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valued in matrimony, but I scrambled for a persuasive tale anyway. No luck.
    â€œYes, I’m here,” I finally admitted. “That was my dog.”
    â€œYour what?”
    â€œI have a new dog. There’s this greyhound adoption agency, and—”
    â€œWait! What? Did you say greyhound? As in ‘racing dog?’ ”
    I felt a head softly brush against my leg.
    â€œHow long have you had this dog and when were you going to tell me?”
    The floodgates burst and I launched into a breathless monologue. I started with Maggie and Lance, proceeded through Flagstaff, and ended at the sliding glass door. “Comet thinks the reflection is some sort of ghost. She hardly ever barks,” I concluded hopefully.
    I could hear Freddie breathing heavily, trying to stay calm. “But, Wolf, a greyhound ? How in the world are you going to care for a racing dog? I can’t—I just can’t even fathom it.”
    â€œComet chose me. What was I supposed to do?”
    â€œHow about not going up there in the first place? C’est vraiment con ! I thought you told me you have a hard time shopping for food and you never even cook yourself a meal. I worry about you all night. Meanwhile, you adopt a racing dog! I’ve got to go. I’m too pissed off to talk to you now.”
    Formidable . In French it means terrific, in English it means fearsome. Both described my wife. Twelve years earlier I had met this petite, dark-haired woman while on vacation in Scottsdale, Arizona. In a thick and unrecognizable (to me) accent, she had introduced herself as “Frederique, but most people call me Freddie.” She told me that she lived in the United States but had been raised in France. I was entranced by the way Freddie spoke and looked—the warm olive skin, boyishly short haircut, hazel eyes, and quick, startlingly bright smile. She was full of life, ready for any dare. When we exchanged phone numbers and realized that we shared the same Nebraska area code, I could almost hear the swell of an off-screen orchestra.
    Freddie and I dated for two years before marrying and moving in together along with our children: my young daughters, Kylie and Lindsey (their mom lived in Omaha and we shared custody), and Freddie’s two-year-old girl, Jackie. The five of us settled into the house on the lake where my daughters and I had been living. Despite some initial clashes, we eventually melded into a new family. Freddie was exuberant, smart, and not at all shy. When she was around the girls, she managed to restrain her penchant for swearing. Was cursing a national pastime in her country? If so, I didn’t mind. Merde sounded so earthy and poetic.
    Freddie’s boldness was fine when in service of her joie de vivre. It could turn a little rough when she got stressed, and to be fair, things had been stressful for several years. I didn’t really blame her for her harsh reaction to Comet. I just needed a little more time to make my case. After several tense conversations, my wife and I struck a compromise. I would not immediately return “the mistake,” as Freddie called Comet. In a few weeks Freddie would come to Sedona and meet the greyhound. Only then, if she still thought “the mistake” was a mistake, would I drive Comet back to the foster family.
    On a warm April afternoon Freddie arrived via the airport shuttle—a godsend for me, the Phoenix airport being a four-hour round trip from Sedona. She entered the house and set her carry-on inside the door. Several days seemed to pass during the next few moments as Freddie spied Comet, who was sitting stiffly next to the fireplace like a statue from Tut’s tomb. The greyhound eyed us cautiously. My wife’s face softened infinitesimally as she said, “It is sort of pretty.” Then, before I could exploit any potential weakness, Freddie kissed me and said, “Let’s talk.”
    We sat at the kitchen table. Comet