"Why can't you take her, Tommy?"

"Can't keep a dog in the bar, health department will close us down? Name's S. K.?"

"What do the initials stand for, S. K.?"

"No, Esskay. Like the sausage?"

"As in ‘Taste the difference ka-wality makes?' and Cal Ripken, Jr., touting the role of bacon in his athletic endeavors?"

"Yeah, it's her favorite food, but she only gets it for special treats. Rest of the time, she eats this special kibble Spike got her."

Five minutes later, Tess was in her twelve-year-old Toyota, the kibble was in the trunk, and Esskay was standing stiff-legged in the backseat, sliding back and forth with every turn and whimpering at every pothole, which came roughly every fifteen feet. Baltimore 's streets, never in the best repair, had suffered as much this winter as anyone. It didn't help that the car behind her, which had its brights on, seemed intent on tailgating her all the way to Fells Point. She ended up running a red light on Edmondson Avenue, just to get away from that inconsiderate driver.

"Sit! Sit down!" Tess hissed at the dog, but Esskay just stared back at her forlornly and resumed skidding along the vinyl covered backseat, hitting her head on one window, then slipping back and smacking her rump on the other. But she never barked, Tess noticed, never really made any sound at all, except that almost imperceptible whine from the back of her throat.

The sun had just come up, weak and feeble, when Tess opened her eyes the next morning. Strange, she usually didn't wake this early in the winter, her one season to sleep in. Spring through fall, when she rowed, she was up with the birds. "And now you're down with Crow," her friend Whitney had joked frequently, a little too frequently, over the past few months. It wasn't clear if Whitney resented the presence of a boyfriend in Tess's life, or simply found the boyfriend in question somewhat ridiculous. A little of both, Tess suspected.

But it was not Crow's long, warm body next to her this morning. She rolled toward the middle of the too-soft bed and found herself staring into the faintly cross-eyed gaze of Esskay, the dog's untrimmed toenails digging into her arm, her hind legs twitching spasmodically.

Tess propped herself up on one elbow and glared, and the dog shrank back, averting her mournful gaze.

"Don't take this personally, but you are the ugliest dog I've ever seen."

The snout was reminiscent of a dinosaur's, the long-jawed velociraptor, to be precise. The legs were skinny, the hair thin and mussed in parts. There were red sores on the rump and tail, and the watery eyes could not hold one's gaze. The total effect was not unlike Tess at thirteen-body too long, legs too thin, skin red and splotchy, manner socially inept. But the dog's teeth were bad, too, judging from the fishy, hot breath Esskay pushed out in quick, panting gasps.

Muttering to herself, Tess pulled on sweats and hiking boots to take the dog for a quick walk. The dog jumped up at the sight of her makeshift leash, a long, heavy piece of metal that Spike had probably been using to padlock his parking lot gate. But once at the top of the stairs, Esskay balked, refusing to start down. Last night the greyhound had declined to go up the stairs to Tess's apartment, so she had carried her up two flights of stairs, assuming the dog was too weak to climb. Now it appeared the greyhound was opposed to staircases on general principle.

"C'mon, you silly bitch," Tess said, grabbing the dog's collar, but Esskay wouldn't budge, no matter how hard she tugged. She crouched behind and tried to nudge her down, but the dog resisted, her scrawny limbs surprisingly strong.

"Move, dammit! I'm not going to ferry you up and down these steps every day."

Tess's words had no effect on the dog, but they did bring her aunt out onto the second-floor landing. Kitty was normally the kind of landlady one wanted on the premises, with few rules and a high tolerance for noise and rowdy companions. But she couldn't abide anything unpleasant looking, and Esskay was clearly in trouble on that score.

"How's Spike?" she asked, wrapping a teal-colored chenille robe tightly around her. Her pale face was flushed, her red curls rumpled. "I'm sorry I was out when you got in last night, but I had to go to that meeting for local business owners. We're still fighting the city over those megabars. And what is that? The world's largest rat?"

"It's a gigantic pain in my ass, that's what it is, courtesy of Spike."

A short, muscular man appeared behind Kitty, dressed in a plaid robe Tess had seen on many men in the two years she had lived above her aunt. She knew this one only by sight-a bartender at a new place on Thames, one of the so-called megabars that had the Fells Point neighborhood in an uproar. But Kitty had always been remarkably open-minded, capable of opposing a business while still feeling kindly toward its employees.

"That's one of those racing greyhounds," the bartender diagnosed smugly. "How long you had him?"

Funny, how some men project their own gender on everything, as if all living creatures must be male until proven otherwise.

"I've had her about twelve hours, give or take."

"Well, that's your trouble, then. An ex-racer like this has never seen stairs, so you gotta teach 'em. One foot, other foot. One foot, other foot. My cousin had one once. You help 'em up and down until they get it. They don't know about mirrors, either."

"All women should be so lucky," Kitty murmured. "This is Steve, by the way. Steve, this is my niece, Tess."

"Niece?"

Some women might have quickly told him that Tess's father was years older, which he was. Tess's aunt was the afterthought in a family of four boys, not even fifteen years older than the twenty-nine-year-old Tess. But confident Kitty merely smiled and nodded.

Tess squatted in front of Esskay and coaxed the dog's forelegs down one step. The dog was amazingly malleable, allowing her to pick up each foot, then set it down. But she still wouldn't move forward on her own. One-two, forelegs down, three-four, hind legs. Repeat. In this fashion, it took Tess only a few minutes to get the dog to the landing, where she paused to catch her breath. She was in good shape, but apparently nothing in her various workout routines had developed the necessary muscles for this greyhound walk-and-hobble. And the crouching position was hell on her back and knees.

"What else don't they know how to do?" Tess called back to Steve the bartender, as she and Esskay started down their second flight.

"Well, they're kennel trained, but not housebroken. You gotta crate 'em at first, if you don't want accidents. Also, don't yell at her if she loses control. They're real, real sensitive."

"Aren't we all?"

Tess was worn out by the time they reached the first floor, but the dog was suddenly ecstatic, wiggling her snout and pulling her lips back over her front teeth in a serviceable James Cagney impression. Tess took her on a tour of Fells Point's vacant lots, which Esskay found olfactorily fascinating. Tess dimly recalled the city had an ordinance about cleaning up after dogs, but she figured dog waste was the least of the indignities visited on these sites, scoured by chemicals and toxins over the last five decades.

Intriguing aromas were drifting out of Kitty's first-floor kitchen by the time they returned home. Tess lurked in the hallway, fiddling with Esskay's leash, hoping to be asked in, if only to forestall the long climb back to her apartment. Kitty, like all Monaghans, assumed Spike came from the Weinstein side of the family, but she had always had a soft spot for him. She'd want to know more about his condition. Sure enough, generous Kitty cracked open the door and beckoned them in.

Kitty's kitchen was an odd room for someone who needed heels to top five feet. Everything was oversized, so Kitty seemed doll-like by comparison. Tess had long ago decided the effect was not incidental, as Kitty's latest beau usually ended up preparing all the food. The beau also tended to be at least fifteen years younger than forty-something Kitty, a clever redhead who had avoided the sun while other women of her generation were basting themselves with baby oil.