Gaits of Heaven

in her hand, Dolfo was so tantalized that he shot up, grabbed them, tore his leash from Ted’s hand, and dashed out of his reach. Caprice, I recalled, had once remarked that mail was Dolfo’s favorite food. And mail was made of paper.
    Ted made the mistake of hauling himself up on his crutches and trying to chase Dolfo. Run after a dog, and guess what? He’ll run away. My supply of dog treats was low, but my pocket held enough bits and crumbs to provide bargaining power. Dolfo had taken refuge behind the armchair occupied by the Reiki healer, who cooperatively moved when I approached.
    “Dolfo, trade,” I said casually. “Give.” The trick is to avoid asking the dog a question. Don’t invite resistance by making a rough demand, either. Your voice has to sound as if you’re stating a happy fact that both of you take for granted. I kneeled on the floor and slipped my hand behind the chair. “Here you go! Trade.” I scattered the bits and crumbs. The second Dolfo went for the goodies, I picked up the papers he’d dropped. “Good boy,” I said.
    As I’ve just said, don’t invite resistance. If Ted Green had done nothing, I might have handed him the papers. As it was, he lunged toward me and, balancing precariously on his crutches, grabbed for them. It’s vital not to reinforce undesired behavior. I considered Ted’s behavior highly undesirable. I moved the papers behind my back and, in what was probably doglike fashion, scurried out of the living room, into the front hall, and up the stairs. When I reached the landing at the top, I sat down and read the papers that Anita had prized so highly and that Ted had been so determined to capture. They were exactly what Anita had said: a private investigator’s written report about Ted Green. As he’d said, he’d grown up in a small town in Arkansas. According to the report, he’d spent his high school years as a social misfit and an academic achiever. His father died when he was sixteen. In part because he’d somehow come across the work of a Brandeis University psychologist named Abraham Maslow, he’d then gone to Brandeis, where, for the first time, he’d found himself among others who read avidly and who discussed ideas. At Brandeis, he told his friends that he’d been born in New York City and that his parents had left for political reasons. His mother died during spring break of his senior year.
    Activity in the hall below drew my attention. Barbara and George were escorting Anita out the door. George was in the lead. I’ll say tactfully that Anita was following him. She was still talking a million words a minute, mainly to and about George, who was, as I’ve mentioned, known in the psychiatric community as Gorgeous George. Barbara was, of course, a dog person and was thus familiar with the use of lures. The usual lure is a tasty tidbit rather than a handsome husband, but Anita wouldn’t have been all that interested in liver treats. Barbara was using what worked. Good dog trainers are flexible pragmatists. So, I suppose, are good psychotherapists.
    Before descending the stairs, I took a moment to revisit the bedroom where I’d found Eumie Brainard-Green’s body. The same multicolored duvet and matching pillows were still on the bed. They must have been laundered. I was surprised that Ted had kept them at all. Perhaps they reminded him of Eumie. I, at least, found them evocative. “Eumie, thank you,” I said softly. “Thank you for your gift. I am listening to the imagery. It is helping. You were selfish, greedy, vain, pretentious, and incredibly kind. You cared about my trouble. If you were still alive, I would thank you by helping you to train your dog. I have faith that you could have learned. I know that you deserved the chance. Good-bye.”
    With that, I folded the Pi’s report, stowed it in my pocket, ran down the stairs, paused briefly in the hall to say a few words to Kevin Dennehy, and walked boldly into the living room, where Rita was struggling to reconvene the meeting, presumably so that she could bring it to an end. I did not take my dog trainer’s seat on the periphery, but marched to the front of the room.
    “Rita believes in dreams,” I said to everyone. “She explains them to me. Among other things, she distinguishes between their manifest content and their latent content.” Dr. Needleman’s eyes opened wide. She opened her mouth, but before she had a chance to speak, I went on. “If I dream about dogs, as I always