The dog was an old gray-faced bitch. She was too old to bear pups, but she cared for the girl as best she was able. When the girl was cold, she warmed her, and when the girl was hurt, she licked the wound until it healed. But when the girl died, there was nothing to be done—and the dog sank into a silent dream.

An abundance of flowers surrounded the girl at her funeral, an event well attended by the people of the town. She did not look quite dead, which eased the proceedings.

To everyone’s astonishment, a handsome stranger was soon recognized—the girl’s father, returned at last. How had he come to be there on that particular day? How far had he traveled? Where had he been and what had he seen these many years? The father stood at the center of the crowd, shaking hands, his smile wide and benign.

The girl’s father spent what remained of the day with the butcher, who prepared a hearty meal of his choicest cuts. The two men took a quick liking to each other. As they ate, the father said, Tell me, butcher—what was she like?

The butcher—saddened suddenly by the absence of the girl—could think of nothing to say. She was always hungry, he pronounced at last, and she enjoyed eating whatever was placed in front of her.

When they finished, they stepped outside to admire the slow decline of the sun. They walked in a leisurely fashion, arriving finally at a little pond beloved for its middling beauty. Along its banks lay heaps of small, smooth stones, which they kneeled on to paw through. Handled properly, a good stone would jig happily, prettily across the surface until exhausted. As the men understood it, the trick was to hold the thing lightly—tenderly—and then, with a swift jerk, send it spinning.

After they’d been at it a while with some success, they paused to observe a pair of figures a little farther down the shore.

Well, would you look at that, said the father, shading his eyes for a better view.

It was the butcher’s old bitch—awake now, and mounted on the hindquarters of a young rascal about town, an impregnator par excellence. She gripped his neck with her teeth. Though he cried and struggled, she took her pleasure with the strength of one suddenly possessed by some fresh and vigorous spirit.

MASTER FRAMER

He said he’d studied under an old master of the trade. He was with the old master until the master died. From the master, he learned all there was to know.

They felt lucky to hire him. They had a stack of lithographic prints—playful, pandering Parisian street scenes—which they intended to sell for tidy sums at a tony local street fair. The master framer began work at once, with an industry they admired from their office, where they looked up from paperwork to nod in approbation.

Then one day he came in gray, disheveled, wearing what he’d worn the day before. They asked what the matter was. His wife, he said. She’d changed the locks and put his things on the lawn. He’d put the things in his car and driven to the parking lot of a large discount store, where he spent the night. He set his shoes outside the car while he slept, and when he woke, they were gone.