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balance, propped Chance against my hip like a sack of dog food, a clown-and-canine pietà . I said, “This dog is twenty-two pounds. Enough pot, you’ll kill her.”
    That dog was my sidekick, a showstopper in training. My big Chance. I couldn’t have a clown dog that drooled and stumbled, and not on command, canine mind blown, in diapers, handicapped by the herb. Her only trick then would be the famous egg-in-a-frying-pan routine, that omelet dance of a brain on drugs. I reached for the phone, hit three buttons for local information.
    Herman grabbed for the phone, but I swung Chance to one side and jammed the phone against my stomach. He wrapped his arms around me and the dog, came from both directions, pressed the button on the receiver down with one big thumb. “That dog found the pot,” he said. “On her own. I’m not going to lose my income over a dog’s ganja habit.”
    I wheezed under Herman’s hug. My head crackled, vision narrowed. “Poison Control isn’t the cops. It’s for health stuff. They want people to call.”
    “Sure, to turn themselves in.” Herman’s breath was smoky, close to my face. His heavy breathing and sweat were all too familiar, from the old days when we were a couple, as were his hands, sticky now with the summer sweetness of honeydew melon. I dropped to my knees and made a tight ball around the phone. Under one arm I still held the drooling, zoned-out throw rug of Chance.
    “Let go,” I said. “I have a right to call.”
    His ponytail fell forward, over my shoulder. “Give me the phone, Nita.”
    I was under a tent of Herman, breath, body, and smell. Our history. Then he let go. Stepped away. I dialed.
    “Jesus,” he said and unplugged the phone at the wall. He tossed the cord. “No calls to Poison Control. And no cops. Not while you live here.” In my house . That’s what he wanted to say.
    Herman had no idea how close I’d come to the cops. That gilded, golden officer, with his glass of water. “Poison Control doesn’t report to the cops,” I said again.
    Out of breath, Herman reached for his cigarette and took a drag like the smoke would settle his breathing. As he exhaled with a B-flat wheeze, he said, “I’ll tell you what. We’ll fix her up.” He took another drag. “In the bathroom. There’s a brown bottle.” He waved a hand toward the hall. “Hydrogen peroxide. Two table-spoons and your Chance’ll be good as new.”
    Natalia-Italia, behind him, cranked open the top on a can of sardines. She held one fish up by its tiny tail and slid the fish into her mouth. Comfort food.
    Dog drool ran in a thin line over my arm to the floor. “Really?”
    He nodded, and smoked like his lungs were starved, like he’d gone too long without, as though smoke were scarce and necessary. In a cloud of smoke he said, “First she’ll vomit, then she’ll be good as new. Trust me. I know how to detox, right? She just ate the stuff, like minutes ago.”
    “You’ve done this before?”
    He said, “My old dog ate drugs all the time. I fixed her up.”
    I ran my hand over Chance’s dark hair. “Where’s that dog now?”
    Natalia slid another headless, glistening bristling sardine between her lips. She leaned against Herman’s sweaty shoulder. Herman said, “She lived a long life, OK? Now go, before your dog digests the stuff. It won’t work digested—time’s wasting.” He shook Italia off.
    I took Chance down the long, dark hall. Herman kept our house dark. That’s how they catch pot growers, he said, by the high electricity bills. He knew things like that, like how to do drugs and how to clean up, how to pass a urine test and how to walk a straight line. Maybe how to detox a dog.
    I tripped on one of Italia’s barbells and banged an elbow and Chance against the wall. The dog didn’t flinch. Since Italia moved in, the house was crowded with free weights, sweaty spandex, and dirty towels. Instead of our old couch, her weight bench sprawled in front of the TV.
    I