In a central part of town, a man with demonstrably limited ambition (one only needs to see how much time he spends playing video games), collects the dogs he walks three times weekly. There are seven altogether—two basset hounds, a lab, two medium-sized dogs of questionable heritage, a beagle mix, and a dachshund that struggles to keep up. The man—Brant—loads the dogs into the back of his ten-year-old Toyota 4X4, drives down to the shores of Lady Bird Lake, leashes up the dogs, and walks them on the heavily trafficked Butler Hike-and-Bike Trail. He likes this particular route because there are other dogs and access points for the big dogs to swim (the dachshund is afraid of water). Also, there is a spot just under the Pfluger Pedestrian Bridge where Brant usually can sell enough weed to get through the week.
He’s noticed a new guy hanging around his business location on their last couple of outings, and today the new guy saunters over. When Brant asks what’s up, the new guy says, “I’m visiting in town and looking for a friend.” Brant doesn’t want to ask what that means because he feels like he ought to know. “Cool, cool,” he says. But then another thought occurs to him, an unsavory thought, and he takes a step backward and says, “What kind of friend?”
“Depends,” the new guy says. “What have you got?”
Ah. That kind of friend. Still, Brant is mildly confused, because he is not a grocery store and people generally know what they want. But he’s relaxed, because he had a little toke earlier, and this is Austin and everybody smokes weed and everyone is cool with everyone . . .
Well, except the new guy, turns out. New guy is a cop, which Brant discovers after he makes a pretty good sale and what he thinks is a really funny joke about dogs and weed. That’s when two squad cars roll up and the dogs start barking, and the new guy reads him his Miranda rights. “Come on, man,” Brant complains to the officer who cuffs him. “At least let me call my buddy to take the dogs home.”
* * *
In old West Austin, just east of Tarrytown, a woman in a blue sedan in desperate need of an oil change rockets down the gravel drive to a cottage tucked behind a much larger house. The cottage was once a carriage house, then it was occupied by a coven of witches or hippies or maybe even Matthew McConaughey—it depends on who you talk to—and then renovated into sleek urban sophistication by the Californians who bought the property and now rent it out for an outrageous amount.
Carly has been stuck in traffic and really must avail herself of the facilities. She bangs through the door, leaves her key dangling from the lock, and abandons her overstuffed tote bag in the entry. She is trying desperately to untie the strange but fashionable wraparound jumpsuit with the billowing sleeves she is wearing, but in her rush she draws up short and stares into the living area. She doesn’t comprehend what she is seeing. Her eyes simply cannot reconcile the sight of the dog on the couch with her brain. It’s not that she doesn’t have a dog—she does. It’s not that she doesn’t have a basset hound—she does. But she doesn’t have that basset hound.
That is an imposter basset hound.
An imposter so miscast in its role that it is on her couch eating one of her expensive throw pillows without an ounce of remorse, as telegraphed by the enthusiastic banging of its tail against the cushions.
That dog is a mystery, but in that moment, Carly must make a necessary decision. She dashes off to answer the call of nature.
* * *
Hours later, on a leafy street a couple of blocks from the woman’s house, in another old West Austin home that has withstood the onslaught of modernization and McMansioning that is going on around town, a university professor bangs through the side entrance with his arms around another university professor he’s had a few drinks with tonight. Though his thoughts have turned to a slushy, boozy mess, he does notice that his dog is in the mudroom with her head pressed in the corner where the walls meet. He notes