“I think he’s also part poodle, so he shouldn’t get too big,” my father said in a conciliatory tone. He looked at the dog with satisfaction. “Maybe he’s even got some cocker spaniel in him. They’re not very intelligent, but they are friendly.” My father smiled placatingly, as if that description fit each of us, too. “My guess is that he’ll be medium-sized. Like a standard poodle.”

Whenever a new person or animal joined us, we all started talking at once about what or whom he, she, or it resembled. Martin saw him as a young brown bear that had gotten its color and habitat wrong; Elsbeth saw a mini–Shetland pony who was missing hooves due to a caprice of nature; the optician suspected he was an as-yet-undiscovered land mammal; and sad Marlies, who had taken out her compact and was examining her eyelids, glanced up and said, “I have no idea what it is, but somehow it looks like a bad winter.”

It was true. The dog was the color of slush. It was watery gray and shaggy as only purebred Irish wolfhounds can be. Its body was still small, but its paws were as big as a bear’s, and we all knew what that meant.

Selma was still standing in front of the kitchen bench. She looked at the dog for a long time. Then she looked at my father as if he were a gift shop.

“But I didn’t ask for a dog,” she said.

“You didn’t ask for a coffee table book about Alaska, but you’ll enjoy it for a long time,” Elsbeth observed.

“You’ll enjoy the dog, too, he seems very lively,” the optician said, and Selma looked at the optician and Elsbeth as if they were purebred cocker spaniels.

“He’s not for you. He’s mine,” my father said. “I bought him this morning.”

Selma sighed with relief and sat down, but quickly stood up again when my father said, “I can only keep him if you’ll look after him now and then.”

“How often?” Selma asked.

“I’ve got to go,” said my mother, who had remained standing in the doorway. “Unfortunately, I can’t stay.” My mother could never stay long.

“Well, relatively often,” my father said, and everyone knew that “relatively often” meant during office hours.

“Bye, then,” my mother said.