Frank

I was giving a talk at the Poisoned Pen Bookstore in Phoenix, which I do pretty much every time a new book of mine comes out, when in strode Frank. Thus ended my time as the focal point of the room.

I wasn’t surprised to see him; the rescue group had told me they were bringing him. We had already arranged that I would take him home, and I was therefore going to drive, rather than fly, back to California.

He was exactly as they described—frail, old, white in the face—and he walked as if he were pulling a wagon. He was perfect, and as he was led toward the front of the room, he had to run a gauntlet of hands from people trying to pet him.

The rescue people had actually led me to believe that he was in worse physical condition than turned out to be the case. Once we got him on pain meds for his arthritis and put him on a special diet for his stomach issues, he was basically fine.

There was nothing extraordinary about Frank’s time with us. He was an affectionate, loving golden retriever that never gave us a moment’s trouble. He was slowing down considerably by the time we started on our trip, but he made it with flying colors.

Frank died about six months after we got to Maine. I can certainly report that his last years were contented ones.