Of course I didn't know who he was the first time I saw him. Nor did I really care who he was -- not at first. It was only three weeks after I'd buried my grandfather. My cousin Peter, who had miraculously survived Waterloo unscathed, except for his soul, he wrote me, had been unable to come home from Paris until the French, who, he always said, lived in a constant state of overwrought emotion, had accepted Louis XVIII, their rightful, albeit idiot, of a king.

At the moment, unlike the French, I didn't feel much of anything.

Until I saw him.

I was in the park walking George -- my Dandie Dinmont terrier, whom some people believed to be ugly as a devil's familiar on a bad day -- oblivious of all the beautifully dressed people driving around in their landaus, riding their prime horseflesh, or simply walking, as I was. George and I were both silent, George out of habit, as there had been little else but silence since Grandfather had died. He was silent even when I picked up a small tree branch and threw it a good twenty feet away for him to fetch, an activity that usually sent him barking hysterically, leaping and bounding about until he clamped his jaws around the wild prey he'd captured and wrestled it to the ground. He was silent in his chase. He managed to get the branch, but it was at a cost.

The man beat him to it, picking up the branch, eyeing George, then giving my dog a blinding smile even as he threw it a good thirty feet. He stood there, hands on hips, watching George, again silent, run so fast his runty legs were a blur. Instead of bringing his beloved mistress -- namely me -- the branch, George trotted back to the man, tail high and wagging as steady as a metronome, and deposited the branch at his booted feet.

"George," I said, too loudly, "come away now. You know that you are the king of dogs. You have the silkiest topknot in creation. God looks down upon you daily and is very pleased. Come along. I don't want anyone to steal you."

"It's true he is a magnificent animal," the man called out, and I knew sarcasm when it punched me in the nose. "Yes, he is blessed with an amazing presence, but I swear I am not thinking of his abduction for a possible ransom. You know, though, there may be some people, dolts naturally, who just might say that with all that mustard and red hair, someone would steal him in order to blind an enemy."

"He doesn't have mustard and red hair. Mustard on a dog is ridiculous. It's more a fawn and a lovely reddish-brown sort of color." I walked to where the man stood with my terrier. I thought George's colors, particularly the fawn, even though one could perhaps call it, unkindly, sickly yellow, was splendid. At least there wasn't all that much of it, since George wasn't even twelve inches high and weighed only a bit over a stone. I frowned as I looked at him. His coat, a crispy mixture of both hard and soft hairs, needed a good brushing. I hadn't groomed him for nearly a week. I'd been sunk too deep inside myself. I felt guilty for ignoring him.

As for George, the little traitor looked besotted. I came down on my knees and patted his large domed head, peeled back his silky hair, and looked him straight in his very large and intelligent eyes. "Listen to me, you miniature ingrate. I'm the one who feeds you, who walks you, who puts up with your snoring when you've eaten too much of Cook's rabbit stew at night. I am going to walk away now, and I want you to come with me. Do you understand, George?"

George cocked his head at me, then turned to the man who had come down on his knees beside me, his damned eyes all fluid and adoring. The man said, as he tried for a disarming shrug, "Try not to be upset. You see, animals adore me. I was born with this gift, a sort of power, if you will. If I'm not careful, when I merely go for a walk on Bond Street all the frivolous little dogs the grand ladies are carrying about leap from their arms and chase after me. Dogs all over Piccadilly hunt me down. I try to ignore them. I always return them to their owners, but it just doesn't stop. What am I to do?"

Humor, I thought, something that hadn't been in my life for more weeks than I could now easily remember, hit me between the eyes. I smiled, unable not to. He smiled back at me, a beautiful white-toothed smile, took my hand, and helped me to my feet. He was big, too big, and too tall. Most of all, he was too young. He wasn't just there -- he overwhelmed. Immediately I took a step back, then another.

"George," I said, growing more uncomfortable by the minute, "it's time to see what Mrs. Dooley has made for our lunch. You know that on Tuesdays, she does something very special with bacon for you. Yes, bacon, fried down to its core, cooked so stiff you can bang it on the floor several times before it crumbles. Come along, now. You will ignore this gentleman. He may be nice to you here, where there's an audience who can see how talented he is with you, but he doesn't want you to catch his coattails in your teeth and pursue him home. Come along."

I turned then and walked away, praying that George wouldn't stay with the man, wagging his tail and cocking his very homely large head in that cute way he had, his ears at half-mast, that clearly said, "Do you really think she has bacon for my dinner?"

"Wait," the man called after me, coming after me, his hand raised. "I don't know who you are." But I didn't wait. I didn't want him to know my name. Besides, why would he care? Didn't he see that I was wearing deep mourning? Didn't he know that being three feet away from him was too close? I even quickened my step. He was big and tall, and he was too young, too strong. No, I thought, he couldn't do anything here, in the middle of the park, with all these people about. I merely shook my head, but didn't turn around. I nearly shouted with relief when I looked down to see George trotting beside me, his tongue lolling, carrying that branch in his mouth, his topknot flopping up and down. I did turn once I reached the corner.

The man wasn't there.

Well, what did I expect? That he would unfold a pair of wings and fly after me? Snatch up both me and George and haul us off to a derelict old castle? No, he wasn't a monster, he wasn't bent on no good, but he was a man, I thought, too young, and too sure of himself. He was capable of things I couldn't bear to think about. But he'd made me laugh. Imagine.

Copyright © 1999 by Catherine Coulter