Free Comet's Tale by Steven Wolf

her face was totally unacceptable.
    On this afternoon, the three girls were busy with the dog wash. Freddie had been called into the hospital earlier and had not yet returned. I was not having one of my better days, and it was difficult for me to grip the towels. “One of you is going to have to help Comet. I just can’t,” I said.
    At the beginning of the summer, the girls had been offended when Comet averted her head from them. Then I had explained her past. I gently lifted Comet’s ears, displaying the numbered tattoos that still made my stomach lurch a little. The girls’ expressions had been solemn as I talked about Comet’s early life and how racing greyhounds were routinely mistreated, then abandoned or destroyed. My daughters were now acutely sensitive to Comet’s feelings.
    â€œDad, she’s going to have to be a little wet when she comes in. I’m not going to force her to let me dry her head,” said Lindsey. The rinsing commenced, shrinking the dogs down to their skin. The girls dried Comet’s body but left water dripping from her head and neck. Comet walked over to me, but I couldn’t bend down. I tried to drag a towel over her face from an elevated position, but that was useless. Comet turned in frustration. Spying the towels dangling from the line of girls who had just finished with Cody, Comet walked over, shoving her head under the towels and walking through like it was a car wash. Everyone was quiet, afraid of breaking the spell. Almost simultaneously, all three girls began to rub towels gently over Comet’s face. Jackie beamed at me. “I think she really likes us now!” The girls’ burbling baby chatter told me that they had fallen for Comet, too.
    Although she was now a full-fledged member of the family, it didn’t take a Holmes to conclude that Comet’s primary focus was on me. The most obvious example was at the lake. Comet had perfected the rules of duck chasing and keep-away and was a spirited and entertaining participant. But even though these games could last for hours, she would bow out long before the activities wound down. After thirty minutes of play, Comet routinely found my chair and rested at my feet. At first I encouraged her to continue with the festivities. “Go ahead. You don’t have to babysit me.” Invariably, my companion would arch the inside corners of her brows, partially squint her eyes, and stare at me much like an exasperated daughter who questioned my sanity. Instead of rolling her eyes, Comet would slowly lower herself to a haughty resting position.
    I thought that maybe her physiology demanded a break. With their low body fat, greyhounds were susceptible to exhaustion when exposed to extreme heat or cold for long periods. At the lake, every summertime movement was smothered by boiled air. By midseason, skin was steamed into a tanned leathery consistency and the goldens’ coats were bleached to a dirty white. Even with relief from the cool lake water, maybe the heat was just too much for Comet. But she didn’t seem tired as she positioned herself apart from the activity, reserved but not unfriendly. She would lift her head when Freddie and the girls called her to come join the water fights, but she would not budge. She seemed preoccupied, not fatigued.
    Because of my declining health, there were days when I couldn’t even go sit by the water. If I was trapped inside but not in bed, I usually sat in a recliner near the beach level exit. When I sent Comet outside to play with the other dogs, she would stand by the glass door—muscles taut, ears at attention, eyes unblinking—and sternly demand to be let back in.
    â€œIs this dog becoming codependent?” Kylie asked as she opened the door yet again to let Comet inside.
    â€œYou noticed?” I felt slightly embarrassed. “What makes you think it has anything to do with me?”
    â€œDuh,” said Kylie. “No