For Frances, Viveca and Cooper
“A dog’s bite is worse than his what, Stanley?”
Stanley was looking at the bone-shaped dog biscuit in Buddy’s hand.
“How do you know he understands?”
“He understands. What is it, Stanley? A dog’s bite is worse than his . . . ?”
Stanley thought if he didn’t get the biscuit he’d go crazy.
“Bark!”
“Right! Good boy, Stanley!”
“A dog’s bite is worse than his bark!”
“Hey, he’s pretty smart!”
“Smartest dog ever born.”
“Ever born . . . Richards?”
“How many dogs do you know that are meteorologists?”
“What?”
“Weathermen.”
“He’s a weatherman?”
“He sure is.”
“Listen, if Stanley wore a shirt and tie, he’d be forecasting the weather on television.”
Richards looked deeply into Stanley’s brown eyes. Each one was a fine circular universe of bottomless
tenderness and compassion for anything young, male and human. And then there was that second biscuit
waggling above his head.
“Stanley just received a bulletin from the Coast Guard this morning. Sailing conditions are . . . Stanley?”
Stanley looked with longing at the biscuit.
“Ruff!”
“Right!”
“Way to go, Stanley!”
“Whoa! He is smart!”
“How’s life treating you, Stan ole boy?”
“Ruff!”
“What’s a house have, Stanley?”
“Woof!”
“All right!“
“What’s your name, Stanley? Say your name, boy.”
“His name isn’t Ruff, McGowan.”
“It isn’t Woof, either.”
“Let me have a biscuit. Say your name, Stanley.”
“Ruff!”
“Say it.”
“Woof!”
“Aw, he’s smart all right, but his name’s Stanley Richards, not Albert Einstein.”
“He’ll say it. Say your name.”
“Bark!”
“C’mon now.”
“Ruff!”
“No, no.”
“Yeah, he’s some genius.”
“Say your name and I’ll give you the biscuit. I’ll give you two biscuits.”
“This is stupid.”
“Three biscuits.”
“Three’s too many.”
“Say it, boy.”
“Say your name now.”
“Say it, Stanley!”
“Stanley!”
They all looked at each other.
“Huh . . . ?”
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