Miss Shumway Waves A Wand

“Come in, Sam,” I said wearily. “If you’ve any friends, bring ‘em in too. I always work best when I’ve a room full of people.”

“There ain’t no one but me and Whisky,” Bogle said, coming in. He was followed by the wolfhound “Whisky’s taken a liking to me.”

Myra and I looked at the wolfhound uneasily. The dog clicked its teeth in an absent-minded kind of way and lay down near the bed. It eyed us with sleepy insolence and then stretched out with its head on Bogle’s boot.

“Whisky?” I repeated. “Is that its name?”

“That’s what I call him,” Bogle said. “He seems to like it and it’s the sort of name I wouldn’t easily forget. Nice dawg, ain’t he?”

“I don’t know,” I said, with some feeling. “Perhaps he is. I can’t forget that he ate Pablo. That rather preys on my mind.”

Bogle sneered, “Ate Pablo?” he said. “You’re nuts! He ate a sausage. You and Doc ought to have your ears blown out!”

I considered this. I thought if that was the only thing necessary how absurdly simple everything would be.

“Never mind, Sam,” I said. “You aren’t the only one who won’t believe it.”

While I was speaking, Whisky turned over on his back and folded his legs across his chest like a crab. His tail straightened and he closed his eyes.

Myra said quietly, “I don’t like that dog’s attitude. It’s unhealthy.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” I returned, pulling the bedclothes a little higher. “But, it’s disturbing, if that’s what you mean.”

Bogle unfolded Whisky’s legs gently and turned him on his side. “Relax, fella,” he said.

“You can’t rest that way.”

Whisky opened one eye and looked at Bogle. Then he turned on his back and folded his legs over his chest again.

“Gawdamn it,” Bogle said. “Did you ever see such a dawg?” and he bustled forward to unfold Whisky’s legs again.

I suppose Whisky decided not to tolerate this interference. Opening one eye sharply, he regarded Bogle’s hands with a sour look and then thrusting his nose forward he clicked his teeth with a snap like a mouse-trap.

I guess Bogle thought he’d lost his hand. He didn’t dare look, but sat on the floor, breathing heavily until I had assured him that Whisky had missed him by an eighth of an inch. Then he removed himself to the far end of the room, where he sat in a chair and scowled at the dog.

“Listen,” I said. “Don’t think I’m unsociable. I’m not. I’ve always been sociable. I’m the guy they laughed at when I sat down at the piano. But, right now, my nerves are on edge and I’d like you and Whisky to take a little walk. I don’t want you to go far. I’d even stand for seeing you at a distance, but I can’t stand much more of your heavy breathing and the dog’s affected attitude. So, would you drift… the pair of you?”

“Every time you open your trap, you write a book,” Bogle said. “I’m waiting for Ansell. He’s coming to have a talk. Besides, I’ve ordered breakfast to be sent up. You’ve got the best room, ain’t you?”

“Well, Precious, you see how it is,” I said to Myra. “We’ll have to postpone our little talk. I just can’t keep my mind on anything so long as Whisky’s with us.”

Myra got off the bed and stretched. “I don’t think we would have got anywhere,” she said, a little wearily. “I’m afraid talking won’t help me.”

“Did you say you’d ordered breakfast?” I asked Bogle.

“Yeah,” Bogle’s face lit up. “Eggs and fruit and cawfee. I didn’t get much to eat last night. There was so much talking and shouting and people going off into faints.”

“You wouldn’t like to cover up Whisky, would you?” I said. “He really is getting on my nerves.”

“Maybe he ain’t well,” Bogle said, looking at the dog with puzzled eyes.”

“With Pablo inside him, I don’t wonder at it.”

Whisky rolled over on his side and looked at me. There was something strangely human about the expression in his eyes. “How right you are, old dog,” he said in a deep, guttural voice. “He lies like a rock on my stomach.”

“There you are,” I said to Sam. “I knew he couldn’t be well.” Then I clutched my pillow and looked at the dog in horror.

Myra stifled a scream and stood petrified, but Bogle didn’t seem to be moved.

“You know it sounded almost as if that dog spoke,” I said a little feverishly.

“Sure,” Sam returned. “What of it? He’s been talking to me half the night.”

“What of it?” I repeated, stupefied. “Have you ever heard a dog talk before?”

“Well, no, but then anything can happen in this country, can’t it? What I mean is if a parrot talks, why not a Mexican dog? “That’s the way I’ve been reasoning.” He suddenly noticed my strained expression and fear came into his eyes. “It ain’t possible? Dawgs don’t talk? Is that what you’re trying to tell me? This is another of these freak things… floating women . . disappearing men … now talking dawgs?”

“Yeah, along those lines.”

“My Gawd! And I talked to it half the night!” Bogle shivered edging back in his chair and half raising his hand to protect himself.

“And a lot of rot you talked too,” the dog snapped. “Of all the illiterate, prissy-mouthed, dyed-in-the-wool nincompoops I’ve had to listen to, you take the biscuit.”