Golden Retrievers

Hardcover with dust jacket $24.95

The current Keeper of the One Song, a Golden Retriever known as Anastasia, woke slowly. She reached out with her mind to sample the harmonies of the universe and the rightness of the world. It was good—excellent, even. The main melody of the One Song resonated throughout the universe, binding the subatomic particles and quantum strings together, holding chaotic matter in perfect balance and harmony. The octaves of the One Song spanned the eons, linking past, present and future into one glorious symphony. Even before she opened her eyes, Anastasia knew it was going to be a wonderful day.

Not only was the One Song particularly well-balanced this morning, but Anastasia had spotted two cans of new tennis balls on the counter the night before—placed well out of her reach but not relegated to the “doggie safe” that the humans called the microwave—not since that last disastrous time when Her People had forgotten they’d hidden them there and inadvertently fricasseed them—well, any day that started out with the prospect of new tennis balls had to be wonderful.

Anastasia opened her eyes slowly, concentrating on the familiar scents around her. The warm, fuzzy smell of her dog bed and blankie, all carefully arranged in the most comfortable configuration possible. The mellow Golden smell of Cece, the young Golden Retriever sprawled sideways across her own dog bed, tongue hanging out of her mouth. The tart vanilla smell of the cat curled up on the bed mixing with the warm musky chocolate of Her Woman, the impossibly glorious Claire Robinson, the most perfect person ever born into the world.

Why the cat had bed-sleeping privileges was one of the few imponderables in Anastasia’s world. Surely it was not to benefit Her Woman. The cat did nothing except what it wanted, with never the slightest thought of what Her Woman wanted, although Her Woman seemed to delude herself occasionally on that point. How a species like the cat could live so selfishly was simply beyond Anastasia’s comprehension.

In point of fact, Anastasia herself had had bed-sleeping privileges in the past, as was only proper for the only Keeper of the One Song in the universe. She was confident that those privileges would be restored sometime soon. The unfortunate incident that had led to the current sleeping arrangements was not entirely Anastasia’s fault. She viewed it as a simple misunderstanding that would soon be cleared up. After all, surely Her Woman could not expect the Keeper to forgo a really good roll in certain substances.

The bedroom window was open and a gentle breeze wafted in, bringing with it the scent of Henry, the Golden Retriever pup who lived next door. Henry was only a few months younger than Cece and was already up and about.

Anastasia she could tell from the undertone of worms and humus in the air that Henry had already finished digging at least one hole and was starting on another. In general, digging holes was a good thing, but a grace note of smashed green tomatoes in the air made her shake her head. It wasn’t Henry’s fault he was only a year old and did not yet understand that His People preferred that he refrain from practicing his digging in the middle of the vegetable garden.

Spring was Anastasia’s favorite time of the year, the new grass the color of fresh tennis balls, the enticing possibilities for rolling in things that had been frozen all the winter and were just thawing. Later in the year, she’d decide that summer was absolutely the most perfect season, with the kids home during the day to throw tennis balls for her, lots of daylight hours for chasing squirrels, napping, digging and generally enjoying life.

And then fall, with the fresh crispness that made her luxurious coat so absolutely perfect, the ripe apples falling off the trees just begging to be crunched like a tennis ball, trees shedding their tennis ball colors and turning glorious colors that almost rivaled the beauty of her coat, trying to imitate her even to shedding their coats (but never managing to really get the knack of shedding, not when they had no way to reach the furniture and carpet. Shedding, after all, was an art that required a good deal of planning and practice.)

Ah, but winter – perhaps that was her favorite time of the year? Slick and short-haired dogs cowered inside, afraid of the glorious snow, unable to appreciate the brilliant green of tennis balls stark against the white as they plopped into the snow then disappeared from sight, discernable only by diligent digging and a keen nose. (Anastasia was very fond of the word glorious.)

And then it all started over again, as it was now, with the first tiny sprigs of grass just begging to be nibbled, the crocuses poking up just begging to be dug up like tiny slim tennis balls, the rains that came and washed all the scents out of the air, soaking her overcoat but never penetrating to the warm undercoat, just begging to be shook all over the house and Her People.

Anastasia stretched lazily, then ambled off to the kitchen. Perhaps Her Woman, Claire Robinson, had dropped something tasty on the floor late last night, as a special treat just for Anastasia. Like perhaps a frozen waffle or a bit of jelly? Or perhaps Her Woman had hidden something in a special corner for Anastasia to find? Even a bit of bacon was a possibility, wasn’t it?

Of course it was. Anastasia had best check out the floor thoroughly before Cece came charging in. With the One Song in perfect balance and two new cans of tennis balls awaiting liberation, just about anything was possible.

Claire Robinson stared at the computer screen. She squinted at the columns of names and numbers, trying to make them come into focus. But the long day, too many cups of coffee, too little sleep and too much stress were all working against her. She sighed, pushed herself back from the desk, and eased one finger under the ear pad on the left of her headset.

"How's it going Claire?" A cheery voice said. A strong smell of Old Spice cologne wafted into her cubicle and Claire steeled herself for the inevitable. Moments later, the short, wiry form of her immediate supervisor appeared.

"Just fine, Mr. Anderson," she said, scooting her chair back up to the desk. “Everything’s fine.” She tried to put the required note of cheery enthusiasm the company expected in her voice.

"What page are you on?" he asked, stepping into her cubicle with an air of authority. The expression on his face belied his pleasant tone of voice, the latter being primarily for public consumption. Mr. Anderson believed to maintaining a positive image within earshot of his own immediate supervisors and was constantly receiving notations in his personnel file that noted he was a strong, positive motivator, based solely on his tone of voice that they happen to overhear. Privately, they all thought him an obnoxious little tyrant, but everyone believed that everyone else was impressed with Anderson's work.

"I was just beginning page four," Claire said. "One of my calls on page two took longer than I expected."

Mr. Anderson's frown deepened into a scowl. "Everyone else on your team is almost through page five. That was the goal, you remember. Your team set it during the morning meeting. Everyone committed to it, getting through page five before breaking to lunch. You do remember the morning meeting, don't you?"

Mr. Anderson held up his hand as though he were school crossing guard. "It's not me you're letting down, Claire. It’s yourself and your teammates. I'm just here as a motivator. It's about the team, Claire. Not about individuals. When you fall behind, others have picked up your part of the project. Just like when you're late for morning meeting. It wastes everyone's time."

Claire took a deep breath. There was no point in trying to explain that Anastasia had not wanted to come in that morning. Or about Cece and Henry and the tomato plants. If there was one thing that Mr. Anderson dislikes more than Claire’s being behind on her phone calls, it was hearing about Claire's dogs.

If I had known he didn't like dogs, I would never have taken this job. Not because the dogs are part of it—but because there’s something odd about a man who can look at a dog like Anastasia and frown. It's more than about the dog herself. It's about a whole approach to life, about not seeing joy or happiness or truth or anything positive.

“As I said, we’re about to break for lunch," Mr. Anderson said, a pointed tone in his voice.

Claire knew what the proper answer was. Everything here at the company was about teams, about working together.

It was about the appearance of being a team and working together. That's what she got graded on, that's what Mr. Anderson got graded on, that's what mattered. According to management consultants, teamwork required “adjusting to a new paradigm". Claire had a sinking feeling that meant firing people who didn't meet their quotas, and over the last month or so, events had confirmed that suspicion.

But I really need the job right now. Christmas is coming up in December. After that, there will be summer camp, sports—I can't disappoint the kids. Maybe something better will turn up. I just have to keep looking, keep hanging in here at this place until something better turns up.

“I'm not very hungry, sir. Would it be all right if I stayed at my desk during lunch and caught up?" Claire asked, hating herself as she did it.

Then again, if you looked at the bright side, talking to Mr. Anderson always spoiled her appetite anyway. And she did have a chocolate bar in her desk in case she got desperate. Yes, there was a company policy against eating while on the phone, on the theory that eating while making phone calls sounded unpleasant to people on the other end. Well, that might be true about something like potato chips or a sandwich, but she couldn't imagine under any condition that a piece of chocolate melting in one’s mouth wouldn't make one's voice sweeter.

If anything, the look of false approval on Mr. Anderson's face was far worse than the cheeriness. Like she had had any choice. She had known from the moment that she’d smelled Old Spice that she was going to miss lunch.

How did I end up here?, she thought, as she watched him walk away. He was out of sight as soon as he stepped out of her cubicle, since he was exactly the same height as the stained blue partitions. Does anyone ever say to themselves. “When I grow up, I want to sell long distance telephone company plans?”

She turned back to the computer and stared at the blurry columns of names and numbers, seeing them through unshed tears.

"You really shouldn't eat the tomatoes," Anastasia said sternly, all the while knowing it would do no good but that she had to try. The responsibility for turning smooth-brained puppies into responsible adults belong to the entire community, particularly when said no-brain pup was a tomato-muncher with no responsible adults at home.

Responsible Golden Retriever, that was. Of course there were adult humans in the home, if one could call them that. But they seem to have no real understanding of what a young pup needed in terms of guidance, rules and boundaries. Henry got away with far more than CeCe ever even dreamed of.

Just for starters, there was the whole issue of the tomato patch. For some reason, the people seem to think that yelling, lecturing, or even taking Henry over to the patch and yelling “NO” would work. They kept trying the same things over and over and they didn't work. Anastasia was just glad she was not responsible for training Henry’s people. They seemed like exceptionally slow learners.

A fence, she had tried to shout at them. Just put up a fence, for heavens sakes! He's just a puppy!

She'd been tempted to have her human have a word with them about the proper training of puppies. In fact, if the tomato-eating continued, there was really not much way around it.

Anastasia really hated to bother Claire with anything right now. Claire was under a tremendous amount of pressure and was deeply unhappy with her job. Anastasia saw it every day when Claire came home in the set of her shoulders, the worn look on her face, in how eager Claire was to take off her outside clothes and slip into comfortable blue jeans, sweats, and a T-shirt.

Of course, Anastasia did what she could to make it easier for Claire. While Claire was at work, Anastasia kept Cece under control and more than once had take away some purloined toys that Cece had chosen, something entirely inappropriate like shoes, a bit of trash, or books. Every day, as soon as she heard Claire’s car approaching the subdivision, Anastasia rallied the entire neighborhood to celebrate her return home. Of course, there were also the traditional human-coming-home welcoming rituals, which Anastasia, a bit of stickler on ritual, adhered to meticulously. But there was nothing in the rule books that said she couldn't stay get a couple of extra butt wiggles or face licks and still complete the specified ritual correctly, was there?

Most times, being welcomed by one's Golden Retriever upon returning home was sufficient to relax and renewed the person. It was one of those talents that every Golden had, sort of like being a good listener, the other thing they were famous for. There was nothing like gazing deep into the adoring eyes of a Golden to make everything all right, at least temporarily.

But there were some instances that required even more, and Claire’s situation was approaching that point. Sooner or later, Anastasia was going to have to take action. The negative vibrations were starting to effect the rest of the neighborhood, throwing the One Song ever so slightly out of tune.

Oh, nothing earthshaking, not the way war, earthquakes or other national tragedy's affected the entire balance of things. But still, the effect was noticeable, especially since Claire resided with the Keeper of the One Song, so close to the source of power

Even aside from the effect on the One Song, Anastasia would've been forced to act anyway. Like all Golden Retrievers, she possessed a deeply empathetic nature, one that could hardly bear to see unhappiness in any other being. It was most particularly intolerable in one's own human, like a constant itch you couldn't quite reach or a bit of food stuck behind a back tooth. You could ignore it occasionally, try to pretend it wasn't there, but it was always popping up to disturb your thoughts.

Yes, Anastasia had to do something about Claire’s situation, and the sooner the better. Especially since she might need Claire’s help in coping with Henry's people.

Anastasia turned her attention back to the pup. "We have discussed this before, you’ll remember. The whole bit about tomatoes.” She lowered her voice, speaking confidentially. There was no point in airing his personal problems to the whole word. “It's really the same issue as the problem with the marigolds, isn't it?"

"I didn't really mean to bite it." Henry's voice was as close to sullen as a Golden Retriever could ever get. But it was all for show, really. She could read his real reaction in the set of his tail, the way he stared at the ground and pawed at a little patch of dirt.

Anastasia pointed at the partially-eaten tomato on the ground. "How exactly does one accidentally bite a tomato?"

Finally, Henry raised his head to look at her. “You didn't say anything about licking them. You said not to bite them. So—I was just licking it. And I might have licked a little too hard. Or maybe it sort of—slipped. Yeah, that's what happened. I was licking it and it slipped and I accidentally bit it. Yeah. It was an accident."

Anastasia forced herself not to be amused. It was bad enough that the humans fell for his cuteness. Someone had to teach him to be a proper Golden, and she couldn't do it if she allowed herself to be amused by his explanations.

"In that case, you were not licking correctly," she said, not giving one inch. "Which means we need to thoroughly reviewed those lessons as well."

"Evidently not. Because if you bite a tomato when you're licking it, you might bite a human when you're licking him or her. No jaw action when licking—how many times do I have to tell you that? The proper lick is performed with the jaws maintaining a stationary position in relation to one another, not interfering with the licking action and posing no danger to the hand or other appendage. And that, my young friend, is taken word for word from the manual. Which evidently you have not sufficiently studied."

"No," Anastasia said, surprising him. "Not an essay at all. Instead, you will give an oral presentation and demonstration at the next pack meeting. Five minutes. By yourself. No visual aids."

“A presentation! Anastasia, come on! Where am I going to find the time to prepare a proper presentation?"

He sounds entirely too much like I did that age. And now I'm going to sound like my mother.

"Perhaps if you spend less time licking tomatoes and browsing around the garden, you'll have time to pull something together. And don't think I don't know about those damaged cucumbers." From the look on Henry's face, that's exactly what he thought. “Remember, it's exactly the same issue as the marigolds. We do not gnaw vegetation that has been planted by the humans."

Anastasia watched Henry walk off, still quietly amused. He thought that she was ancient, completely unable to understand what it was to be like a puppy surrounded by all sorts of new things and experiences and opportunities. She remembered feeling that way about her own pack leader! But that had been then and this was now, and Henry was her responsibility.

The question of Claire and her situation intruded again on Anastasia’s mind. She was going to have to do something about it, and do something soon. But what? And when? And how? Her duties as Keeper of the One Song took up a considerable amount of time, as did raising and training both Cece and Henry. And then there were the human pups as well—they had to be exercised, made to run around the yard picking up tennis balls and throwing them, paid attention to in order to heal the inevitable psychic cuts and bruises of growing up. While Anastasia didn't begrudged a moment of it, it seemed that squeezing out a few minutes every day for herself was becoming more and more impossible.

But you don't have any choice. No more than you had about becoming Keeper, did you? You'll find a way to cope. You always do.

Claire turned into the entrance of Cornelius Ranch and heard the frenzy barking that always greeted her car. It was audible even over the rattle of her car’s engine and the growling from her stomach. The joyous greeting—which Mr. Anderson no doubt would have called noise—seemed to reach inside Claire and settle into her soul. There was something about these few moments as she pulled up to her house, making the transition from office to home, that always took her surprise. It was as though she had forgotten what happiness was, what life was really all about. In the span of eight hours, the combination of the bare cubicle walls, Mr. Anderson, and entirely too much teamwork, disoriented her. It was only when she returned here and heard the dogs that she became herself again, no longer crushed by the rest of the world.

She was fortunate to live relatively far out in the country and had neighbors who felt the same way about dogs that she did. More than one of them had served as an emergency foster home for a Golden in need of a temporary home. She'd never heard a cross word from any of them about her own rescue activities. In fact, she tended to identify her neighbors by what sort dog each household had. Thanks to her own rescue activities, Golden Retriever's were becoming increasingly visible in the area.

The first house on the right was home to Harley, a Greyhound, and Jason, a Golden Retriever, a relatively recent addition to the home. Jason was one of Claire’s own rescues, and Harley's people fell in love with him while they were on a walk one day.

Jason and Harley were the perfect combination. In fact, had she looked for years, Claire could not have found a better home for Jason. He was, according to many adoption groups, unplaceable. Although in perfect health with a wonderful, a sunny temperament, Jason suffered from one critical flaw—a crippling phobia of tennis balls.

The first day Jason had arrived at Claire's house for fostering, she discovered the problem. She'd taken him out in the backyard for the usual game of throw-the-ball with the others. The second the tennis ball went soaring through the air, so did Jason, heading for the fence. He banged up against it several times, then tried to jump over it, falling short, then started climbing the chain link fence. He’d fallen off and collapsed into a shivering wreck, panting and whining, his eyes frantic. When she reached for him, he flinched. It was only after Jason had inspected Claire’s open hands and determined she no longer held the tennis ball that he’d let her touch him.

By some mysterious process, Harley seemed to understand Jason's problem. When they were out on a walk together or in the yard, Harley would immediately chase anything that looked like a tennis ball, and keep it from getting near Jason. Harley was quite capable of lofting tennis balls in the air and throwing them over the fence, just protecting the emotional health of his best friend.

Two doors down from Harley and Jason lived Amos comes, an Airedale Terrier. He was a very responsible, stately dog—almost too much so. Claire sometimes saw a hint of terrier fire lurking in his eyes, but it took a great deal of coaxing to get him to play chase. She had the feeling that he really wanted to, but found it difficult to loosen up.

The other dogs living in the neighborhood included Chewy, a black shepherd mix with huge ears. Chewey was a pound survivor, now adored by her family. Her one weakness was her inability to resist anything that looked chewable.

Thunder, a oversized Lhaso Apso, was white with brown patches. Unlike most of the other neighborhood dogs, he was essentially a house dogs, going outside only to take care of necessary matters. Still, he could be counted on to join in nightly howls and to help welcome Claire home every day.

The two other Goldens in the neighborhood where Sir Dudly Fudley of Wudley and D'Alice. Sir Dudley had to teach Alice how to play, since Alice was a rescue dog who had been through a hard time. She, on the other hand, helped keep Sir Dudley calmed down.

Claire could hear the barking coming from her own home, Anastasia's stately bark, the higher, shorter yips from Cece. Henry chimed in as well but his voice had already begun to change. Henry lived on her right hand side. The short street was home to several other dogs, some of them mixed breeds, some from various rescues. Claire knew all of them to speak to, and Harley, Jason, and Henry often came over for play dates or to stay when their owners were out of town.

Finally, Claire pulled up in her own driveway. The clamor inside her house rose to a deafening roar, and she found herself eager to get out of the car. She pulled into the garage, parked hastily, and went eagerly into the house to let her Goldens make the rest of the world go away.

Unbeknownst to Claire, there was one dog in the neighborhood that she had never met. In fact, she had no idea he even existed at all. His name was Garth, and he was a German Shepherd Dog, or GSD. Garth had been dumped by his owners, who had driven off, oblivious to his howls, reassuring themselves confidently that he would find an excellent home out in the country somewhere. He would be much better off in the country that in the city, somewhere that he had room to roam instead of being cooped up in a boring fenced yard. For that was Garth's great offense, in their eyes—Garth was an escape artist. He had defied every attempt to fence him in. Invisible fence, chain link, and even a hot wire—none of it made any difference. Even when his people tried tying him to a clothesline run, he managed to figure a way to either slip his collar, chew through the rope, or snap the chain.

Garth's Harry Houdini abilities were only one aspect of his personality. He was a brilliant dog, a deep thinker, but with a dark, suspicious nature that saw conspiracies around every corner. At the time his people had become disgusted with his behavior, he had been investigating a series of odd incidents in Cornelius Ranch. Although not a sociable fellow by nature, he had managed to become acquainted with Anastasia. He was, in fact, one of the few dogs who knew the true nature of her duties as Keeper of the One Song.

Anastasia appreciated Garth for his mental abilities as well as his escape artist skills and sometimes found both helpful in fulfilling her duties. Garth was not reluctant to help if a problem interested him, but his tolerance for boredom was infinitely small.

In exchange for his help, Anastasia and the other Goldens rustled up food for him. In the past two months he’d been hanging around Cornelius Ranch, Garth had filled out and lost some of the scruffy, wolfish look he’d had before.

Garth was currently lurking in the eighty acres of nature preserve that bordered Cornelius Ranch. The odd events that originally brought him to Cornelius Ranch were continuing. He saw no immediate end to his investigation in sight.

Claire buried her face in Anastasia's deep, luxurious hair. The Golden lay her head aside alongside the woman's, snuggling in. Cece bounced around them for a bit then tried to squeeze in between Anastasia and Claire, but the bond between the woman and the Keeper of the One Song was too strong. Cece would get her time with Claire in just a moment, but the first few moments inside the door were always Anastasia's.

Anastasia stepped in closer, her breath warm on the back of Claire's neck. Time seemed to stop. Their breathing synchronized, as did their heartbeats.

This was what kept Claire going, enabled her to tolerate Mr. Anderson's idiocy and gave her perspective on the day. Around Anastasia, everything became reduced to its lowest yet best common denominator. There was a Golden, there was a person in need—and that was enough.

But these moments never lasted forever. They couldn't. They were too strong, too pure, too close to the Infinite for any human being long to tolerate. Eventually, Anastasia drew back the slightest bit, weakening and then gently breaking the bond.

Cece, of course, took immediate advantage of the opportunity to shoulder her way in close. Claire, recognizing that the moment had passed, opened up her arms to the younger Golden. "Come here, you silly girl! You've been very patient, haven’t you? And so ignored, right? After all, I've been all gone all day long and nobody has been here to play with you. It's a sad, sad state of affairs when such a fine Golden like you is treated in such a callous matter, isn't it? Well, let me make it up to you!"

Claire pulled Cece close to her for a full body hug, her fingers rubbing in just the right places. Cece responded with enthusiasm and sheer delight. Finally, Cece, too was satiated—at least for the moment.

"You two never get any attention, do you?" Claire asked. She gave Cece one last affectionate rub then Anastasia a gentler one. "Anybody else would think I've been gone for months and months instead of just eight hours."

With the first priorities taken care of, it was time to do something about the sad state of Claire’s stomach. The candy bar had long since worn off, and a full day of dealing with Mr. Anderson and the pressures to make all her calls had worn her out.

Claire went into the kitchen, followed by two eager Goldens. She opened the freezer, studied the contents thoughtfully, then selected a frozen package of red sauce with sausage. Popping it in the microwave to defrost, she turned her attention to the Goldens. "Are you hungry?"

Vigorous wags and smiles assured her that this was indeed the case. "I guess we'd better get you something eat. Unless—." Claire let her voice drawl the vowels out, smiling with anticipation. This was a game they played every day and the Goldens knew what coming next. "Unless—," she said again, watching their faces. Both were staring at her with intense concentration, just waiting to be certain that she really meant what they thought she meant. Which she always did, of course. It was just part of the game.

Chaos broke out immediately at the first syllable as the two Goldens anticipated the rest of the sentence. Play ball? Of course they wanted to play ball! Playing ball was not just a sport! It was a way of life.

Cece dashed to her favorite corner and retrieved two tennis balls, cramming them into her mouth until she was almost choking. She ran to the back sliding door and through the doggie door inset, racing out into the backyard. A microsecond later, she came inside to make certain Claire was really going to follow her.

"Okay, okay." Claire knew exactly what the young dog was thinking. She shrugged her sweater back on and headed for the back door, Anastasia by her side.

Anastasia gave a precautionary bark as they headed out the back door, alerting Jason at the end of the road of the impending danger. Jason knew that they played tennis balls at this time everyday and the odds of one making it to his house from Anastasia’s house were minimal, but there was no point in taking chances. A tennis ball phobia was nothing to play games with.

Cece had already gone long, waiting for the first pitch. It was a practice Anastasia disliked, a break with tradition.

The proper way to play ball was to stay close to the human, wait for the throw, and then dash off in the direction the ball was thrown. It was acceptable to occasionally anticipate the throw by a few steps, once the direction of the throw was reasonably certain, but even then, it didn't pay to get complacent. Anastasia knew several people who, for some strange reason, seem to like to fake a throw in one direction and then unexpectedly toss the ball somewhere else entirely. While it wasn’t precisely playing fair, it did happened all too often, and a good Golden was always prepared for that possibility. Cece was too young and inexperienced to realize how much of an issue it could be although Anastasia had warned her time and time again.

Playing ball for hours on end was certainly an appropriate way to demonstrate one's devotion to one’s Goldens, but it would be a mistake to think that playing ball was merely for the benefit of the dogs. No, it has far more profound theological implications that any human seemed to realize. It was a lesson in trust and faith, the action of throwing the ball out into the unknown and relying on one’s own Golden to retrieve it. A simple exercise, yet fraught with the potential for disaster.

Suppose, for instance, someday the Golden simply refused to chase the ball? What would that do to their human’s faith in the essential orderliness of the universe, in the predictability of results? It would cause them to think immediately about their relationship with the Infinite, and that was to much for any human mind to tolerate for long, wrapped up as they were in the complications of being human. No, the best way for humans to approach the Infinite and the One Song was to play ball with the Keeper of the One Song.

There were other ways that the game could be misused, too. Some Goldens, for some reason, delighted in playing extended games of chase with their people, approaching enticingly close while carrying the ball, wagging at them, then dashing down to the far end of the yard, begging to be chased.

While Anastasia could understand and sympathize with the urge, it was something that was overdone far too often. It resulted in a disruption in the way they humans viewed the world. It was essential to their happiness and well being that they imagine they had some degree of control over the game (the one they played with the Goldens, not the one they lived every day.)

To have them to throw the ball out in the yard then simply snatch it away from them and not return it was unfair. What did that teach the humans about the rest of the universe in terms of justice and truth? Not a whole lot, in Anastasia's opinion.

No, the traditional ways were best. The human threw the ball, the Golden Retriever brought back. There had to be at least one thing reliable and predictable in the world.

Like Cece needs any encouragement. Anastasia watched as Cece took off at a dead run. Anastasia, no slouch herself in the ball retrieval game, sometimes marveled at the younger dog’s persistence. Cece would keep the game up for hours and hours, thus falling into another common heresy.

Humans needed to believe that what they did in terms of throwing balls out at the universe would eventually produce results. The Golden Retriever would eventually tire the game and the human would have the ball back.

Of course, it was acceptable to occasionally have the human chase you down—it prevented them from getting cocky and also provided very beneficial aerobic activity. That, coupled with an appropriate diet (best supervised by the Golden counter-surfing and confiscating inappropriate food) led to a healthy, well adjusted human being. And wasn't that what they all wanted?

"This one is for you, Anastasia," Claire said, holding up a tennis ball. Anastasia wagged. Chasing ball was a good thing in and of itself, apart from the deeper implications of the game. It was fun, just sheer fun—and how could there be too much of that in any life?

Twenty minutes later, Anastasia called an end to the game. She signaled Cece, who resisted for a moment and then, with a heavy sigh, picked up her favorite ball and brought it back. The time was not arbitrary, of course. Anastasia's exceptionally sharp ears had heard the ding of the microwave timer indicating that Claire’s food was defrosted. If the human was about to be fed, so were the Goldens.

Anastasia watched approvingly as a woman took her time fixing both the Goldens’ dinners and her own better. It was to be one of those nights when particular care was lavished on the food, with nice little tidbits hidden in the food. A bit of cottage cheese here, perhaps a little nibblie of some other sort elsewhere—a very good thing. The woman also prepared her own pasta carefully, and added to parmesan and fresh basil to the sauce. A spinach salad completed her dinner, something Anastasia had anticipated the moment she saw a bit of hard-boiled egg on her own dinner. Claire always shared.

An hour or so later, after every one had been fed and the dishes and bowls put away, leftovers carefully packed for lunch the next day (despite what Anastasia sometimes suspected, Claire was indeed a quick learner, and she had vowed to start taking her lunch to work). Then it was time for the couch, perhaps half an hour of Animal Planet. Perhaps something good would be on, like a police dog show. Anastasia always enjoyed watching them do their tricks and had indeed practiced some of them in the backyard herself. She never could get the bark exactly right, though, that harsh, demanding bark the German Shepherd Dogs managed. Although her own bark was quite ferocious and certainly loud enough, it lacked a certain something or other she couldn't quite place. It was one thing to protect oneself—another entirely to go out and chased strange bad guys. Maybe that was it.

Claire’s fingers found Anastasia's ear and rubbed. Cece nudged Claire’s other elbow, voicing her objection to being ignored. "Hold on while I get the remote," Claire said. She clicked to the correct channel, then resumed paying the proper attention to the Goldens.

Even apart from the sheer entertainment of Animal Planet, Anastasia viewed this as perhaps the most important part of the day. This was the time when Claire normally had long talks with them, told them everything that was on her mind, unburdened her soul. Anastasia, who possess an extensive vocabulary, had little trouble following most of it (although she confessed some of the details of cost accounting and equal opportunity sometimes escaped her.)

"I need a new job, girls," Claire said. "Mr. Anderson—I mean, I see his point, that we have to keep on schedule. But sometimes there are people who just take a little longer, you know? Maybe they don't have a Golden at home, nobody who really cares about them. And I'm nobody to them, just a stranger, but they're so desperate that they’re be willing to pretend we know each other just for a little human contact, just to hear a few kind words, to have a friend if only for just a few minutes. How am I supposed to tell them I’m too busy to listen?"

You're not, Anastasia replied promptly. You're doing exactly the right thing. You’re better than he is.

“And I like talking to people a lot," Claire continued, oblivious to Anastasia’s answer. "I'm even pretty good at it. Sometimes I even sell them a the long distance plan. If it makes sense for them. You’d think that would count for something, wouldn’t you?"

The One Song rely heavily on people like Claire to maintain its stability. Life on this planet had far more than enough dangers, traumas and evil in it, and keeping it balanced required constant vigilance. People like Claire, though they never knew it, were a sort of counterweight. Their small acts of kindness and caring, even from a strange telemarketer, made more difference that they could possibly know.

Not everyone was capable of shifting the balance of the Song, of course not. That would be entirely too chaotic. But just a few people, saying the right thing at the right time, words spoken with love, could make all the difference in the world.

"I needed new job, I think," Claire said, and gave a small shudder. "But starting all over again—and who’s to say there won't be another Mr. Anderson at the new place? Or maybe he’ll leave eventually, get promoted or something." Again, that small shudder. "That might be even worse. He’d be teaching more people to be just like him."

And here in comes, Anastasia thought. The reason she was one of the ones who could shift the balance of the One Song.

"Oh, I guess I'm being too hard on him," Claire said. "I don't know anything about his home life or his family. Maybe he doesn't have anything to make him happy and he takes it out on us. With people like him, it's usually something like that." She slid her fingers deep into Anastasia's fur and gave the big Golden a small playful shake. "I have tried, though. I asked him about his family. He looked at me like I was crazy. But everybody has a family, don’t they?"

Anastasia knew what Mr. Anderson's problem really was, but it wasn't something she felt comfortable sharing. In essence, the man was simply a jerk. Neither evil nor good, but somewhere in between—more of an irritant than anything else. While getting to know Claire better would have done him a great deal of good, it wasn't likely to happen.

Oh, sure, Claire would keep trying, but that drew her energy away from other things that really needed her, like keeping the One Song in tune, preventing world war, and playing ball with her Goldens. (Not necessarily in that order.)

Was that right? To waste what Claire was, hoping that she could change Mr. Anderson, when the rest of the world was in need? Hard decisions, not ones that just any Golden could make.

Claire looked down at her dog, seeing for just a flash who she was really dealing with. She sucked in a hard breath, then gave a small laugh. "For a minute there, I thought—you are my best girl, aren’t you, Anastasia?” She bent over and buried her face in Anastasia's fur again, her other hand tickling Cece’s neck. "My very best dog. If it weren’t for you—well, I don't know what I would do."

The note of despair in Claire’s voice worried Anastasia immensely. She licked Her Woman reassuringly on the cheek. This situation couldn't be allowed to continue, not when it was making Claire sound like this. There was too much at stake.

Suddenly, Claire sat up straight. She pulled both dogs close to her. "That's it! Yes, there may be more jerks like Mr. Anderson in the world, but this particular one is taking too much out of me. I've made a decision, girls. I'm going to find a new job."

Find a new job? Oh, excellent! Anastasia crawled into Claire’s lap, doing her best imitation of being a small dog. Now that Claire had made the decision, it would be easy.

Unfortunately, for all that she was Keeper of the One Song, Anastasia was not particularly well-versed in the intricacies of human job hunting. The concept of a want ad, a resume, career paths and equal opportunity had no parallels in Anastasia’s world. Goldens knew what their jobs were from the moment they were born, with a few exceptions (getting tapped as Keeper of the One Song being one of those.)

However, FIND was a concept Anastasia understood completely. FIND could be linked with either the concept of hidden—as when Claire tucked a treat under a couch cushion and told Anastasia to FIND it—or lost, such as a tennis ball that had rolled under a bush or a bit of bacon in the corner of a room that was hidden from view. FIND meant “Look and sniff and roam around until you locate it.” FIND was even more fun that chase or play ball.

This was a real break, in Anastasia’s mind. If Claire’s problem could be resolved by a simple FIND, then Anastasia was just the Golden to take care of it. After all, hadn’t she found the tennis ball wedge up between two branches in the elm tree? The remote control that had somehow ended up in the clothes dryer? (Although privately she suspected Cece had had a paw in that one.) And wasn’t she the Keeper of the One Song?