“Ah, exploring new ground.” I forced one eye to stay open. Cool air blew in through the door. I looked outside, couldn't see him in the darkness.

When he didn't return after a minute or so, I went down to get him. It took a while to find him, but I finally did—sitting near the carport, as if guarding the Seville. Huffing, and moving his head from side to side.

“What is it, guy?”

Pant, pant. He moved his head faster but didn't budge his body.

I looked around some more, still unable to see much. The mixed smells of night-blooming plants hit my nose, and the first spray of dew moistened my skin. The night sky was hazy, just a hint of moonlight peeking through. Just enough to turn the dog's eyes yellow.

“Hound of the Basketballs,” I said, remembering an old Mad magazine sketch.

The dog scratched the ground and sniffed, started turning his head from side to side.

“What?”

He began walking toward the pond, stopping several feet from the fence, just as he had during our first encounter. Then he came to a dead halt.

The gate was closed. It had been hours since the timed lights had shut off. I could hear the waterfall. Peering over the fence, I caught a glimpse of moonstreaked wetness as my eyes started to accommodate.

I looked back at the dog.

Still as a rock.

“Did you hear something?”

Head cock.

“Probably a cat or a possum, pal. Or maybe a coyote, which might be a little too much for you, no offense.”

Head cock. Pant. He pawed the ground.

“Listen, I appreciate your watchfulness, but can we go back up now?”

He stared at me. Yawned. Gave a low growl.

“I'm bushed, too,” I said, and headed for the stairs. He did nothing until I'd gotten all the way up, then raced up with a swiftness that belied his bulk.

“No more interruptions, okay?”

He wagged his stub cheerfully, jumped on the bed, and sprawled across Robin's side.

Too exhausted to argue, I left him there.

He was snoring long before I was.

Wednesday morning I assessed my life: crank letters and calls, but I could handle that if it didn't accelerate. And my true love returning from the wilds of Oakland. A balance I could live with. The dog licking my face belonged in the plus column, too, I supposed. When I let him out, he disappeared again and stayed out.

This time he'd gotten closer to the gate, stopping only a couple of feet from the latch. I pushed it open and he took another step.

Then he stopped, stout body angling forward.

His little frog face was tilted upward at me. Something had caused it to screw up, the eyes narrowing to slits.

I anthropomorphized it as conflict—struggling to get over his water phobia. Canine self-help hampered by the life-saving training some devoted owner had given him.