6
Einstein bolted past Travis, out of the kitchen, across the small dining room, disappearing into the living room. Carrying the leash, Travis went after him. Einstein was hiding behind the sofa.
Travis said, “Listen, it’s not going to hurt.”
The dog watched him warily.
“We’ve got to take care of this before we go off to Vegas. The vet will give you a couple of shots, vaccinate you against distemper and rabies. It’s for your own good, and it really won’t hurt. Really. Then we’ll get you a license, which we should’ve done weeks ago.
One bark. No.
“Yes, we will.”
No.
Crouching, holding the leash by the clip with which he would attach it to the collar, Travis took a step toward Einstein.
The retriever scrambled away. He ran to the armchair, leaped up, and stood on that observation platform, watching Travis intently.
Coming slowly out from behind the sofa, Travis said, “Now, you listen up, fur face. I’m your master-”
One bark.
Frowning, Travis said, “Oh, yes, I am your master. You may be one damn smart dog-but you’re still the dog, and I’m the man, and I’m telling you that we’re going to the vet.”
One bark.
Leaning against the dining-room archway, arms folded, smiling, Nora said, “I think he’s trying to give you a taste of what children are like, in case we ever decide to have any.”
Travis lunged toward the dog.
Einstein flew off his perch and was already out of the room when Travis, unable to halt, fell over the armchair.
Laughing, Nora said, “This is vastly entertaining.”
“Where’d he go?” Travis demanded.
She pointed to the hallway that led to the two bedrooms and bath.
He found the retriever in the master bedroom, standing on the bed, facing the doorway. “You can’t win,” Travis said. “This is for your own good, damn it, and you’re going to have those shots whether you like it or not.”
Einstein lifted one hind leg and peed on the bed.
Astonished, Travis said, “What in the hell are you doing?”
Einstein stopped peeing, stepped away from the puddle that was soaking into the quilted bedspread, and stared defiantly at Travis.
Travis had heard stories of dogs and cats expressing extreme displeasure by stunts like this. When he had owned the real-estate agency, one of his saleswomen had boarded her miniature collie in a kennel for two weeks while away on vacation. When she returned and bailed out the dog, it punished her by urinating on both her favorite chair and her bed.
But Einstein was not an ordinary dog. Considering his remarkable intellect, the soiling of the bed was even more of an outrage than it would have been if he had been ordinary.
Getting angry now, moving toward the dog, Travis said, “This is inexcusable.”
Einstein scrambled off the mattress. Realizing the dog would try to slip around him and out of the room, Travis scuttled backward and slammed the door. Cut off from the exit, Einstein swiftly changed directions and dashed to the far end of the bedroom, where he stood in front of the dresser.
“No more fooling around,” Travis said sternly, brandishing the leash.
Einstein retreated into a corner.
Closing in at a crouch, spreading his arms to prevent the dog from bolting around either side of him, Travis finally made contact and clipped the leash to the collar. “Ha!”
Huddled defeatedly in the corner, Einstein hung his head and began to shudder.
Travis’s sense of triumph was short-lived. He stared in dismay at the dog’s bowed and trembling head, at the visible shivers that shook the animal’s flanks. Einstein issued low, almost inaudible, pathetic whines of fear.
Stroking the dog, trying to calm and reassure him, Travis said, “This really is for your own good, you know. Distemper, rabies-the sort of stuff you don’t want to mess with. And it will be painless, my friend. I swear it will.”
The dog would not look at him and refused to take heart from his assurances.
Under Travis’s hand, the dog felt as if he were shaking himself to pieces. He stared hard at the retriever, thinking, then said, “In that lab… did they put a lot of needles in you? Did they hurt you with needles? Is that why you’re afraid of getting vaccinations?”
Einstein only whimpered.
Travis pulled the reluctant dog out of the corner, freeing his tail for a session. Dropping the leash, he took Einstein’s head in both hands and forced his face up, so they were eye-to-eye.
“Did they hurt you with needles in the lab?”
Yes.
“Is that why you’re afraid of the vet?”
Though he did not stop shuddering, the dog barked once: No.
“You were hurt by needles, but you’re not afraid of them?”
No.
‘Then why are you like this?”
Einstein just stared at him and made those terrible sounds of distress.
Nora opened the bedroom door a crack and peeked in. “Did you get the leash on him yet, Einstein?” Then she said, “Phew! What happened in here?”
Still holding the dog’s head, staring into his eyes, Travis said, “He made a bold statement of displeasure.”
“Bold,” she agreed, moving to the bed and beginning to strip off the soiled spread, blanket, and sheets.
Trying to puzzle out the reason for the dog’s behavior, Travis said, “Einstein, if it’s not needles you’re afraid of-is it the vet?”
One bark. No.
Frustrated, Travis brooded on his next question while Nora pulled the mattress cover from the bed.
Einstein trembled.
Suddenly, Travis had a flash of understanding that illuminated the dog’s contrariness and fear. He cursed his own thickheadedness. “Hell, of course! You’re not afraid of the vet-but of who the vet might report you to.”
Einstein’s shivering subsided a bit, and he wagged his tail briefly. Yes. “If people from that lab are hunting for you-and we know they must be hunting furiously because you have to be the most important experimental animal in history-then they’re going to be in touch with every vet in the state, aren’t they? Every vet… and every dog pound… and every dog-licensing agency.”
Another burst of vigorous tail wagging, less shivering.
Nora came around the bed and stooped down beside Travis. “But golden retrievers have to be one of the two or three most popular breeds. Vets and animal-licensing bureaucrats deal with them all the time. If our genius dog here hides his light under a bushel and plays dopey mutt-”
“Which he can do quite well.”
“-then they’d have no way of knowing he was the fugitive.”
Yes, Einstein insisted.
To the dog, Travis said, “What do you mean? Are you saying they would be able to identify you?”
Yes.
“How?” Nora wondered. Travis said, “A mark of some kind?” Yes.
“Somewhere under all that fur?” Nora asked.
One bark. No.
“Then where?” Travis wondered.
Pulling loose of Travis’s hands, Einstein shook his head so hard that his floppy ears made a flapping noise.
“Maybe on the pads of his feet,” Nora said.
“No,” Travis said even as Einstein barked once. “When I found him, his feet were bleeding from a lot of hard travel, and I had to clean out the wounds with boric acid. I’d have noticed a mark on one of his paws.”
Again, Einstein shook his head violently, flapping his ears.
Travis said, “Maybe on the inner lip. They tattoo racehorses on the inner lip to identify them and prevent ringers from being run. Let me peel back your lips and have a look, boy.”
Einstein barked once-No-and shook his head violently.
At last Travis got the point. He looked in the right ear and found nothing. But in the left ear, he saw something. He urged the dog to go with him to the window, where the light was better, and he discovered that the mark consisted of two numbers, a dash, and a third number tattooed in purple ink on the pink-brown flesh: 33-9.