The Accidental Tourist

Macon thought of the crumbling old Tips for the Continent in his grandfather's library. Travelers were advised to invert a wineglass on their hotel beds, testing the sheets for damp. Ladies should seal the corks of their perfume bottles with melted candlewax before packing.

Something about that book implied that tourists were all in it together, equally anxious and defenseless. Macon might almost have enjoyed a trip in those days.

Julian was preparing to go now. He stood up, and with some difficulty Macon did too. Then Edward, getting wind of a leavetaking, rushed into the living room and started barking. "Sorry!" Macon shouted above the racket. "Edward, stop it! I figure that's his sheep-herding instinct," he explained to Julian. "He hates to see anyone straying from the flock."

They moved toward the front hall, wading through a blur of dancing, yelping dog. When they reached the door, Edward blocked it. Luckily, he was still trailing his leash, so Macon gave one crutch to Julian and bent to grasp it. The instant Edward felt the tug, he turned and snarled at Macon. "Whoa!" Julian said, for Edward when he snarled was truly ugly.

His fangs seemed to lengthen. He snapped at his leash with an audible click. Then he snapped at Macon's hand. Macon felt Edward's hot breath and the oddly intimate dampness of his teeth. His hand was not so much bitten as struck-slammed into with a jolt such as you'd get from an electric fence. He stepped back and dropped the leash. His other crutch clattered to the floor. The front hall seemed to be full of crutches; there was some splintery, spiky feeling to the air.

"Whoa, there!" Julian said. He spoke into a sudden silence. The dog sat back now, panting and shamefaced. "Macon? Did he get you?" Julian asked.

Macon looked down at his hand. There were four red puncture marks in the fleshy part-two in front, two in back-but no blood at all and very little pain. "I'm all right," he said.

Julian gave him his crutches, keeping one eye on Edward. "I wouldn't have a dog like that," he said. "I'd shoot him."

"He was just trying to protect me," Macon said.

"I'd call the S.P.C.A."

"Why don't you go now, Julian, while he's calm."

"Or the what's-it, dogcatcher. Tell them you want him done away with."

"Just go, Julian."

Julian said, "Well, fine." He opened the door and slid through it sideways, glancing back at Edward. "That is not a well dog," he said before he vanished.

Macon hobbled to the rear of the house and Edward followed, snuffling a bit and staying close to the ground. In the kitchen, Rose stood on a stepstool in front of a towering glass-fronted cupboard, accepting the groceries that Charles and Porter handed up to her. "Now I need the "'s, anything starting with n," she was saying.

"How about these noodles?" Porter asked. "N for noodles? P for pasta?"

"E for elbow macaroni. You might have passed those up earlier, Porter."

"Rose?" Macon said. "It seems Edward's given me a little sort of nip."

She turned, and Charles and Porter stopped work to examine the hand he held out. It was hurting him by now-a deep, stinging pain.

"Oh, Macon!" Rose cried. She came down off the stepstool. "How did it happen?"

"It was an accident, that's all. But I think I need an antiseptic."

"You need a tetanus shot, too," Charles told him.

"You need to get rid of that dog," Porter said.

They looked at Edward. He grinned up at them nervously.

"He didn't mean any harm," Macon said.

"Takes off your hand at the elbow and he means no harm? You should get rid of him, I tell you."

"See, I can't," Macon said.

"Why not?" , "Well, see . . ."

They waited.

"You know I don't mind the cat," Rose said. "But Edward is so disruptive, Macon. Every day he gets more and more out of control."

"Maybe you could give him to someone who wants a guard dog," Charles said.

"A service station," Rose suggested. She took a roll of gauze from a drawer.

"Oh, never," Macon said. He sat where she pointed, in a chair at the kitchen table. He propped his crutches in the corner. "Edward alone in some Exxon? He'd be wretched."

Rose swabbed Mercurochrome on his hand. It looked bruised; each puncture mark was puffing and turning blue.

"He's used to sleeping with me," Macon told her. "He's never been alone in his life."

Besides, Edward wasn't a bad dog at heart-only a little unruly. He was sympathetic and he cared about Macon and plodded after him wherever he went. There was a furrowed W on his forehead that gave him a look of concern. His large, pointed, velvety ears seemed more expressive than other dogs' ears; when he was happy they stuck straight out at either side of his head like airplane wings. His smell was unexpectedly pleasant-the sweetish smell a favorite sweater takes on when it's been folded away in a drawer unwashed.

And he'd been Ethan's.