She stroked Peter's head absently, erasing a jag his nose had put into the horizon-line of her sketch. 'Yeah, you're a good dog, great dog, go check the mail, why don't you?'

Peter trotted across the living room and nosed the screen door open. Anderson went back to work on her sketch, glancing up once to see Peter do his world-famous canine mail-retrieval trick. He put his left forepaw up on the mailbox post and then began to swipe at the door of the box. Joe Paulson, the postman, knew about Peter and always left it ajar. He got the door down, then lost his balance before he could hook the mail out with his paw. Anderson winced a little – until this year, Peter had never lost his balance. Getting the mail had been his piece de resistance, better than playing dead Viet Cong and much better than anything mundane like sitting up or 'speaking' for a dog biscuit. It wowed everyone who saw him do it, and Peter knew it … but these days it was a painful ritual to watch. It made Anderson feel the way she imagined she would feel if she saw Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers on TV, trying to do one of their old dance routines.

The dog managed to get up on the post again, and this time Peter hooked the mail – a catalogue and a letter (or a bill – yes, with the end of the month coming it was more likely a bill) – out of the box with the first swipe of his paw. It fluttered to the road, and as Peter picked it up, Anderson dropped her eyes back to her sketch, telling herself to stop banging the goddam funeral bell for Peter every two minutes. The dog actually looked half-alive tonight; there had been nights recently when he'd had to totter up on his hind legs three or four times before he was able to get his mail – which usually came to no more than a free sample from Procter&Gamble or an advertising circular from K-mart.