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mountainside like a doomed female infant, when these ungodly beautiful dogs had materialized from the mist. Here I was now! Still astounded at heaven’s bounty in blessing me with this massive, furry evidence of hope and strength in an otherwise bewildering and menacing universe! And what had I done in return? Failed to recognize my saviors as my own dogs! Effaced their names from my witless so-called intellect!
    Having staged my own internal revival meeting and confessed myself a sinner before the altar of Almighty Dog, I resolved to atone. I longed with religious fervor to know the dogs’ names. What drove me was, among other things, the conviction that the ability to call the dogs by their own names would somehow release me from the fear that still gripped me.
    Before ransacking the cottage for rabies certificates, dog snapshots, or other artifacts of my lost past that might bear the magic names, I made myself slow down, breathe calmly, and carefully check both dogs for subtle injuries. Neither was limping or bleeding. Still, the female, with her Lone Ranger mask and her air of acute self-possession, struck me as too proud to whine about pain; and the male, with his soft, glowing expression and his debonair charm, seemed capable of ignoring a bodily injury if it competed with his zest for the joys of the here-and-now. I began with the female. She readily sprawled tummy-up on the floor as I ran my fingertips over her, extended and flexed her legs, and peered closely at the pads of her feet. Despite a rivalrous gleam in his dark eyes, the handsome boy suppressed what I suspected was an incipient rumble of complaint about having to watch his chum get all the attention.
    “Okay, Big Boy,” I finally told him. “Your lady friend seems fine. Let’s take a look at you.” Eager to join the game, he dropped to the floor and rolled over, tucked in his chin and forepaws, and let me repeat the examination on him. As I did so, his companion remained on her back, and the two sets of warm, almond-shaped eyes stayed fixed on my face. Finding nothing alarming, I finished by giving the two massive chests and tummies a simultaneous and vigorous rub.
    “I swear to God,” I promised, “that somewhere in this house is something with your names written on it. In the predicament we’re in right now, the crucial thing is to have a plan, right? So, here’s the beginning of it. First, I am going to get myself cleaned up. And then I am going to find out who you two are. And then we’ll take it from there.”
    So, after I’d showered, toweled myself off, and dried my hair with what felt like someone else’s hair dryer, I examined Holly Winter’s clothes, which consisted almost exclusively of jeans, T-shirts, and sweatshirts. The jeans and a couple of fleece tops were free of adornment, but almost every T-shirt was embellished with a team of sled dogs, the head of an Alaskan malamute, the logo of the Cambridge Dog Training Club, a boast about what Big Dogs did or didn’t do, or some other blatantly canine motif. Furthermore, although a queen-size bed, a dresser, and the big dog crates occupied almost the entire floor space of the cottage’s one small bedroom, I’d managed to cram the space available for storage with dog gear. In an open alcove that served as a closet were a set of portable PVC obedience hurdles and a large duffel bag jammed with leashes, dumbbells, scent articles, white work gloves, and other paraphernalia that I didn’t bother to explore. In one corner of the room, fleece animals, thick ropes, and hard chew toys formed a neat mound. Only the two top dresser drawers held human clothing. The bottom drawer contained wire slicker brushes, undercoat rakes, and other grooming supplies. All were neatly sealed in heavy plastic bags.
    It came as a relief to find that I did have a few respect-1 able possessions of my own and at least a few interests i other than dogs, albeit not many. The coffee table by the fireplace held a