“Horatio, come.” John yanked at Horatio’s leash, trying unsuccessfully to pull him away from the other dog.

I reached into my pocket, scooped up the rest of Horatio’s treats. I held them out in my open palm. The dog darted over to me and woofed them down with lightning speed.

I gave the dog’s matted fur a few strokes. It licked my hand, maybe to get the last crumbs, maybe just to reward nice with nice.

When I looked over, John had already dragged Horatio halfway to my car. The unkempt dog watched them with sad eyes, then darted off to find a place at the back of the treat line.

“What a smart dog,” I said to John when I caught up to them at the car.

John looked up from brushing sand off Horatio. “I can’t believe the owners let it run around off-leash like that. I just hope its shots are up to date.” For the second time this morning, he reminded me of one of the Bayberry parents. And not in a good way.

“So, what?” I said, “You’re afraid that because it touched Horatio, it might have given him cooties? Unlike one of those la-di-da dogs you were talking about, like a Highchen, or whatever it was.”

“A Löwchen,” John said. “With a diaeresis over the O. That’s two dots, in case you were wondering.”

I stared straight ahead while we drove back to our new old house. That’s two dots, in case you were wondering, I said to myself over and over again. Of course, I knew what a diaeresis was. At least I was pretty sure I would have been able to pick it out in a multiple-choice question. And I definitely knew what two dots meant.

“It’s also called an umlaut,” John said.

I didn’t say anything.

“The two dots,” he said. “Not the dog.”

“You’re a freakin’ umlaut,” I said, whatever that meant. “And no offense, but you’re really getting on my nerves.”

As soon as we walked into the house, John disappeared with Horatio, probably to give him a cootie bubble bath. Or take one himself.

My brother Johnny was sitting at the kitchen table, his head buried in his hands.

“Hey,” I said. “The beach was beautiful.”

“Who was askin’?” he said to his hands. Nice talk for a hippie.

For lack of a better idea, I stared at the top of his head.

“Is that hat made out of hemp?” I said.

“Could be,” he said. He lifted his head up a little and gave the hat a pat, as if he might be able to tell by the feel. The hat was kind of a crunchy skull cap—crocheted, dirt-colored, slouchy looking, with a small peace sign that looked like it was made out of some kind of bone stitched over his right temple.

“Got any java around here?” he finally said.