Back to puppies. “What if Sonoma got so many puppies inside her stomach and they couldn’t come out and she exploded! She could blow up. She could-pwow!”

“No, that wouldn’t happen. Are you getting excited? The big six is next Sunday.”

“Why not?”

“Because it just wouldn’t. They tie things up so she doesn’t even make puppies.”

Whoa, edging over into dangerous territory there. I perked up my ears.

But for a change, Benny missed a grown-up reference and went back to “Why?”

“Because… it’s better to have just one dog than six or seven dogs.”

“Why? No, it isn’t.”

“Because six or seven dogs would be too hard to take care of.”

“I would take care of them!”

“So we have to fix Sonoma so she’s our one and only dog, our main dog. She gets all the love and attention.” Oh, very nice. But then Sam went too far. “Like an only child.”

“Like me?”

“Right.”

“But I don’t want to be an only child!”

Sam blanched, but I don’t know who that hurt worse, him or me. “It’s different for dogs,” he tried. “ Sonoma will be happiest with just us. She’ll have a good life, a much better life, if she’s our one and only dog.”

“How old will she get?”

“I don’t know. Pretty old, though. We hope.”

“Will she die?”

“Someday. A long time from now, we hope.”

My son put a very gentle hand on my neck. Sam rubbed my back softly. At least talk of my eventual demise had gotten them off the puppy subject. I imagined Sam’s relief.

I lay my head on his thigh. We used to talk about having another child. We both wanted one, and then… I don’t know what happened. He’d bring it up every once in a while, and I’d stall. “Oh, I can’t take off work right now to have a baby, the market’s too good” or “the market’s too bad.” I’d say, “Don’t you like things the way they are right now? I’m only thirty-two,” or thirty-three, or thirty-f our. Well, now I’m thirty-fi ve (five in dog years). What would I say to Sam if he brought up the baby question today? My reasons always sounded sensible, but maybe I was just being selfish. I knew it was there, but I never let myself feel Sam’s disappointment. And now it was so much clearer-as if I could see him through his skin. Or as if I’d taken myself out of the picture, so I could see Sam in perfect focus. Unbiased. My motives and ambitions and vanities no longer in the way.

This must be how dogs saw us all the time.

What had I been thinking? Of course I wanted more children! I loved babies. In a flash-this was very peculiar, and powerful for the instant it lasted-I pictured myself lying on my side, nursing six or seven at the same time. Not nearly as disturbing an image as it might’ve been, and it cleared my head.

Getting myself back was more vital than ever now, and it had to be soon. Soon, before Sam made an appointment with the vet.

After he put Benny to bed, Sam went into the den and called Ronnie Lewis.

“I’m looking at the bid, Ron, and I think we should take it.”

I knew it! He’s so naïve about money. He’s a dreamer, not a schemer. Fine, I love that about him-but Sam, for Pete’s sake, don’t take the first offer!

Ron told him the same thing.

“I know, Ron, but I don’t want the hassle. I can’t deal with it right now. Let’s just take it and get it over with. I’ve thought about it, and that’s what I want to do.”

Ronnie talked for a while.

“Okay, that all sounds fine. One thing, Ron-you said there was a check with this stuff? Hand money?” He fanned out the envelope and papers in front of him on the desk. “Um, well, no, I’ve looked and it’s not here.” Ron’s voice got higher; I could almost hear his words. I didn’t need to, of course; I could easily imagine them. “No, I’ve looked,” Sam said again. “Well, I guess, I don’t know; maybe it got-maybe you… Nope, not here. Yeah, I guess you’d better call him and see if… Okay. I’m here. I’ll sit tight.”

Sam hung up. I felt his eyes on me, and pretended to be asleep.

May I just say, escaping through a high basement window is child’s play compared to sliding a check out of a paper clip on a three-page stapled document without disarranging the papers or leaving any drool. Eating the check was even harder because for some reason it tasted like gasoline. But a dog does what she has to do.

I felt bad for Ron. You couldn’t lose a ten-thousand-dollar deposit check without seriously queering the deal, even if the buyer was reasonable, and this one didn’t sound like he was. How did I know? Instinct and experience. Luckily Ron was the boss, so at least no one could fire him.

He called back faster than I expected. Spoke very softly; I couldn’t hear a thing. Sam kept apologizing, trying to make him feel better. “Geez, I’m sorry. I don’t know how it could’ve happened. So even though he could put a stop-payment on it, he doesn’t…? Honest to God, it’s not here. I’ve looked several times, gone through the whole… Well, hell, it’s not your fault. Don’t worry about it, seriously. It’s okay, we’ll just start over. Forget it, Ron, I mean it. It’s just one of those things. It’s a mystery.”

Maybe it was my guilty conscience, but after he hung up I thought Sam looked at me strangely. Suspiciously. I thunked my tail and grinned at him. We had a staring contest, Sam’s gaze squinted and searching, mine blinky sleepy and innocent. I won.

“Let’s go for a walk,” he said, standing up. “Want to go for a walk?”

Outside, I noticed a new spring in his step, a lightness on his end of the leash. It wouldn’t last forever-Ron Lewis was too good a salesman-but for the time being, there would be one less thing for Sam to feel sad about. Because of me.

Good dog.

In the week that followed, escape was the last thing on my mind. Instead I was a model of courtesy and decorum. I sat, lay down, and shook on command, I came when called, and at all open doors I halted, ostentatiously waiting for an invitation to proceed. Butter would not melt in my mouth. By Sunday, Sam’s trust had rebounded so completely, without a second thought he granted me the thing I wanted most: permission to attend Benny’s birthday party. Free, untied, walking around in the yard just like another guest. Only furry and better behaved.

The afternoon was perfect. Good thing, because eight sugar-saturated six-year-olds stuck in our small living room on a rainy day would’ve been a disaster. (We learned that last year, on Benny’s fifth birthday.) The theme was crazy hats-everybody had to wear a crazy hat, and sweet Benny’s was the red and white striped stovepipe from Dr. Seuss. He looked adorably goofy. He was-and I was not one bit prejudiced-absolutely the cutest, most adorable child at the party. But strangely-I liked them, of course, but I’d never been indiscriminately wild about other people’s children-strangely, on this day I found myself in love with all of them. I can say I’ve never had as much fun in my life as I did running and chasing and romping and playing with Benny and his friends. I loved being mauled, tackled, yanked on, ridden. It was as if we were all six. Or all dogs. I don’t know, but I’ve never felt such a sheer blending of-of creatures, just species-l ess beings intent on nothing but delight.

Lunch at the picnic table was a judicious mix of healthy foods disguised as junk and junk, and the games afterward were fun but also thoughtful and creative, the kind you read about in parenting magazines but never quite pull off in real life. Sam deserved some of the credit, but it was clear to me who the real brain behind this party was. Not that it took a genius to figure it out. Monica had arrived an hour early with bags of tasteful party decorations and a homemade-what else?-three-l ayer yellow cake with chocolate ganache and toffee chips spelling out BENNY. Sam set the table, and Brian Kimmel’s mother stayed to help out with the present-opening, but at my son’s sixth birthday party Monica Carr was obviously the co-host. And official photographer.