office had given me a short green leash, and I opened Warren’s stall and attached it to his collar. He promptly stood up and walked out just at my left heel. He probably would have shined my shoes for me, too, but I was wearing sneakers.
“How gentle is this dog in real life?” I asked the woman.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I have a twelve-year-old son and an eight-year-old daughter, and they have to be able to walk him,” I said. I wanted a clear picture for me and for the dog.
“Well, my son has been walking him every morning for the past two months,” she said.
“How old is he?”
“He’s five.”
“Okay, the dog’s gentle. But do I have to call him Warren?”
She scratched her head. “Nah, that’s just the name we gave him here. He was a stray from the Bronx, and they were going to euthanize him, so we brought him here. You can change his name to anything you like.”
“How much to adopt him?” I sighed. If you’re going to have a dog, you might as well have one a five-year-old can walk, I always say.
It cost about $120 to adopt Warren, what with the fee from the shelter (“it keeps us going,” said the woman), the leash, the collar, the food bowl, the water bowl, the bag of dog food, the dog treats, the dog toy, the dog pillow, and the dog tag. So I’d go a week without eating—Lord knows, it would probably do me good.
The dog and I got into the van and started home. He didn’t want to get into the van, as he was quite happy walking around the parking lot and sniffing every blade of grass individually. But I managed to force Warren into the back seat (I’d had practice with two toddlers at various stages of my parental career) and close the door behind him. He didn’t relieve himself as he climbed up onto the seat, which I took to be a positive sign.
On the way home, since Warren was not an especially talkative dog, I made a mental list of phone calls to make as soon as we arrived. They included one to Lucille Purell Watkins, one to Mason Abrams, one to Alan McGregor, and one to Barry Dutton about my latest vaguely threatening phone call.
It took slightly less time to navigate the distance this time, because I knew the way from highway to highway now. New Jersey is the kind of state where you can do really well if you never have to drive on a local street.
Two blocks from our house, Warren lost his lunch on the back seat. Luckily, I had put a blanket out to cover the seat under him, so cleanup was somewhat easier, but I was already noticing how much caring for this dog (for which I took no responsibility) was eating into my day.
Warren trotted out of the van as if he hadn’t just made a deposit on its back seat, and set out exploring his new neighborhood. It was a good thing I had the leash to hold him, or he’d have explored all of New Jersey and I’d have been out $120.
Preston Burke was finishing work on the door when he saw us approach. “Watch his tail by the wet paint,” Burke said. “I did-n’t know you had a dog.”
“I didn’t,” I told him. “Now, I do. It’s been that kind of morning.”
Burke knelt down and started to stroke Warren. “Nice dog,” he said. “He doesn’t mind strangers, does he?” Then he looked into the dog’s eyes. “No you don’t, do you? Do you?” he said. People ask dogs questions like that all the time, as if they’re expecting an answer. “No, I don’t mind strangers,” the dog would say. “I just like it when they give me some bacon.”
Warren relieved some pressure on his bladder out in the front yard, which was my plan. So I closed the screen door, preventing him from running out, and put down his food and water bowls, filled both, then showed him where they were. He seemed unconcerned, and went to explore the house. Finally, he settled on the rug in my office, four feet from where I was working, and went to sleep.
I was about to call Abby when the phone rang. It was Margot the Agent, informing me that four production companies out of the seventy-five or so that I’d faxed had requested a copy of the script. It was better than