogs.
    Julia and Bob live in a sprawling woody type of house that looks like it grew out of the side of the hill. Huge sheets of glass looked down to the garden and the river beyond.
    As Polly and I crossed the yard, I saw that Julia’s garden was already plowed. The soil looked utterly pristine, being warmed by the sun. The garden was huge, split into quadrants by two neat paths surfaced with shells.
    My own tiny garden was still at the mercy of last year’s weeds, while I tried to decide whether to plow it myself or hire Buddy Haines to do it.
    “Polly, heel,” I reminded the dog, keeping her to the path. I didn’t want to be responsible for paw prints in that immaculate surface.
    Julia saw me from the window and hailed me with relief. “Cissy, thank God you’re here! This damn computer ate my letter! Come and make it spit it back out!”
    “Be right with you,” I replied. I let myself into the house by the back door and wiped off Polly’s paws with the rag left in the mud room for that purpose. Polly and I went through Julia’s marvelous new kitchen and found our hostess just off the great room still fuming at her computer. Polly went over to join Beau, the World’s Laziest Labrador, on the