Chapter 26

Bill Lefkewicz awakens, confused. The phone is ringing, and something or someone is on the bed with him, on top of the covers but pressed in beside him, small and strong and surprisingly hot.

Then he remembers everything, and he knows who is calling.

"Bill," his ex-wife says, before he gets "hello" out. "She can not have that dog."

"Why not? She loves that dog."

"Because the dog is crazy, that's why. And you know she can't have a dog anyways, Bill, you know that. I can't believe you did this to me."

It's always that way with his ex, that he did that to her. "Always the victim," he is about to say, but he stops himself.

Yesterday, in the yard at Jake's house, watching Eliza with the horses and the dogs and the cat, he vowed to change his ways. From somewhere deep in his memory, he recalled the prayer of St. Francis, and he promised himself to try. Listen instead of need to be listened to, he thinks.

"I'm sorry," he says. "That was wrong of me. I should have asked first."

He can tell by the silence that he has thrown her.

"Can she keep the dog? She really fell for him."

More silence.

Then, "I just can't do a dog right now, Bill. I am just too busy. And this dog, this dog needs to run. We let him out last night and he ran off, and just ran, and it took an hour to get him back.

"Look," his ex says, "she says there was a cat there. Could you take the dog back and get the cat?"

The little blind lhasa apso is up now, inching toward the edge of the bed. Bill picks her up and puts her on the floor, and she walks, tentatively, step by step, along the side of the bed and toward the bedroom door.

He is fascinated by her, and how she's learning to find her way.

"Bill?"

"Sorry. OK. Look, bring the dog over here on your way to work, and I'll call Jake and see about the cat. And I will find a place for the dog. Maybe I'll even keep her. I've got the room."

They hang up, and Bill goes into the kitchen and gets the coffee going. The little blind dog makes it from the bedroom, through the living room and into the kitchen. She sits up on her hind legs and does that thing with her paws, begging, and he smiles and pets her and gives her a cookie before he takes her out.

The morning is bracingly cold, and in the light from the deck, the morning's frost glitters and sparkles. Bill carries the little dog down the steps and watches as she noses around the back yard. She can tell light from dark, Bill knows.

And really, he wonders, what more does anyone need?