Behind the cabins proper, I came upon an older couple. They were kneeling in high grass beside something. It rested on a pillowcase. I drew nearer. One small spotted brown-and-white terrier. Its front legs stretched out, its dried black lips drew back. (The pillow slip spelled WHISP. PINES ETC, maybe to cut down on embroidery’s expense.)

“Uh-oh. Look, a boy,” the old woman nudged her stooped husband.

“It’s okay, Shirley. Sonny, come see what all’s gone wrong here. You have quite the shiner. Bet the other guy looks way worse. But come see what a mess we’ve got, and still so far to Florida. Wouldn’t have had it happen away from home like this, not for any amount, but who’s in control? Do they ask us? No, sir, they do not so much as check, just do it. Then you got to deal with the results. Smartest dog ever. And now here she is, finished. Trixie knew thirty tricks.”

“More,” his wife added, but deferred by lowering her voice.

“More, sure, maybe more. Our daughter give us Trix. Our girl’s a gym teacher in Toledo.”

“Physical-education supervisor for the whole Twelfth District,” the wife corrected.

“Like he cares about Betty Jean’s title! … Son, we’d best bury her here. The heat’s getting so bad we’re not likely to take Trix in the car, not for long. My wife wants we should try fitting her in our drink cooler.—But if we do leave Trixie, and if we was to make a grave marker, will you, as the son of the place, keep your eye on her? Cut back the weeds and just, you know, KNOW she’s here? Because that’d sure make us feel it’s not so far to Florida. It’d be like Shirl and me had left our Trix with somebody. For instance, I would say, ‘Trixie, would you rather be a dead dog or Vice-President Nixon?’ and she’d keel right over, legs up, and I mean she’d stay. Got many a chuckle on that one in our travels, ’m I right, Momma?”

The woman nodded, wiping eyes on the backs of speckled hands, “Nowhere we stop will it be the same now, ever. She went first. Trix was like our … ambassador.”

“Got a shovel, son?” I saw they’d been trying to dig a hole. Digging with two motel water-glasses, one already broken. I found my dad absorbing war stories from the puzzle-loving clerk. “Any shovels?”

“Toolshed. Open. Beside 108.”

I found the large room full of washing machines and a huge dryer. Tools lined one wall. There was a calendar showing this woman with naked bosoms, sitting on a desk and saying, “I’m ready for Dictation, Mr. Wembley!” (Definite Clue.)