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Before I could answer — it was morning and I wasn’t fast with an answer — he directed another call in the opposite direction. “Iris. Come see, Elizabeth has another dog.”
“That’s Keefer’s Suzie Q,” Iris declared.
So, I sat on the kitchen floor feeding Suzie Q breakfast, with Shadow impatient but cooperative with his portion being doled out slowly to keep her eating, while explaining the dog situation to the Undlins.
They agreed with Tom.
That was mildly irksome, but after seeing Suzie Q repeat her fence routine like a prisoner of war allowed only a tiny portion of space and sky, I was inclined to agree, too.
On the other hand, she wouldn’t starve, thanks to having Shadow around.
The Undlins more than compensated for agreeing with Tom by volunteering to feed Suzie Q — and Shadow — small portions several times during the day any time I was away from the house.
“We’ll have to get her a dog bed,” Zeb said.
“I don’t think she’s used to a dog bed.” Though I wouldn’t go out on a limb to say she hadn’t slept on Keefe’s bed.
“It’s only fair,” Zeb said firmly.
“Fair? How—”
Iris interrupted me. “Didn’t we tell you? We got Shadow a bed.”
“He has a bed.” In fact he had one on each level of the town house and another at the ranch house, though, I strongly suspect he spent more time on Tamantha’s bed than his own when they slept in the same house. I steadfastly didn’t look.
“Not at our house, he didn’t. And that floor can get hard and cold on the bones. He’s not an old fella yet, but he’s not a young chicken, either.”
“That’s right,” Iris said in full support. “So we got him one that fits right by where we watch TV. Gives him a good view, too.”
“He likes to watch the birds,” Zeb told me. “I can tell you which shows are his favorites.”
I was really falling down on this paw-parent stuff. I watched what I liked on TV without considering Shadow’s viewing preferences. He had seemed to enjoy the Andy Hardy movies we watched with Tamantha. I liked the spirit and the music. Tamantha viewed them as historic artifacts.
****
Tom and Tamantha picked me up to attend Mass at the Catholic church in Cody.
I don’t remember how this worked its way onto our schedule. I know there was talk about familiarizing Tamantha — or was it Tom? — with the church’s practices. I just know it wasn’t my talk or my idea.
I didn’t fight it, either.
So we sat in a pew about a third of the way back that Tamantha picked.
“This is your church?” She looked at the statues, the details of the altar, then zeroed in on the Stations of the Cross around the perimeter.
I would have let the question slide by, except I suspected the alternative would be her demanding a detailed explanation of the ardors depicted. “This is the Catholic church that also serves Cottonwood County,” I said carefully. “What you’d call my home church — where my family still attends — is in Illinois.”
“Does it look like this?”
“It’s bigger. Fairly modern. It was built during one of the intermittent modernizing Kumbaya periods.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that aesthetically — how it looks and how I react to how it looks... well, I prefer historic churches. There’s one in Ireland that—”
A woman in the second row turned and gave me a look that made me think she either was a nun — hard to tell these days with habits gone freelance — or a shaming lay person.
Either way, I lowered my voice. “I’ll tell you later.”
