Protecting Marie by Kevin Henkes Page A

another pet. Diane was the one who told me what a sweet disposition the dog had; that she was three years old; that she was part German shepherd, part yellow Lab; that she was well trained, easy to be around. ‘The perfect dog,’ Diane said.”
    Henry paused to shift and readjust himself. He was sitting on the floor with Ellen, theirbacks against the couch, their hands clasped, their arms woven together.
    Fanny took note that her mother was wearing the brooch from her father.
    â€œHard floor, eh?” Ellen said, smiling.
    â€œLike a pillow,” said Henry.
    â€œDo you want to move?” Ellen asked.
    â€œNo, no,” said Henry. “This is kind of nice. Let’s stay put.”
    They cuddled.
    â€œLet’s get back to Dinner,” Fanny said eagerly.
    â€œYesterday,” Henry continued, “when I went to the art office to call you”—Henry tipped his head to Ellen, his eyes fleetingly sad—“to say that I wouldn’t be coming to the party, I saw a photo of Dinner on the staff bulletin board. The photo was taped to a notice listing all the vital information concerning her adoption. I’m not sure why, but everything seemed wrong to me—turning sixty, the party, my career—everything but the dog in that damned photo. She seemed right. So, on impulse, I called the number to say that I wasinterested. I went to see her, played with her for a bit, said I’d take her—and did. I think the woman was glad I knew Diane; I think she saw that as a nice connection.” Henry nodded. “I’d never thought about getting an older dog before. Dinner and I got to know each other at the cabin. She’s a champ with a tennis ball. Unbelievably tireless.”
    Henry went on. “My perspective was all shaken up . . . and there was something so simple and common and striking about that dog . . . something about the whole thing that, like I said—just seemed right.”
    â€œSo you already had Dinner with you when you stopped home with the balloons?” Fanny inquired.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œBut what would you have done if we were home?”
    Henry cleared his throat. “Actually, I saw you drive away. I had been waiting around the corner, sitting in the car, feeling bad, hoping you’d leave. If you hadn’t, I suppose I would have put the note and balloons on the porch . .. and sneaked off? I don’t know.”
    The stack of logs in the fireplace collapsed suddenly, emphasizing Henry’s words and startling Fanny. Sparks flew up.
    â€œWhat about her name?” Fanny asked. “Do you know where it comes from?”
    â€œI wondered about that, too,” Henry replied. “The owner simply said that she and her husband couldn’t decide on a name for the longest time. Eventually, they realized that the dog only came when they called her for dinner. Hence, her name.” Henry grinned and shrugged. “Dinner.”
    Each time Dinner’s name was spoken, her eyes jumped with alertness and her ears lifted. Fanny and her parents laughed.
    â€œWhat a good girl you are,” Fanny told Dinner, petting her. “You are so beautiful. A princess.”
    The fire was dying. Henry crept over to the fireplace to poke at the smoldering remains and put a new log on. He nudged Fanny’s toes with his elbow.
    With a tightened jaw, Fanny asked thequestion that had begun to nag at her. “Was the woman sad?” It sounded funny to call her “the woman,” but Fanny didn’t know her name; she didn’t want to know. She was glad that her father hadn’t mentioned it.
    â€œYes,” Henry said calmly. “Very. But don’t worry. She was genuinely relieved to find a new home for Dinner. And don’t worry about me, either. This will work.”
    â€œDoes she have any kids?”
    â€œShe has a son about your age. But she said that neither