She left a five on the counter and the bartender saluted her. On her way out she saw a pay phone. The phone-box was dirty and dog-eared and smelled of used bourbon, but at least it was still there. Anderson deposited twenty cents, crooked the handset between shoulder and ear while she hunted through in the Yellow Pages, then called Etheridge's clinic. Mrs Alden sounded quite composed. In the background she could hear one dog barking. One.

'I didn't want you to think I stiffed you,' she said, 'and I'll mail your leash back tomorrow.'

'Not at all, Ms Anderson,' she said. 'After all the years you have done business with us, you're the last person we'd worry about when it comes to deadbeats. As for leashes, we've got a closetful.'

'Things seemed a little crazy there for a while.'

'Boy, were they ever! We had to call Medix for Mrs Perkins. I didn't think it was bad – she'll have needed stitches, of course, but lots of people who need stitches get to the doctor under their own power.' She lowered her voice a little, offering Anderson a confidence that she probably wouldn't have offered a man. 'Thank God it was her own dog bit her. She's the sort of woman who starts shouting lawsuit at the drop of a hat.'

'Any idea what might have caused it?'

'No – neither does Dr Etheridge. The heat after the rain, maybe. Dr Etheridge said he heard of something like it once at a convention. A vet from California said that all the animals in her clinic had what she called “a savage spell” just before the last big quake out there.'

'Is that so?'

'There was an earthquake in Maine last year,' Mrs Alden said. 'I hope there won't be another one. That nuclear plant at Wiscassett is too close for comfort.'