Creature Discomforts by Susan Conant

it were astoundingly famous and satisfyingly distinguished. And along came Winston Churchill. “Buck,” she continued, with a verbal caress, “knows everyone. He just swept us up—he’s a big man—and in no time, he had Molly on his grooming table—he has the most beautiful golden retriever—and he found Horace, and he made Horace handle Molly himself. And Molly went Winners Bitch and Best of Opposite.”
    This time I translated. “Best of Opposite Sex to Best of Breed.”
    “Molly won?” Tiffany was a little confused.
    “It’s complicated,” I said in what should have rung in my own ears as practiced tones. “She won points toward her championship. If there was enough competition.”
    “Two points!” Gabrielle said.
    “Congratulations,” I said.
    “But the real point,” Gabrielle punned, “is that from the second Buck Winter gathered us up and swept us away, all of a sudden I was having fun! All of a sudden, there was no place else on earth I’d rather have been.” She gave a coy smile. “And no one else I’d rather have been with.”
    “Now that,” pronounced Tiffany, “really is romantic. I’ll bet he’s a hunk. What does he look like?”
    Unbidden, the reply spoke itself in my head: A human moose.
    “He’s very tall,” Gabrielle said. “He looms over everyone else. It’s a big advantage at a show. That’s how he found Horace, among other things. Everything about him— Buck, not Horace—is large and solid. His voice. His personality. Next to him, other men seem sort of... washed out.”
    “Oh, you’ve got it bad!” Tiffany exclaimed.
    “At my age!” Gabrielle agreed. Adopting a practical tone, she said, “It’s a good thing he isn’t married. He’s a widower. We have that in common. We both had happy marriages. Holly’s mother died quite a long time ago. She sounds like a wonderful person.” As if conclusively proving the excellence of my late mother’s character, Gabrielle added, “She bred golden retrievers.”
    “Another dog nut!” Malcolm Fairley said cheerfully. Gabrielle was unhappy with him. “Malcolm, that is a disparaging term, and you are talking about Holly’s mother.”
    “I didn’t mean it in a disparaging way,” Malcolm said. “My apologies if it sounded dismissive. As I was telling Holly, they are the same way, and I have the highest regard for, uh... What is the preferred term?”
    For a second, I thought he meant the foundation’s benefactors and wondered why he was asking the question.
    “ ‘Dog people’ will do,” Gabrielle answered.
    “A hybrid species,” I found myself adding. “Hybrids!” Malcolm repeated a bit too enthusiastically for my taste. “Excellent! Very good! A hybrid species.” If I’d agreed that my remark was excellent or even very good, I wouldn’t have minded having so much attention drawn to it. I was on the verge of asking Malcolm Fairley whether he’d ever had a dog, but stopped myself in time. I should know the answer. Flustered, I changed the subject. “What kinds of dogs do they have?” I clarified the question. “What breed?”
    “Oh, more than one,” Fairley answered agreeably. “Retrievers. Terriers. That sort of thing.”
    “Ignore him,” Gabrielle said playfully. “He can’t tell one breed from another.” Rising to her feet, she said, “Well, I hate to give up on Anita, but if we don’t have dessert now, we’ll be here all night. It’s raspberry pie. Last fresh raspberries of the season. I just have to whip the cream. Shall we stay down here? Or go up to the house? Is anyone getting cold?”
    For a September evening on the coast of northern Maine, the temperature was still abnormally high, and there was no breeze at all. Several guests remarked that this weather couldn’t last. We might as well enjoy it now.
    “It’s freakish, isn’t it?” Gabrielle said cheerfully. “I suppose we have global warming to thank.”
    Effie succumbed to what passed as a choking fit. Recovering, she said,