"Don't hurt me," said Stoat, lowering his arms.

"It's so tempting."

"Please don't."

The bearded man dangled the two bird beaks for Stoat to examine. "Vultures," he said. "They caught me in a bad mood."

Stoat closed his eyes and held them shut until he was alone. He didn't move from the floor for two hours, long after the intruder had departed. He remained bunched in the corner, his chin propped on his pallid knees, and tried to gather himself. Every time he thought about the last thing the captain had said, Palmer Stoat shuddered.

"Your wife is a very attractive woman. "

17

The dog was having a grand time.

That's the thing about being a Labrador retriever – you were born for fun. Seldom was your loopy, freewheeling mind cluttered by contemplation, and never at all by somber worry; every day was a romp. What else could there possibly be to life? Eating was a thrill. Pissing was a treat. Shitting was a joy. And licking your own balls? Bliss. And everywhere you went were gullible humans who patted and hugged and fussed over you.

So the dog was having a blast, cruising in the station wagon with Twilly Spree and Desirata Stoat. The new name? Fine. McGuinn was just fine. Boodle had been OK, too. Truthfully, the dog didn't care whatthey called him; he would've answered to anything. "Come on, Buttface, it's dinnertime!" – and he would've come galloping just as rapturously, his truncheon of a tail wagging just as fast. He couldn't help it. Labradors operated by the philosophy that life was too brief for anything but fun and mischief and spontaneous carnality.

Did he miss Palmer Stoat? It was impossible to know, the canine memory being more sensually absorbent than sentimental; more stocked with sounds and smells than emotions. McGuinn's brain was forever imprinted with the smell of Stoat's cigars, for example, and the jangle of his drunken late-night fumbling at the front door. And just as surely he could recall those brisk dawns in the duck blind, when Stoat was still trying to make a legitimate retriever out of him – the frenzied flutter of bird wings, the pop-pop-popof shotguns, the ring of men's voices. Lodged in McGuinn's memory bank was every path he'd ever run, every tomcat he'd ever treed, every leg he'd tried to hump. But whether he truly missed his master's companionship, who could say. Labradors tended to live exclusively, gleefully, obliviously in the moment.

And at the moment McGuinn was happy. He had always liked Desie, who was warm and adoring and smelled absolutely glorious. And the strong young man, the one who had carried him from Palmer Stoat's house, he was friendly and caring and tolerable, aroma-wise. As for that morbid bit with the dog in the steamer trunk – well, McGuinn already had put the incident behind him. Out of sight, out of mind. That was the Lab credo.

For now he was glad to be back at Toad Island, where he could run the long beach and gnaw on driftwood and go bounding at will into the cool salty surf. He loped effortlessly, scattering the seabirds, with scarcely a twinge of pain from the place on his tummy where the stitches had been removed. So energetic were his shoreline frolics that McGuinn exhausted himself by day's end, and fell asleep as soon as they got back to the room. Someone stroked his flank and he knew, without looking, that the sweetly perfumed hand belonged to Desie. In gratitude the dog thumped his tail but elected not to rise – he wasn't in the mood for another pill, and it was usually Desie who administered the pills.

But what was this? Something being draped across his face – a piece of cloth smelling vaguely of soap. The dog blinked open one eye: blackness. What had she done? McGuinn was too pooped to investigate. Like all Labradors, he frequently was puzzled by human behavior, and spent almost no time, trying to figure it out. Soon there were unfamiliar noises from the bed, murmurs between Desie and the young man, but this was of no immediate concern to McGuinn, who was fast asleep and chasing seagulls by the surf.

Twilly Spree said: "I can't believe you blindfolded him."

Desie tugged the sheet to her chin. "He's Palmer's dog. I'm sorry, but I feel funny about this."

She moved closer, and Twilly slipped an arm around her. He said, "I guess this means we have to be extra quiet, too."

"We have to be quiet, anyway. Mrs. Stinson is in the next room," Desie said.

Mrs. Stinson was the proprietress of Toad Island's only bed-and-breakfast. She stiffly had declared a no-dogs policy, and was in the process of turning them away when Twilly had produced a one-hundred-dollar bill and offered it as a "pet surcharge." Not only did Mrs. Stinson rent them the nicest room in the house but she brought McGuinn his own platter of beef Stroganoff.

Twilly said, "Mrs. Stinson is downstairs watching wrestling on Pay-Per-View."

"We should be quiet, just the same," said Desie. "Now I think you ought to kiss me."

"Look at the dog."

"I don't want to look at the dog."

"A purple bandanna."

"It's mauve," Desie said.

Twilly was trying not to laugh.

"You're making fun of me," said Desie.

"No, I'm not. I think you're fantastic. I think I could search a thousand years and not find another woman who felt guilty about fooling around in front of her husband's dog."

"They're very intuitive, animals are. So would you please stop?"

"I'm not laughing. But just look at him," Twilly said. "If only we had a camera."

"That's it." Desie reached over and turned off the lamp. Then she climbed on top of Twilly, lifted his hands and placed them on her breasts. "Now, you listen," she said, keeping her voice low. "You told me you wanted to make love."

"I do." McGuinn looked outrageous. It was all Twilly could do not to crack up.

Desie said, "Did you notice I'm in my birthday suit?"

"Yup."

"And what am I doing?"

"Straddling me?"

"That's correct. And are those your hands on my boobs?"

"They are."

"And did you happen to notice," Desie said, "where myhand is?"

"I most certainly did."

"So can we please get on with this," she said, "because it's one of the big unanswered questions about this whole deal, about me running off with you, Twilly – this subject."

"The sex?"

Desie sighed. "Right. The sex. Thank God I don't have to spell everything out." She squeezed him playfully under the covers.

He smiled up at her. "Nothing like a little pressure the first time out."

"Oh, you can handle it." Desie, squeezing him harder. "You can definitelyhandle it."

"Hey! Watch those fingernails."

"Hush," she said, and kissed him on the mouth.

They were not so quiet, and not so still. Afterward, Desie rolled off and put her head next to Twilly's on Mrs. Stinson's handmade linen pillowcases. Desie could tell by the frequent rise and fall of his chest that he wasn't drowsy; he was wired. She switched on the lamp and he burst out laughing.

"Now what?" She snapped upright and saw McGuinn sitting wide-awake at the foot of the bed. His tail was bebopping and his ears were cocked and he looked like the happiest creature in the whole world, even with a ludicrous mauve blindfold.

Twilly whispered: "Dear God, we've traumatized him for life."

Desie broke into a giggle. Twilly removed the bandanna from the dog and put out the light. In the darkness he was soothed by the soft syncopations of their breathing, Desie's and McGuinn's, but he didn't fall asleep. At dawn he rose and pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. Desie stirred when she heard him murmur: "Time for a walk."

She propped herself on one elbow. "Come back to bed. He doesn't need a walk."