Miss Lila St. John regarded her pet with a mixture of affection and pity. Sir Oscar Henry San Angelo III, otherwise known as Ozzie, was a rare breed known as a Portuguese Water Dog. Miss St. John was not quite clear as to the attributes of this particular breed. She suspected it was some sort of geneticists’ joke. Her niece had presented the dog to her—“to keep you company, Auntie”—and Miss St. John had been trying to remember ever since what that niece could hold against her. Not that Ozzie was entirely without redeeming value. He didn’t bite, didn’t bother the cat. He was a passable watchdog. But he ate like a horse, twitched like a mouse and was absolutely unforgiving if you neglected to take him on his twice-daily walk. He would stand by the door and whine. The way he was doing now. Oh, Miss St. John knew that look. Even if she couldn’t actually see the beast’s eyes under all that fur, she knew what the look meant. Sighing, she opened the door.
