In Dog We Trust (Golden Retriever Mysteries) by Neil S. Plakcy Page A

had said something useful to someone—Tasheba, some other dog owner, Gail at The Chocolate Ear—even me. Then I’d have some place to look for who killed her.
    Tasheba and Romeo left, and after a long time spent running around the dog park, sniffing and pawing and trying to mount every other dog, Rochester’s battery wore down and he came back to sprawl at my feet.
    “Do you know anything about what happened to your mom?” I asked, reaching down to rub behind his ears. “I wish you could tell me if you did.”
    I thought he was tired out, and I considered leaving him off the leash for the walk back to my car—but I was glad I didn’t. Just after we left the dog park I saw three of my freshman comp students—Menno Zook, Melissa Macaretti, and Jeremy Eisenberg, walking together on their way somewhere. I hoped they were going to the library, but more likely they were off to throw Frisbees or buy drugs or burn textbooks on the lawn of Blair Hall.
    “Hey, Professor,” Melissa said. She wasn’t wearing her usual uniform of Fair Isle sweater and plaid kilt; instead she wore black pants and a white blouse under an open parka. I saw the edge of a tattoo peeking out just above her collar.
    Menno and Jeremy were dressed like typical college males—jeans that rode down around their hips, baggy t-shirts advertising some hip-hop artist, hooded sweatshirts artfully left open. The only things that distinguished them were Menno’s Biblical beard and Jeremy’s multiple piercings. He was wearing matching earrings, which looked like pencils stuck through his earlobes rather than behind his ears. They both echoed Melissa’s greeting, though with somewhat less enthusiasm.
    Rochester went nuts, barking and jumping and straining at his leash. “Sorry,” I said. “He’s not usually like this.”
    Menno gave me one of the looks he reserved for Tasheba and Romeo. “He’s a pretty dog,” Melissa said tentatively.
    “Pretty badly behaved at the moment,” I said, wrestling him away from them. “Have a nice afternoon,” I said over my shoulder, as I dragged Rochester down the lawn toward my car. He didn’t settle down until we’d reached the parking lot.
    “What’s up with you, psycho dog?” I asked. “You get overheated running around out there in the dog park?”
    His only response was to climb back into the front well of the Beemer.

Chapter 8 – Our Lady of Sorrows
     
     
    Romeo was back with Tasheba on Wednesday, sitting in his Burberry bag, though at some point he’d lost his matching bow. It didn’t go with his image. “In honor of Romeo’s return, let’s talk about doggerel,” I said, after the class had settled down. I pulled out our text and found the definition in the index. “Doggerel is defined as ‘c rudely or irregularly fashioned verse, often of a humorous or burlesque nature.’” I paged forward in the book as I said, “Let’s see if we can find some examples.”
    We read through some Ogden Nash, and Menno Zook perked up when he heard about purple cows. “There’s no such thing as a purple cow,” he said. It was clear he thought the rest of the class believed that there were, the way they thought milk came from a refrigerated cabinet at the grocery store, not the udders of a big sloppy farm animal. And perhaps some of the city-bred students, like the three Jeremys, Dianne and Dionne, thought so.
    “That’s right, Menno,” I said. “That’s where the humorous part comes in.” In his denim overalls and plain white shirt, Menno didn’t look like he had much of a sense of humor, but I persevered. All he needed was one of those straw hats to look like an Amish farmer. Though Lancaster, a big Amish stronghold, is just a couple of hours west of us, I somehow doubted Eastern did much recruiting there.
    “Here’s another example, again in honor of Romeo,” I said. I turned to the board and wrote two lines there.
    Turning back to the class, I said, “Alexander Pope wrote this: ‘I am his