She’s six months old now, a wrinkly, soft-bellied, flat-faced ball of serenity who spends most of her day sleeping. Her predecessor, a feisty brindle stud named Spike, had died peacefully at a mature age. I’d rescued him but he’d chosen Robin as his love object. So far, Blanche didn’t discriminate.

The first time Milo saw her, he said, “This one you could think of as almost kinda pretty.”

Blanche made a little purring sound, rubbed her knobby head against his shin, and turned up her lips.

“Is it smiling at me or is it gas?”

“Smiling,” I said. “She does that.”

He got down and took a closer look. Blanche licked his hand, moved in for the cuddle. “This is the same species as Spike?”

I said, “Think of you and Robin.”

No welcoming bark as I passed through the kitchen and entered the laundry room. Blanche dozed in her crate, door open. My whispered “Good afternoon” caused her to open one huge brown eye. The natural stub that serves as a tail for Frenchies began bobbing frenetically but the rest of her remained inert.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty.”

She lifted the other eyelid, yawned, considered her options. Finally padded out and shook herself awake. I picked her up and carried her into the kitchen. The liver snap I offered would’ve sent Spike into a feeding frenzy. Blanche allowed me to hold it as she nibbled daintily. I toted her into the bedroom and placed her on a chair. She sighed and went back to sleep.

“That’s because I’m such a fascinating guy.”

I searched the storage closet for Tanya Bigelow’s chart, found it at the bottom of a drawer, and skimmed. Initial treatment at age seven, one follow-up three years later.

Nothing relevant in my notes. No surprise.

At five twenty the bell rang.

A clear-skinned young blonde in a white oxford shirt and pressed jeans stood on the front landing. “You look exactly the same, Dr. Delaware.”