No, not a good day. But the mister never fails with dinner, always feeding Bill before the family eats. It isn’t necessary. The dog never bothers people at mealtimes the way dogs often do—dogs that sidle up to the table and make the rounds, being needy, pleading, sometimes even trained by foolish masters to sit and smile for tidbits.

No. Bill always lies beneath the table where he belongs. Or, like tonight, he watches from the living room, sprawled on the cool tile as voices rise and fall. Perhaps this night he has some small sense of absence, of something missing. They are all there except the baby. She is back in the parents’ room, asleep in her cradle. But Ruby is silent. Other times at meals she talks a lot, telling her father every detail she can think of, anything to hear his voice and glow in the warmth of his gaze. Tonight, like Bill earlier, she is “in the doghouse” for not watching her brother. She is being very quiet.

After dinner, weather permitting, Bill is allowed to go outside for an hour. Occasional lapses aside, everyone but the missus knows he’s a “good” dog.

That is, one that doesn’t dig—not often—or bark, or make messes on other residents’ property. A vague understanding has developed among dog owners in this part of Donegal that their pets gather at this time, and that the socialization is good for them. It is known the dogs find each other—behind this lanai, under a certain cabbage palm. Club rules notwithstanding, as long as there are no complaints, what’s the harm?

Tonight, they are lying on a grassy plot behind Madame’s. It feels protected, sheltered by a grouping of three dwarf date palms. But no Emma.

—She was at the window yesterday, Chiffon says.

—She’s in there right now, Luger tells her.

Bill looks, seeing the poodle before the doorwall. She is plump and brown, her long ears hanging in a way that just now makes her narrow muzzle look more pointed. He feels a kinship with her. Meeting them on walks, he has seen how strange other poodles seem. White like Chiffon, they have been shorn and shaved to look like topiary. Not Emma. She is trimmed, but no shrub.

Tonight, though, she looks—different. Behind her just now, the mistress passes, dressed in one of the long things his own missus wears in the morning. She moves slowly, not looking out. Madame, they call her. Emma adores her, the way Bill worships Vinyl. Whenever Madame passes her dog, she never fails to touch her curly, lamb-like back. But not tonight. This, perhaps, is why Emma, still looking out at them, seems different.

—Where’s Hotspur? he asks.

—Does he come out? Chiffon sneezes. —I can’t remember.

—He has a territory, Luger says. Two houses. His border is two houses in either direction. Then he stops.

—What is territory? Do I have territory?

—You are a companion breed. Your work is to look a certain way, and be with your missus all the time.

Bill turns to listen. The sound is coming from the end of the cul-de-sac.

—I hear him.

—Hotspur? Chiffon sneezes.

—His mistress went somewhere, Luger says. —The woman who works the vacuum is there. I saw the car.

THAT AFTERNOON, VINYL repaired the screen door. Back home, Bill shoves it open in the usual way. He finds the mister and his son watching TV. In the master bedroom, a small second set on the dresser has a DVD player. It is playing the movie about pigs, one of Ronald’s favorites. He is sprawled on his stomach on the bed, watching intently.

Bill returns to the back of the house. The missus and her new daughter-in-law are still at the dining table. They are talking about the new house being built outside Philadelphia. It won’t be ready until September. While dad goes back and forth to England—his job has something to do with fiber optics—Ronald and Ruby will divide their time between their mother’s coop apartment in Brooklyn Heights, and the grandparents’ in Michigan, with the new stepmother and baby.

Tired of lying on the kitchen’s hard tile floor, Bill goes back to the TV room. The mister isn’t there now, just the son.

Always alert to sounds, Bill hears a rhythmic, scratchy noise. He looks in the children’s room. Empty. The sound is coming from the parents’ room. The door is ajar. He pushes with his paw—it’s dark. Ruby is on the bed, on her back. One hand is rocking the baby cradle next to her, the source of the sound. It’s one of Ruby’s jobs, to rock the baby this way until he stops crying or falls asleep. As Bill comes in she looks over.

“Hello, dog. Thanks a lot.”

Rocking the cradle, she looks again at the ceiling. Bill stands at the entry, waiting for more words. The mister always says more, his voice rising and falling. Even the missus. She has never liked him, but even she talks to Bill when no one’s around. Her voice is different at such times, softer, even friendly. But here and now there is something not right about it. The girl should be with the boy, or taking Bill for the nightly walk. He will be fine now. What happened before was wrong, and he knows it. He was dragged by the missus and scolded, put in the garage. The punishment happened close enough to the offense so that the two were connected in his mind. It registered and he understood—no more herding.

“Cra—dle, cra—dle, cra—dle—”

Staring up, Ruby keeps moving her arm. “Cra—dle, cra—dle—” She looks over and Bill steps closer. She is saying it for him, and he waits for a command, for something more. “Crad—dle, Cra—dle—” She is saying it slowly, keeping time with the swing, still speaking and working it as she again raises both her legs, the way she did that morning, eyes on him, showing him again how she can balance with long legs like her dad’s, legs he told her that meant she would turn out to be a long drink of water.

But without both hands flat on the bed, it doesn’t work long. The weight of her now topples away on the mattress. Bracing for balance, Ruby forgets the cradle and shoves down. It dips sharply and loses its load. The cradle rights itself, and swings freely. The baby is crying. Ruby rolls to her right and scrambles around the bed. Bill backs away and barks. It’s wrong what has happened, the baby smell meaning to be careful and watchful. He barks again as Ruby gathers up her baby brother. The door bangs open.

“What the hell—”

“It’s not me, Daddy, I didn’t do anything.”

“What happened here?” She is holding and rocking it as the stepmother and missus come in. “I’m asking you a question, Ruby. What happened?”

“I was just rocking him, I was on the bed—”

“Do you know what might’ve happened if this floor wasn’t carpeted? What if you were on the lanai?

“It’s all right—” The stepmother comes to Ruby and takes the baby. “That’s all right, isn’t it? That’s all right—”

“I’m asking you a question.”

“Bill.”

“What about Bill?”

“He did it with his paw. He put a paw on the swing. I tried to stop him, he snapped at me.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“It happened so fast. I think he wanted the baby.”

“My God—” The missus steps to the mother and looks down at the baby.

“Come on, Bill—”

Having just entered, the mister steps forward and takes the dog by the collar. Why? I barked to warn you, Bill thinks, being pulled. You came as you should, to help the new pack member, the whelp. I’ll go anywhere, he thinks, being dragged toward the garage entrance. Anywhere you want, always. What did I do?