he was the same overweight, jolly man with rimless glasses that I remembered from the earlier days.
So it was time to act. I jostled the doctor's arm and the stethoscope aside and scrambled to an upright position. Quickly, before he could restrain me, I assumed the posture that I had affected in so many magazine photographs and television commercials: the studied, casual pose, head tilted, looking bored and above it all. Then slowly I lifted my upper lip. Majestically, I sneered.
Emily squealed in surprise. "It's the dog on the TV!"
Her mother, staring at me, said, "Keeper?"
But I did not resume my Keeper persona, not yet. I continued to sneer.
The veterinarian looked at me closely. He put his stethoscope down. "Where did you get this dog?" he asked Emily and her mother.
"Why, ah, he just—"
Emily interrupted. "He followed me home from school! And he didn't have a collar, so we couldn't..."
I dropped my sneer and listened intently. My ears were erect, and I'm certain that my eyes had an intelligent, querying look.
Thoughtfully, the doctor rubbed my fur. "He's not sick," he said, stating the obvious. "But he looks very familiar."
"Well, no wonder he looks familiar," Emily's mother said impatiently. "We brought him in here for his shots just last spring."
"No, no, of course I remember that. But he looks familiar in another way."
I sighed. Still on the table, I stood, repeating to myself what had become a sort of mantra of self-display.
Upright, my tail! Forward, my paws!
I tried to shed any remnant of the placid household pet and to show them that I had had a previous existence as a star. Of course I couldn't strut forward, or I would have fallen off the table onto the tile floor, defeating my purpose and destroying my own dignity. And the steel table made it difficult to stand properly, because there was no traction for my claws. But I posed the way I often had in my days as a supermodel: eyes forward, expression one of profound aloofness and disdain.
" Pal? " the veterinarian said suddenly. I turned my head in his direction and felt that we were on our way to revelation.
" Keeper? " Emily said in a puzzled voice. I turned my head to her, too. She raised her hand toward me and I licked it gently. It tasted of sweat and pocket fuzz, not a great combination. But it tasted of Emilyness, too.
The veterinarian went to his filing cabinet, the same cabinet from which he had, just a few minutes before, removed the medical records of a dog named Keeper. This time he rummaged until he found those of Pal. Carefully he compared the weight and description, glancing over at me from time to time as he studied the chart.
"He can't be that dog on the TV," Emily's mother said, "because just this morning I saw that dog in an ad for yogurt!"
"They run those ads over and over, Mom," Emily pointed out. Her voice was very glum. "Probably he made the yogurt ad months ago."
She could, of course, have been correct. But she wasn't. I had never made a yogurt commercial in my life. One does have one's standards.
"Will we have to give him back?" Emily asked in a small voice, and I could see that there were tears in her eyes.
The veterinarian, with Pal's chart and its information in his hand, went to the telephone and began to dial.
We drove home, back to the little ivy-covered farmhouse, and fed the cats, both of them wild with curiosity though they pretended to be blasé. Instead of the usual conversation at dinner between Emily and her mother, there was only the sound of forks against the plates. Occasionally someone said something about the weather, the way humans do when they are overwhelmed by situations. I sat before my bowl, that silly thing with FIDO painted on its side, and nibbled halfheartedly at my food. Gloom filled the kitchen.
In the morning all of us were silent in the car as we proceeded to the city. Each of us, I'm certain, was remembering with dismay the photographer's response to the veterinarian's phone call.
So it was time to act. I jostled the doctor's arm and the stethoscope aside and scrambled to an upright position. Quickly, before he could restrain me, I assumed the posture that I had affected in so many magazine photographs and television commercials: the studied, casual pose, head tilted, looking bored and above it all. Then slowly I lifted my upper lip. Majestically, I sneered.
Emily squealed in surprise. "It's the dog on the TV!"
Her mother, staring at me, said, "Keeper?"
But I did not resume my Keeper persona, not yet. I continued to sneer.
The veterinarian looked at me closely. He put his stethoscope down. "Where did you get this dog?" he asked Emily and her mother.
"Why, ah, he just—"
Emily interrupted. "He followed me home from school! And he didn't have a collar, so we couldn't..."
I dropped my sneer and listened intently. My ears were erect, and I'm certain that my eyes had an intelligent, querying look.
Thoughtfully, the doctor rubbed my fur. "He's not sick," he said, stating the obvious. "But he looks very familiar."
"Well, no wonder he looks familiar," Emily's mother said impatiently. "We brought him in here for his shots just last spring."
"No, no, of course I remember that. But he looks familiar in another way."
I sighed. Still on the table, I stood, repeating to myself what had become a sort of mantra of self-display.
Upright, my tail! Forward, my paws!
I tried to shed any remnant of the placid household pet and to show them that I had had a previous existence as a star. Of course I couldn't strut forward, or I would have fallen off the table onto the tile floor, defeating my purpose and destroying my own dignity. And the steel table made it difficult to stand properly, because there was no traction for my claws. But I posed the way I often had in my days as a supermodel: eyes forward, expression one of profound aloofness and disdain.
" Pal? " the veterinarian said suddenly. I turned my head in his direction and felt that we were on our way to revelation.
" Keeper? " Emily said in a puzzled voice. I turned my head to her, too. She raised her hand toward me and I licked it gently. It tasted of sweat and pocket fuzz, not a great combination. But it tasted of Emilyness, too.
The veterinarian went to his filing cabinet, the same cabinet from which he had, just a few minutes before, removed the medical records of a dog named Keeper. This time he rummaged until he found those of Pal. Carefully he compared the weight and description, glancing over at me from time to time as he studied the chart.
"He can't be that dog on the TV," Emily's mother said, "because just this morning I saw that dog in an ad for yogurt!"
"They run those ads over and over, Mom," Emily pointed out. Her voice was very glum. "Probably he made the yogurt ad months ago."
She could, of course, have been correct. But she wasn't. I had never made a yogurt commercial in my life. One does have one's standards.
"Will we have to give him back?" Emily asked in a small voice, and I could see that there were tears in her eyes.
The veterinarian, with Pal's chart and its information in his hand, went to the telephone and began to dial.
We drove home, back to the little ivy-covered farmhouse, and fed the cats, both of them wild with curiosity though they pretended to be blasé. Instead of the usual conversation at dinner between Emily and her mother, there was only the sound of forks against the plates. Occasionally someone said something about the weather, the way humans do when they are overwhelmed by situations. I sat before my bowl, that silly thing with FIDO painted on its side, and nibbled halfheartedly at my food. Gloom filled the kitchen.
In the morning all of us were silent in the car as we proceeded to the city. Each of us, I'm certain, was remembering with dismay the photographer's response to the veterinarian's phone call.
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