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marble-cake-colored pit bull sitting facing us and looking peacefully off to the right. A white bird--a dove?--with wings spread is hovering over the dog's head. Behind them in a valley is a castle. Behind that is a bucolic landscape that includes rolling hills, a meandering river, farmers at work in their vineyards. It would be easy to replace the dog with a lord or wealthy landowner standing on a hill above all he owned, all he has achieved in life, his heaven on earth, all there for _us _to see and envy. But it is _not _a lord nor is it a human being; it is a pit bull. And a very familiar-looking one at that.

    The title of the painting was "Old Vertue."

    "How did you know about this, George?"

    "I remembered the painting."

    I closed the book and read the title. _Great Animal Portraits. _"Does the author say anything about the picture in the introduction?"

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    "Nothing."

    "Why didn't you tell me about this after you saw the body and I told you his name?"

    "Because first I wanted to hear how you felt about it."

    I was so angry I wanted to hit him on the head with the book. I was so rattled I wanted to go into the second hole I was going to dig for the dead dog and hide. I dropped the book on the floor.
    George started for it but when my body tensed, he froze.

    "What am I supposed to _do _about this?"

    He squatted down like a baseball catcher and put his hand on the arm of my chair to balance himself. Both of us remained silent. Chuck rolled over on his back and started doing that thing dogs do when they're happy or feeling goofy:
    Back and forth-- flip flop.

    "George, what would you do if you were me?"

    "Bury the dog again. Then see what happens."
    "Not much else I can do, is there?"

    "You could have it cremated at the Amerling Animal Shelter, but I don't think that would end the problem."

    "It'll come back, won't it?"

    "I think so. Yes it will."

    "No good deed goes unpunished. That's what I get for being nice to a dead dog: Fucker comes back to haunt me. This is absurd. Why am I talking this way?"

    "Because wonder's grabbed you by the arm, Frannie. Because it's out of your control. Something else is making the rules now."

    A strange, disturbing thought arrived. I couldn't stop asking, "Is it you, George? Have you done all this? Is _that _why I came here today--because you set it up? You're weird. Maybe you're weirder than I imagined."

    "Thank you, I'm flattered, but you're still looking for logical answers. Even if I _had _set you up, how do you explain that painting in the book?"

    "You found a dog that looked like the picture. You put it in the parking lot knowing someone would find it.... This is ridiculous.
    There would be too many coincidences and things that could go wrong."

    "Exactly. You want clear answers where there are none. What you have to do is create a real question and put it honestly in your heart.

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    Then go looking for a clear answer. I'm _not _involved in this, but I'm very happy you came today. It's the only time I have ever seen wonder firsthand.
    And I believe that's what this is."

    There was a big beautiful apple tree in George's backyard he planted years ago when he moved into his house. He was enormously proud of it.
    All year he sprayed, watered, and cared for it. A tree surgeon was called at the slightest sign of anything suspect. Although he never ate any, George spent hours in the fall carefully picking and placing the fruit in large wicker baskets he bought specifically for that purpose. He donated all of it to our town hospital. I had eaten apples from the tree and they were horrible, but don't tell him that.

    Sitting under that tree, he watched as I flung dirt out of the hole.
    Although he had offered to help, I insisted on doing the job myself.
    If Old Vertue had come for me, I assumed it was my duty to dig for him.

    "How old are you, Frannie?"

    "Forty-seven."

    "Have you noticed how the meanings of words change the older we get?
    When I was young I used to