to her.
“Nana? Hey, it’s okay. It’s over, everything’s fine.”
“Are they going to put him to sleep?”
“Finney? No. ”
“They have to kill them to look at their brains.”
“They what?” Caddie touched her, tried to take her hands from her face, but Nana was frozen. Her fear infected Caddie—she’d never seen her like this before.
Caddie felt a hand on her back. It was Mrs. Barnes. “Hi,” she said to Nana. Somebody had wrapped a handkerchief around her finger; she folded her arms to keep it out of Nana’s sight. “I’m Thea. Thea Barnes. How are you?”
Nana couldn’t speak, only stare at her with round, worried eyes.
“You know what, I think I just scared him. I bent down too fast, that’s what happened. He’s a lovely dog.”
Nana took her hands away. “He is. A lovely dog. I don’t know why that happened—he’s never done it before.”
“Well,” said Caddie. No point in going overboard.
Mrs. Barnes held out her good hand.
Nana took it. “I’m Frances Winger,” she said cordially.
“Hello, Frances.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“It’s nice to meet you.”
Nana’s relieved smile turned crafty. “Did you bring anything old?”
6
The offices of CAT, Creative Animal Therapy, turned out to be one room over a candle and incense shop on a one-way downtown street. Finney was afraid of the slippery wooden steps; Caddie had to pick him up and carry him to the second floor. She could hear talking on the other side of the frosted glass in a door at the end of the hallway, so she opened the door and peeked in. A man at a desk heaped high with scattered papers, files, and folders swiveled in his chair and gestured for her to come in.
He was on the phone. “No, we’re nationwide, we’ve got over eight hundred CAT teams around the country, but the training for the volunteers is always local. Through workshops with licensed instructors in each…that’s right, and then at headquarters they coordinate the volunteers with facilities in their own communities. No, this is just a regional office. Small. Um…well, me.” He put his hand over the phone, said “Hi, have a seat, I’ll just be a minute,” and went back to his conversation.
There wasn’t a seat, not unless she moved a basketball, a pair of running shoes, and a bag of kitty litter from the only other chair in the small, cluttered office. Finney was pulling her around to all the corners anyway, sniffing everything, as nervous as if he were at the vet’s. He must smell other animals. He dragged her over to where several plaques and certificates in frames were tacked to the wall. Service awards, outstanding citizen citations, training certificates. All for Christopher Dalton Fox, except for the ones for Christopher Dalton Fox’s dog, King, who had severalplaques of his own for animal citizenship and community service. Christopher was the man behind the desk—she recognized him from all the photographs of him and King in chummy poses with various groups of people and other dogs.
One caught Caddie’s eye in particular because it was obviously taken in a nursing home. A real one, not like Wake House; the residents were feeble and old, many in wheelchairs. King, a large, beautiful dog, maybe a shepherd except he was fluffier, sat on a long sofa between two frail old ladies, and all three were beaming into the camera with the same calm, gentle, beatific expression. There, thought Caddie. That’s what she’d wanted, that kind of animal-human bonding. It looked almost spiritual. Why couldn’t Finney be like King?
Christopher Fox got off the phone. “Hi. Sorry about that.” He stood up and came around his desk. “You must be…uh…”
“Caddie Winger.”
“Good to meet you. And this must be Finnegan.” He went down on one knee and patted the other. Caddie looked down at his bent head, admiring the clean part in his streaky blond hair, lighter than hers and almost as long. It fell around the sides of his face in
“Nana? Hey, it’s okay. It’s over, everything’s fine.”
“Are they going to put him to sleep?”
“Finney? No. ”
“They have to kill them to look at their brains.”
“They what?” Caddie touched her, tried to take her hands from her face, but Nana was frozen. Her fear infected Caddie—she’d never seen her like this before.
Caddie felt a hand on her back. It was Mrs. Barnes. “Hi,” she said to Nana. Somebody had wrapped a handkerchief around her finger; she folded her arms to keep it out of Nana’s sight. “I’m Thea. Thea Barnes. How are you?”
Nana couldn’t speak, only stare at her with round, worried eyes.
“You know what, I think I just scared him. I bent down too fast, that’s what happened. He’s a lovely dog.”
Nana took her hands away. “He is. A lovely dog. I don’t know why that happened—he’s never done it before.”
“Well,” said Caddie. No point in going overboard.
Mrs. Barnes held out her good hand.
Nana took it. “I’m Frances Winger,” she said cordially.
“Hello, Frances.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“It’s nice to meet you.”
Nana’s relieved smile turned crafty. “Did you bring anything old?”
6
The offices of CAT, Creative Animal Therapy, turned out to be one room over a candle and incense shop on a one-way downtown street. Finney was afraid of the slippery wooden steps; Caddie had to pick him up and carry him to the second floor. She could hear talking on the other side of the frosted glass in a door at the end of the hallway, so she opened the door and peeked in. A man at a desk heaped high with scattered papers, files, and folders swiveled in his chair and gestured for her to come in.
He was on the phone. “No, we’re nationwide, we’ve got over eight hundred CAT teams around the country, but the training for the volunteers is always local. Through workshops with licensed instructors in each…that’s right, and then at headquarters they coordinate the volunteers with facilities in their own communities. No, this is just a regional office. Small. Um…well, me.” He put his hand over the phone, said “Hi, have a seat, I’ll just be a minute,” and went back to his conversation.
There wasn’t a seat, not unless she moved a basketball, a pair of running shoes, and a bag of kitty litter from the only other chair in the small, cluttered office. Finney was pulling her around to all the corners anyway, sniffing everything, as nervous as if he were at the vet’s. He must smell other animals. He dragged her over to where several plaques and certificates in frames were tacked to the wall. Service awards, outstanding citizen citations, training certificates. All for Christopher Dalton Fox, except for the ones for Christopher Dalton Fox’s dog, King, who had severalplaques of his own for animal citizenship and community service. Christopher was the man behind the desk—she recognized him from all the photographs of him and King in chummy poses with various groups of people and other dogs.
One caught Caddie’s eye in particular because it was obviously taken in a nursing home. A real one, not like Wake House; the residents were feeble and old, many in wheelchairs. King, a large, beautiful dog, maybe a shepherd except he was fluffier, sat on a long sofa between two frail old ladies, and all three were beaming into the camera with the same calm, gentle, beatific expression. There, thought Caddie. That’s what she’d wanted, that kind of animal-human bonding. It looked almost spiritual. Why couldn’t Finney be like King?
Christopher Fox got off the phone. “Hi. Sorry about that.” He stood up and came around his desk. “You must be…uh…”
“Caddie Winger.”
“Good to meet you. And this must be Finnegan.” He went down on one knee and patted the other. Caddie looked down at his bent head, admiring the clean part in his streaky blond hair, lighter than hers and almost as long. It fell around the sides of his face in
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