The Dog Who Knew Too Much Read Online Free Page B

you.”
    â€œNo, thank you , dear. We feel so much better that you’re helping us.”
    I put the phone back in its cradle and sat quietly on the edge of Lisa’s bed. A film of dust covered the top surfaces of all the furniture. I drew a small Akita head in it with my pointer. The only sounds now were the occasional noises of the traffic outside on Hudson Street, a horn honking or tires screeching because someone was in too big a rush to get to the next red light. Even the comforting smell of dog was no longer detectible by a mere human nose. Lisa’s apartment was a lonely place now. It had been deserted.
    I pulled the folded piece of paper out of my pocket. It had some chocolate stuck to one side, which I carefully peeled off and ate.
    â€œI’m sorry. Lisa,” it said.
    There was no date, no To whom it may concern, no By the way, could someone please be kind enough to give my dog a home. Just “I’m sorry. Lisa.”
    Had Lisa, once upon a time, expected her dog to protect her? Then shouldn’t she have protected her dog right back?
    What could have made her abandon her dog?
    What was it that troubled her so that it didn’t seem reparable?
    I surfed my mind for a possible explanation, but found none.
    There is a Zen saying I had once read. When you seek it, you cannot find it . Would I ever understand why Lisa Jacobs had taken her life? Like Zen, it seemed to make no sense at all.

5
    I Stood Behind Him
    By lunchtime Dashiell was shaking his head so much, I had to take him to the veterinarian. He had an ear infection, probably from getting water in his ear while he was swimming. I had neglected to dry his ears.
    One guilt attack and one hundred and thirty-two dollars later, we were home and I was making room on the small kitchen counter for the Q-Tips, the ear cleaner, and the otic antibiotic. After listening to my messages, I headed back to Lisa’s apartment to watch her t’ai chi tapes, look through her books and papers, listen to her music, and gaze out her windows.
    Late that evening, still wearing Lisa’s scarf, I walked over to Bank Street T’ai Chi to keep my appointment with Avram Ashkenasi. I took the elevator to five and tied Dashiell’s leash to the railing at the top of the stairs, just across from a long, low shelf filled with pairs of black cotton shoes of all sizes, the kind you see for sale in Chinatown, only used. Since this was the top floor, and it was so late the building seemed deserted, I thought it would be safe to leave Dashiell in the hall while I spoke to Lisa’s mentor and former employer.
    He opened the door, looked us both up and down, then motioned with a sweep of his arm for me to follow him.
    â€œYes,” he said as if I had asked a question. “Bring him, too.”
    He was a troll—barrel-chested, short waisted, long armed, his meaty hands, red and hairy, hanging at his sides, fat, clumsy, and useless looking, his yellowish white hair long and held in an elastic band, the scraggly ponytail reaching halfway down his back, his stern-looking face half hidden behind an untrimmed white beard.
    Santa Claus. In a horror movie.
    â€œTake off your shoes,” he commanded before we walked onto the polished wooden floor of the studio.
    He was cranky, too.
    Most of all, he looked dangerous, like one of those professors the other girls would tell you not to get caught alone with.
    Keeping my eyes suspiciously on him, I obeyed, taking off my shoes and leaving them, toes touching the wall, next to another pair, black cotton shoes, small, like mine, not big, as his would be.
    He pointed one of his big hands to a spot against the mirrored wall of the studio. “Sit,” he said, as if I were his dog. I did.
    â€œYou, too,” he told Dashiell, who usually obeys no one but me unless I hand over his leash. Dashiell sat, too.
    Turning toward the adjacent wall, also mirrored, he began the form, first breathing deeply, then