A Big Little Life. Dean Koontz

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       I a spooky moment around which the entire story revolves

      THE SPOOKY MOMENT central to this story comes on an evening more than ten years ago.

      Trixie, a three-year-old golden retriever of singular beauty and splendid form, adopted the previous September, is in her fourth month with my wife, Gerda, and me.

      She is joyful, affectionate, comical, intelligent, remarkably well behaved. She is also more self-possessed and dignified than I had ever realized a dog could be.

      Already and unexpectedly, she has changed me as a person and as a writer. I am only beginning to understand the nature of those changes and where they will lead me.

      January 1999:

      Our first house in Newport Beach, in the neighborhood known as Harbor Ridge, had an exceptionally long up-stairs hallway, actually a gallery open to the foyer below. Because this hall was carpeted and thus provided good traction for paws and because nothing breakable stood along its walls, I often played there with Trixie on days when the weather turned foul and on cool winter evenings when the sun set early.

      Initially, I tossed a ball and sometimes a Kong toy down the hall. The Kong was about six inches long, made of hard rubber with an inch-wide hole through the middle. You could stuff a mixture of peanut butter and kibble in the hole, to keep your dog occupied for an hour or longer. I tried this twice, but Trixie managed to extract the tasty mixture from the Kong in five minutes, which was less time than I took to prepare it.

      One evening the rubber Kong bounced wildly and smashed into a small oil painting, splitting the canvas. The painting was very old, and it was one of Gerda’s favorites.

      When she noticed the damage a few days later, I fessed up at once: “The dog did it.”

      “Even standing on her hind feet,” Gerda said, “the dog isn’t tall enough to do it.”

      Confident that my logic was СКАЧАТЬ