“Whisky?” I repeated. “Is that its name?”
“That’s what I call him,” Bogle said. “He seems to like it and it’s the sort of name I wouldn’t easily forget. Nice dawg, ain’t he?”
“I don’t know,” I said, with some feeling. “Perhaps he is. I can’t forget that he ate Pablo. That rather preys on my mind.”
Bogle sneered, “Ate Pablo?” he said. “You’re nuts! He ate a sausage. You and Doc ought to have your ears blown out!”
I considered this. I thought if that was the only thing necessary how absurdly simple everything would be.
“Never mind, Sam,” I said. “You aren’t the only one who won’t believe it.”
While I was speaking, Whisky turned over on his back and folded his legs across his chest like a crab. His tail straightened and he closed his eyes.
Myra said quietly, “I don’t like that dog’s attitude. It’s unhealthy.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” I returned, pulling the bedclothes a little higher. “But, it’s disturbing, if that’s what you mean.”
Bogle unfolded Whisky’s legs gently and turned him on his side. “Relax, fella,” he said.