I opened the door, but she wouldn’t come in. Instead she danced around on the little porch, indicating that the weather was perfect for running and would I please get a move on?

“Oh, all right,” I grumbled. I turned off the water and went into the living room to do my stretches. Peppy didn’t understand why I wasn’t limber and ready to go as soon as I got out of bed. Every few minutes she’d give a minatory bark from the back. When I finally appeared in my sweats and running shoes, she raced down the stairs, turning at every half landing to make sure I was still coming. She gave little grunts of ecstasy when I opened the gate to the alley, even though we make the trip together three or four times a week.

I like to run about five miles. Since that’s beyond Peppy’s range, she stops at the lagoon when we get to the lake. She spends the time nosing out ducks and muskrats, rolling in mud or rotted fish when she can find them, and bounds out at me with her tongue hanging out in a self-satisfied grin when I make my way back west. We do the last mile home at a mild jog and I hand her over to my downstairs neighbor. Mr. Contreras shakes his head, chews us both out for letting her get dirty, then spends a pleasurable half hour grooming her coat back to its gleaming golden-red.

He was waiting as usual this morning when we got back. “You two have a good run, doll? You keep the dog out of the water, I hope? This cold weather it isn’t good for her to get wet, you know.”

He hung in the doorway prepared to talk indefinitely. He’s a retired machinist, and the dog, his cooking, and I make up the bulk of his entertainment. I extricated myself as quickly as I could, but it was still close to eleven by the time I’d showered. I ate breakfast in my bedroom while I dressed, knowing if I sat down with coffee and the paper I would keep making excuses for lingering. Leaving the dishes on the dresser, I wrapped a wool scarf around my neck, picked up my bag and car coat from the hall where I’d dumped them the night before, and headed south.

The wind was whipping up the lake. Ten-foot waves crashed against the rocky barrier and spewed fingers of water onto the road. The display of nature, angry, contemptuous, made me feel small.

Every detail of decay struck me as the road wound southward. The white paint was peeling and the gates sagging at the old South Shore Country Club, once a symbol of that area’s wealth and exclusivity. As a child I used to imagine I would grow up to ride a horse along its private bridle paths. The memory of such fantasies embarrasses me slightly now—the trappings of caste don’t sit well on my adult conscience. But I would have wished a better fate for the club than to rot slowly under the hands of the Park District, its indifferent current masters.