Free Comet's Tale by Steven Wolf Page A

matter what she’s doing or where she’s at, Comet wants to know what you’re doing and where you’re at.”
    â€œI don’t think she’s that bad,” I replied, perhaps a bit defensively.
    â€œYou must feed her a lot of treats. Nobody wants to spend that much time with you,” Kylie joked.
    â€œVery funny. I don’t give her any treats. Comet has appointed Freddie to that department.” I struggled daily to articulate what I observed in this dog. Now I said, “At first I thought it was her reaction to the heat and activity, that maybe she was tired and confused.”
    Kylie coughed a short laugh and said, “Confused she is not. I’d say that she’s made herself right at home, even sleeping in the master’s bedroom. ‘Smart’ may be the word you’re looking for.”
    It didn’t take long for Comet to lovingly insinuate herself into almost every aspect of my day. Her constant presence was seldom demanding. It was more like the sound of waves—a shushing that I barely noticed after a while yet found deeply soothing. Except for my morning wake-up call.
    I had pigheadedly ignored Freddie’s advice that I move my personal headquarters to the bedroom on the lower level, insisting that treading up and down the stairs was good exercise for me and good practice for Comet. Plus, by keeping my sleeping arrangements in the master bedroom on the main floor, I could still pretend that I was adequately soldiering on as a good husband. During the night, Comet slept on a dog bed within my arm’s reach. As dawn approached she would leave her lair, waking me with a light leap onto the bed and an intense stare that poked at me like a stick. Through the open window I would catch the musical notes of dogs splashing along the shore, a lovely sound but not one I needed to hear so early. I’d open my eyes to see my face reflected in cinnamon-rimmed black orbs that sparkled above a pointy-toothed dog smile. An extralong tail rotating in slow circles backstopped the expression. Short, whining trumpet notes were directed at my irritated expression: It’s time to get up, time to get up, time to get up in the morning!
    My response was always in the nature of a cotton-mouthed stutter: “Comet, it’s still early. Lie down. We’ll go in a minute, okay?”
    In return, Comet would lower herself onto the blankets and promptly twist onto her back. One front limb was raised to the ceiling while thighs plopped open. From chest to tail, her tender underside was completely exposed, inviting my light scratching strokes. Her inverted head rubbed on the bed coverings. The belly rubs continued for a few minutes, erasing my reluctance to face the day. “All right, I’ll get up.”
    Magic hovered over the lakeside in the early morning hours. Nighttime smells lingered, and creatures still mingled at the edge of darkness. Comet’s curious ears pricked at rustling sounds in the riparian grasses, and her eyes roamed the shadows for the slightest ghostly movement. The hound nose inventoried each and every scent dropped on wildflowers growing in the sand. All this was conducted with unbridled enthusiasm, as if she had never experienced these sights and smells, much less done so just the day before. After all, something could have changed! I’m convinced Comet pitied my inability to notice.
    Regardless of the enticements, Comet would not yank on the lead. She would not sprint ahead to a neck-jerking stop but instead loitered at each scent. She pounced at fleeing rabbits with no forward motion and allowed ducks to swim unimpeded. In short, despite her excitement, Comet refused to instinctively hunt the morning in normal greyhound fashion.
    Occasionally I stumbled and tripped to the ground, losing the lead. I was sure Comet would flee, as her ancestral genes ordered her to do. Yet she simply wandered nearby and glanced at me as I strained to lever