Free Black Ribbon by Susan Conant Page B

and Vermont. And the town itself was a beautiful place with a wild streak, rugged and a little rough, not cutesied up, but naturally lovely, set between Rangeley Lake and Haley’s Pond. The middle of nowhere, indeed! Furthermore, since dog people are undoubtedly the most gregarious individuals in the world, we do not think of after-dinner socializing as hanging around and twiddling our thumbs because there’s nothing to do.
    As if to illustrate the sociability of our breed, the people who packed the lodge’s reception area and the adjoining bar were all talking and introducing everyone to everyone else. Even without our dogs, by the way, we are often so obviously interconnected as to be recognizable as members of a fraternal and sororal society, but when we’re dressed for dinner and not wearing our usual breed-loyal T-shirts and such, you’d have to examine us closely to discover our precise identity. I, of course, have a practiced eye. The designs knitted into Maxine McGuire’s cardigan sweater depicted a high jump, a dumbbell, trophies, and other dog-societal symbols, and almost every pair of earrings in the room would, I felt certain, turn out to be a miniature brace of dogs. We were well-groomed and dolled-up. By definition, we love a show, and we sure do know bow to put on the dog.
    Ahead of me, Eva shoved through the crowd, thus breaking track for Joy and Craig. As they trailed off after her, I squeezed into the only floor space available nearby, a gap between a side table and one of the couches that faced the fire-place. As I was glancing around trying to locate Cam or Ginny, one of the women seated on the couch suddenly shrieked, “What’s this doing here?”
    From my refuge, I looked almost directly down at her brown curls. I leaned forward to peer at the object of her consternation, which I at first mistook for a tourist brochure like the ones in the registration packet.
    The woman next to her said, “It’s just another one of those—”
    “No, it isn’t! What’s wrong with you? Look at it!” The first woman thrust the shiny folder at her neighbor, who made a noise of disgust and said, “This is gross! Where did you get this?”
    “From right there, right on the coffee table. It was sticking out from one of the magazines, and it caught my eye because’ of the picture of the dog, so I reached for it. And then when I ever saw what it was!”
    Well, I wanted to shout, so what was it?
    As if in answer, the neighbor opened the brochure on her lap and thrust it up to display a brilliantly colored, superglossy photograph of three small satin-lined, lace-trimmed caskets, baby blue on the left, baby pink on the right, and, in the middle, virgin white. Each casket rested on a trestle, and in front of the trestles, three little stands supported ornately embossed grave markers. Before I could focus on the inscriptions, the woman who held the brochure began to read the text at the bottom of the page: “ ‘Lasting Security and an Eternal Tribute to Your Beloved Pet.’ ”
    “Betty, stop!” ordered the woman who’d found the brochure.
    “This really is gross,” Betty commented. “Katy, listen to this. It says, ‘A fitting last resting place for the little one who warmed your heart. The Manson Family understands—’ ”
    “What!”
    “That’s what it says. It’s the name of the company.” Betty flipped over the brochure and pointed. “See? ‘The Manson Family, Inc. Loving Attention to Final Needs Since Nineteen Forty-Six.’ But listen. This is worse.” She turned back to the passage she’d started before. “Where was I? Oh. ‘The Manson Family understands the grief of losing the beloved little one whose passing presence here on earth brightened each precious moment. Here at Manson, we, too, have lost small ones—’ ” Betty broke off. “Don’t you get it? Yuck.”
    “Get what?” Katy demanded.
    “Katy, look at the picture! I mean, really look at it. Look at these, uh, whatever