The Lost

He pulled on a T-shirt, then stepped into the pants of his dark blue suit and zipped up. Light blue shirt next (I assumed; it looked gray to me), followed by his navy paisley tie. His best black belt. What was this “appointment” he needed to get dressed up for? He combed a side part in his longish, streaky-blond hair, and that was a tip-off that wherever he was going, it had nothing to do with magic. Milo Marvelle wore his hair straight back from his handsome forehead, accentuating his sharp, dramatic features. Sam Summer was a good-l ooking man, but Milo Marvelle was a Master of Mystery.

He kept glancing at his watch. When he was nervous, he had a habit of pursing his lips and blowing air in and out of his cheeks. He stowed his wallet, change, comb, and handkerchief in various pockets, then took a long, scowling look at himself in the mirror over the bureau. “Million bucks,” I wanted so much to tell him. It was what we said to each other whenever we dressed up for something special. “Honey, you look like a million bucks.” Sam inhaled deeply, said, “Okay,” into the mirror, a one-word pep talk, and went out.

He closed me up in the kitchen again. “Just until we’re sure she’s housebroken,” he’d explained last night to Be

I’d never noticed before, but there wasn’t a comfortable chair in my living room. Not one. I’d gone for modern when we bought the house, pleased with the new sleekness of leather, metal, and glass. Modern was sophisticated; modern meant professional, in control, and on the way up. Maybe so, but where do you sprawl out? No wonder Sam and Be

Over in the corner, my computer was humming. In sleep mode, but it was on, which was a relief; the button that activated it was in back, flush with the monitor, and I wasn’t sure I could’ve punched it in with my nose. All I had to do was press the space bar and… voila. The blue screen.

Now what? How could I write a message to Sam? First thing, get myself settled in the office chair so I could reach the keys. That took more time than I’d expected, owing to the fact that the chair revolved and sat on castors. I reminded myself of a seal balancing on a beach ball. But that was nothing compared to trying to get the computer into word-processing mode. I fell on the floor an embarrassing number of times, and failed in the end anyway because I simply could not push the mouse up to Word and keep it there while left-clicking with my chin.

Even if I had been able to, how would I have typed letters? My feet were too big. And my tongue-I’d noticed this already-was really clumsy and inefficient; it wouldn’t go sideways, couldn’t point or flatten; all it could do was go in and out, in and out.

Discouraged, I jumped off the chair and onto the sofa. Sam’s sofa; I’d never liked it, but that was because I hadn’t known how great the nubby fabric would be for scratching the sides of my face. And the top of my nose, between my eyes, those places I couldn’t reach very well myself. I curled up in the patch of sunshine coming through the window, resting my chin on the sofa arm. So I could think better.

The phone woke me. Charlie, Sam’s father, left a message on the machine saying he’d be over Saturday night about eight thirty, if that was okay, in time to say good night to Be

Maybe I could write a message to Sam in longhand. Of course! Getting the legal pad off the desk was simple; I just swiped it sideways with my nose. Ditto the cup full of ballpoints and pencils. Too bad there was writing on the top sheet of the legal pad. I couldn’t tell what it said; my eyes wouldn’t focus that close. Well, whatever it was, I had something much more important to write. Using tongue, teeth, and my bottom lip, I tore that page off and spit it on the floor in pieces.

I won’t recount how many times I tried to click on a ballpoint pen, just that I was unsuccessful. There were three pencils, and the first two broke in half in my mouth. I got the last one clamped between my molars, no easy feat since I only had about two-thirds the number of teeth I used to have. Now, what to write? Words were out of the question, I’d realized a pencil and a half ago. A symbol, then. A heart.

Crap, crap, crap. I couldn’t control the pressure. I pierced a hole in the paper with the pencil, and in the end all I got was a trembly rhomboid with drool on it.

I needed bigger media. Think. If I were the kind of woman who kept a lot of throw pillows on the furniture-someone like Monica Carr, say-I could spell something out with them on the floor. But I wasn’t, so I couldn’t.

Upstairs, I finally found a box of crayons in the rubble of Be

Like the tongue, a dog’s toes extend and retract. That’s it. I gave up trying to write something with Be

I had to eat part of the box to get the crayons out, but that was okay. Cardboard had a pleasant woody taste; I wouldn’t have minded eating the whole thing, actually. How many crayons were in this box? Eight, ten, something like that; precise counting was no longer one of my strong suits. I nosed two crayons into an L, but that looked random, meaningless. Two on a side, that was better, a big L. Good. Now for the S.

It’s hard to make curves with straight edges. I kept getting a 5 when I wasn’t getting a swastika. (I could just hear Sam: “You’re Hitler? I know-Eva Braun!”) I did the best I could until hunger distracted me. That cardboard, it was like an hors d’oeuvre. I trotted into the kitchen.

Sam had served a mix of ca

I was sitting in the hall, scratching an itch under my collar, when a noise on the front porch brought me to full alert. Footsteps. I gave a low, warning bark, but it sounded self-conscious, rehearsed. Like what I was supposed to do. Then the screen door squealed open. Bark! That felt better. A cascade of envelopes and magazines pushed through the slot in the door. Bark bark! Bark bark bark bark bark!

I used to like the postman, a nice guy named Brian, but now I hated him. What fun! Barking was so invigorating, pure self-expression, like singing at the top of your lungs. I kept it up till Brian was barely a memory; then I went back to the den and took a nap.

The key in the front door woke me. Sam! I ran to the door, heart soaring. Sam was home! Joy! Bliss! I jumped up high, trying to lick his face, tail flying, barking, spi

“Down!”

Where had he been? I could smell plastic… car exhaust, people… some chemical-l y smell, like a new carpet-

“Down! Damn it, dog.” He wasn’t as glad to see me as I was to see him. He looked tired and tense at the same time. Oh, baby, I thought, sobering fast, and followed him into the kitchen. He saw the chair, the door. “Oh, for the love of… How the hell did you…” His shoulders drooped. Mine, too. He got a beer out of the refrigerator and took it into the den.