The Animal Expert

Gerald Burton's office was on the second floor of a small building on Maple Street, above a bakery that sold very good cinnamon rolls.

Every morning, the smell of those rolls came up through the floor and filled Gerald's waiting room.

His clients often said that visiting Gerald was the most pleasant experience they had ever had, mostly because of the smell.

Gerald had put many things on the walls of his office to make himself look important.

There was a large photo of him standing next to a horse.

There was a certificate from the "International Academy of Animal Communication," which was a school that Gerald himself had started three years ago.

There was also a poster that said, in big red letters: ANIMALS HAVE FEELINGS TOO.

Gerald had ordered it from the internet for four dollars.

On his desk, there was a small sign that read: Gerald Burton — Animal Expert.

Gerald had never studied animals at a real school.

He had never worked at a zoo or a farm.

He had never even had a pet, unless you counted the goldfish he had owned for two days when he was eleven, which had died because he had forgotten to feed it.

But Gerald had read four books about animals, and he had watched many nature programs on television, and he believed, with great confidence, that this was more than enough.

"Animals speak to me," Gerald often told people.

"Not with words, of course. With feelings. With energy. I can feel what they feel. I understand what they want to say."

Most people who heard this found it very interesting.

A few people found it very strange.

Lisa Chen, Gerald's assistant, found it completely untrue.

Lisa had studied animal behavior at university for four years.

She knew why cats knocked things off tables, why dogs ran in circles before sleeping, and why parrots repeated certain words.

She had taken the job with Gerald because she needed money and because she had hoped, in the beginning, that Gerald might actually know something useful.

She had discovered very quickly that he did not.

"Gerald," she had told him on her third day of work, "that woman's cat is sick. It needs medicine, not a longer walk."

"Lisa," Gerald had replied, with the calm voice of a man who was absolutely certain he was right, "the cat told me it was lonely. Lonely cats walk less. It will be fine."

The cat had not been fine.

But before Lisa could say anything else, the woman had taken her cat to the vet, and the vet had given the cat medicine, and the cat had gotten better.

Gerald had told everyone that his advice had helped.

This was, Lisa had realized, how Gerald worked.

He said something completely wrong.

Something else happened.

The problem got better.

Gerald took the credit.

The client went away happy.

It was, she had to admit, a very effective system.

On a gray Tuesday morning in October, Lisa was sitting at her desk reading about bird behavior when the door opened and a man walked in.

He was tall and thin, and he was holding a small cage.

Inside the cage was a rabbit.

"I called yesterday," the man said. "My name is Robert Park. I have an appointment with the expert."

"Yes," said Lisa. She smiled at the rabbit. "Please sit down. Gerald will see you shortly."

She went to Gerald's door and knocked.

"Your nine o'clock is here," she said.

Gerald stood up from behind his desk and straightened his jacket.

He was wearing his blue jacket today, the one with the small gold buttons that he thought made him look professional.

"Send him in," Gerald said. "And Lisa — bring me a cup of tea. Two sugars. Animals always make me think better."

Lisa went to make the tea. She did not say what she was thinking.

Robert Park sat down in the chair across from Gerald's desk and put the rabbit's cage on his lap.

The rabbit was brown and white, with large ears that stuck up straight.

It was staring at Gerald with its dark eyes.

"This is Mr. Biscuit," Robert said. "He is three years old. He has been my rabbit for two years. And for the past three weeks, he has refused to eat."

Gerald leaned forward and looked at the rabbit.

He made his thinking face, which involved pressing his lips together and narrowing his eyes.

Lisa, who had come back with the tea, stood near the door and watched.

"Not eating at all?" Gerald asked.

"Almost nothing," Robert said. "He used to eat everything — carrots, lettuce, hay, those little green pellets he loves. Now he just sits in his cage and stares at the wall. I took him to the vet, but the vet said there was nothing wrong with him physically."

"Of course," said Gerald, as if this was completely obvious. "Because the problem is not physical. The problem is emotional."

He looked at the rabbit again. The rabbit looked back.

"I see," Gerald said slowly. "Yes, I see it clearly now. Mr. Biscuit is unhappy about your living room curtains."

Robert blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"The curtains," Gerald repeated.

He was now speaking with great authority, the way he always did when he said something he had just invented.

"They are blue, am I correct? A dark blue? Rabbits are very sensitive to the color blue. It reminds them of — of cold weather. Of winter. Mr. Biscuit has stopped eating because he believes, on a deep emotional level, that winter is coming and food will run out."

Robert stared at Gerald for a long time.

"My curtains," Robert said carefully, "are dark blue. Yes."

"Change them," Gerald said. "Something warm. Yellow, perhaps. Or orange. I have found that rabbits respond very well to orange."

He had never found this, because he had never worked with a rabbit before, but he said it with complete confidence.

"Do this, and Mr. Biscuit will be eating normally within a week."

Robert left with his rabbit, looking confused but willing to try anything.

"Gerald," Lisa said, after Robert had gone, "rabbits stop eating for many reasons. It could be a tooth problem. It could be stress from a change in routine. It could be that his hay is too dry. It has nothing to do with curtains."

"Lisa," Gerald said, "you are thinking about this too scientifically. Animals feel things that science cannot measure."

He picked up his tea. "Call me when the next client arrives."

Lisa returned to her desk.

She found Robert Park's phone number and called him quietly.

"Mr. Park," she said, "I'd suggest you check Mr. Biscuit's teeth when you get home. Sometimes rabbits stop eating because their teeth are uncomfortable. You can gently press on his cheeks and see if he reacts. If he does, please call the vet again and ask specifically about dental problems."

"Oh," said Robert. "That makes much more sense than the curtains."

"Yes," Lisa agreed.

Two weeks later, Robert Park called the office to report that Mr. Biscuit was eating normally again.

The vet had found a small problem with one of the rabbit's back teeth and had fixed it with a simple procedure.

Mr. Biscuit was happy. Robert was happy.

But Robert had also changed his curtains to orange.

He reported that the living room looked much more cheerful, and that his wife had said it was the best change they had made to the apartment in years.

Gerald heard about this and wrote in his notebook: "Case 7: Rabbit. Curtains. Complete success."

He did not write down anything about the tooth.

In a small town, news travels quickly.

By the end of October, people were already talking about the animal expert on Maple Street.

"He told Robert Park to change his curtains," said Mrs. Helena Russo at the post office, "and that rabbit started eating again! Just like that!"

"My neighbor went to him about her cat," said a young woman in the queue behind her. "She said he was incredible. He knew exactly what her cat was feeling just by looking at it."

The young woman did not mention that the cat had also been taken to the vet and given medicine.

People often forgot parts of stories when the remaining parts were more interesting.

Within two weeks, Gerald had six new clients.

He helped a woman whose dog was scratching the sofa.

He told her the dog was frustrated because it felt the family did not appreciate music enough, and that she should play classical music every evening.

She did this. The dog stopped scratching — the actual cause was a dry skin condition that had cleared up on its own, and the calm evening music routine had helped as well.

But the woman told everyone in town that Gerald had understood her dog's deepest feelings.

He helped a man whose parrot had begun biting people.

Gerald said the parrot disliked the man's hat collection and wanted them removed from the living room.

The man removed the hats. The biting stopped — the real cause was that the hats near the cage had been startling the parrot during feeding time.

But the man told everyone that Gerald had had a deep conversation with his parrot about home decoration.

Lisa documented all of this carefully in a notebook she kept in her desk drawer — what Gerald had said, what had actually been happening, and what had actually fixed the problem.

Gerald's appointments were now fully booked for two weeks in advance.

He had hired a local printer to make new business cards, which read:

GERALD BURTON / Animal Expert and Emotional Translator / Available for all pet concerns

Lisa had suggested that "Emotional Translator" was perhaps an unusual phrase. Gerald had said it was perfect.

It was Lisa who answered the phone when the local television station called.

"Good morning," said a cheerful voice. "This is Yolanda Marsh from Channel 6 News. I am calling about Gerald Burton, the animal expert. We have heard wonderful things. We would love to feature him on our Thursday evening program. It is called 'Local Heroes.' Would Mr. Burton be interested in a short interview?"

Lisa considered this for three full seconds.

"I will ask him," she said.

Gerald was delighted.

He immediately began practicing his interview face in the mirror behind his office door.

"When people see me on television," he told Lisa, "they will understand that animal communication is a serious field."

"Confidence," he added, adjusting his hair, "is my qualification."

Lisa wrote in her notebook: He is going to say something terrible on television.

The interview was filmed on a Wednesday afternoon.

Yolanda Marsh arrived with a cameraman and a producer named Marcus who looked at his phone constantly.

She sat across from Gerald with a small microphone between them.

"Mr. Burton," she began, "how does your process work? When a client comes to you with a problem, what do you do?"

"I observe," Gerald said. "I listen. Not with my ears, but with my heart. Animals communicate through energy, through feeling. I receive those feelings and I translate them into words. Every single case I have taken has been resolved successfully."

This was technically true, Lisa acknowledged from her position near the door.

Every case had resolved.

Whether Gerald's translations had caused the resolution was a very different question.

"We have brought a guest," Yolanda said, and turned toward the door. "We hope you don't mind, Mr. Burton. We thought it would be interesting for our viewers to see you at work."

A woman entered with a large grey cat in a carrier.

The cat's name, Yolanda explained, was Pumpkin, and Pumpkin had recently developed the habit of hiding under the bed all day and refusing to come out even for food.

Gerald looked at the cat through the carrier door.

The cat looked back, appearing profoundly unimpressed.

Thirty seconds of silence passed.

"Pumpkin," Gerald said at last, "is afraid of someone in the family."

The woman looked surprised. "Afraid? Of who?"

"Someone new," Gerald said. "Someone who arrived in the past few months. Pumpkin was the center of attention before. Now this new arrival takes up a great deal of space and makes noise. Pumpkin feels ignored and has retreated."

The woman was quiet for a moment.

"We did get a new baby," she said slowly. "Four months ago."

Gerald spread his hands as if this proved everything.

"A baby," he repeated, nodding. "Yes. A small human. Very noisy, very attention-demanding. Pumpkin remembers when life was quiet. Pumpkin wants to know that it is still loved."

"That's — that's actually quite touching," the woman said. Her eyes had become a little wet.

The camera moved in closer.

"The solution," Gerald said, "is to give Pumpkin a dedicated space. A shelf. Something high up, where the cat can look down at the baby from a safe distance and slowly get used to the change. Over time, Pumpkin will accept the new family member."

This, Lisa had to admit, was completely correct.

Cat behaviorists recommended exactly this approach.

She had no idea how Gerald had arrived at the right answer.

Later, when she asked him, he said, "The cat told me."

"Gerald," Lisa said, "you got that one right."

"I always get them right," Gerald replied.

The program aired on Thursday evening.

Gerald watched it at home, alone, with a bowl of pretzels.

He thought he looked very good on television. His hair was excellent. He planned to order more business cards.

What he did not see, because he had gone to make more tea during that part of the program, was the final thirty seconds.

In those thirty seconds, Yolanda Marsh looked into the camera and said: "Mr. Burton's methods are certainly unconventional. We reached out to Professor Helen Ward, an animal behaviorist at the city university, for comment. Professor Ward said, and I quote, 'There is no scientific evidence that humans can translate animal emotions through observation alone. However, some pet problems do resolve naturally over time, or when owners make changes to their environment based on any advice — whether correct or not. The placebo effect, it seems, extends to our pets.'"

Two one-star reviews appeared online that evening. They would tell Gerald about it in the morning.

Professor Helen Ward arrived at Gerald's office the following Monday morning without an appointment.

She was a short woman with grey hair and a green coat with many pockets, carrying a bag full of papers and books.

She looked like someone who spent most of her time on complicated ideas and very little time thinking about what to wear.

Lisa recognized her immediately from the university website and felt something she had not felt in months: hope.

"Good morning," Professor Ward said to Lisa. "I would like to speak with Mr. Burton."

"He doesn't usually take walk-ins," Lisa began.

"I'm not a client," Professor Ward said pleasantly. "I'm a colleague. Or I hope to be. Is he available?"

Lisa went to Gerald's door. She knocked.

"There's a Professor Ward here," she said. "She'd like to talk to you."

Gerald had read the one-star reviews that morning. He had also read Professor Ward's comment from the television program. He had not enjoyed it.

But he had decided, after thirty minutes of sitting very still and staring at his certificate from the International Academy of Animal Communication, that the best response was to appear completely unbothered.

"Send her in," he said.

Professor Ward sat down across from Gerald and placed her bag on the floor.

She looked around the office — at the horse photograph, at the certificate, at the poster — with an expression that was difficult to read.

"Mr. Burton," she said, "I want to be direct with you. I am not here to argue. I am a scientist, and what you do is not science. But after watching your television interview, I became curious. Because several of your cases — the ones I have been able to research — actually resolved correctly."

Gerald sat up slightly. This was not what he had expected.

"I've spoken to some of your clients," Professor Ward continued. "Robert Park's rabbit — tooth problem. Correct resolution. The baby and the cat — that is standard behavioral advice, completely sound. In that case, however, I also know that your assistant was involved." She looked toward the door. "The young woman outside. She called your client after his appointment."

Gerald was quiet for a moment.

"Lisa is very dedicated," he said carefully.

"Lisa is very knowledgeable," Professor Ward said. "I looked her up. She studied at the university. She was an excellent student. Her research project on stress behavior in domestic cats was published in a regional journal." She paused. "Are you aware of this?"

Gerald was not aware of this. He had hired Lisa because she had a pleasant phone manner and had offered to work for a lower salary than anyone else.

"Of course," he said.

"Mr. Burton," Professor Ward said, "I came here because I believe there may be something genuinely useful happening in your office, despite the fact that your methods are entirely fictional. Your clients feel heard. They feel that someone has taken their animals seriously. That emotional engagement makes them more willing to make changes and to seek proper medical help."

She pulled a paper from her bag. "I am starting a community program at the university — pet wellness support for owners who cannot afford high vet bills. I need someone who can make these owners feel comfortable and confident enough to engage. Someone with —" she glanced at the poster on the wall — "communication skills."

She slid the paper across the desk.

"I would like to partner with your office," she said. "You bring the clients. I bring the science. Separately and clearly. No deception. No false claims. But a genuine service."

Gerald looked at the paper. Then he looked at Professor Ward. Then he looked at his certificate.

"I'll need to think about it," he said.

Professor Ward nodded. She stood up, picked up her bag, and walked to the door.

"One more thing," she said, turning back. "I also noticed that several of your wrong diagnoses accidentally solved real problems. The dog who scratched the sofa — the classical music reduced its stress, which reduced the scratching. The parrot who bit people — moving the hats created a safer feeding space. You were wrong about the reasons, but not about the results." She tilted her head slightly. "That's unusual. And interesting."

She left.

Lisa, who had been listening from outside the door, opened her notebook. Professor Ward was right — the music, the hat removal, the orange curtains had all helped, even if not for the reasons Gerald had said.

She began a new page: Accidental solutions and why they worked.

Gerald had not agreed to the partnership yet. He had said he would think about it, mostly because sharing credit with a university professor made him uncomfortable in a way he could not quite explain.

In the meantime, someone named "SkepticalSam" had written a long post on the town's community board questioning Gerald's qualifications.

It had received forty-seven responses — thirty-two defending Gerald warmly, fifteen agreeing with SkepticalSam.

Dorothy, the owner of the community center, decided to hold a public discussion called "Town Talk: Pets, Problems, and Professional Help."

She charged three dollars for entry and provided tea and biscuits. Every seat was taken.

Gerald arrived in his best jacket — the dark grey one with the gold buttons — and placed four of his business cards on the table in front of him, facing the audience.

Professor Ward arrived with a folder of papers and a calm expression.

Dorothy introduced them both, then opened the floor to questions.

The first question came from a woman in the front row.

"Mr. Burton," she said, "my dog has started eating my socks. Just the left ones. Never the right ones. What does this mean?"

The room went quiet. Everyone was very interested in the socks.

Gerald placed his hands on the table. He looked thoughtful.

"Your dog," he said slowly, "is expressing a preference for the left side of life. Dogs, as many people do not know, have a dominant side, much as humans are right-handed or left-handed. Your dog is left-pawed. Eating the left socks is a way of celebrating this identity."

There was a moment of complete silence.

Then several people laughed. Not unkindly, but genuinely, because it was a remarkable thing to say.

Professor Ward leaned toward her microphone.

"Dogs sometimes chew specific items because of smell or texture," she said. "If your left socks smell different from your right socks — if you stand differently on each foot, for instance, or if you injured your left leg recently — the scent will be stronger and more interesting to your dog. It's also possible this started as random behavior and has continued because the reaction it gets" — she nodded at the laughter in the room — "is rewarding. Dogs repeat what gets a response."

"Oh," said the woman in the front row. "I did sprain my left ankle in September."

"Check with your vet," Professor Ward said, "and try rotating your sock drawer."

More laughter. But the woman was nodding.

It went on like this for forty minutes. Gerald said something imaginative. Professor Ward said something accurate. The audience, it became clear, enjoyed both.

During the tea break, Dorothy came to stand with Gerald and Professor Ward near the biscuits.

"You know," she said, "this is working rather well. People came here expecting a fight, but they're getting two very different perspectives and actually learning something from both."

Gerald ate a biscuit and said nothing.

"She's right," said Lisa, who had come in halfway through and was now standing beside Professor Ward. "Gerald makes people comfortable enough to talk about their pets honestly. Professor Ward gives them accurate information. Together it's — actually quite effective."

Professor Ward looked at Lisa with interest.

"You're his assistant," she said.

"I am," Lisa said.

"You called Robert Park about his rabbit's teeth."

Lisa paused. "I did."

Professor Ward looked at her carefully. "Your research on stress behavior in cats was well written. I referenced it in a lecture two years ago."

Lisa blinked. "You did?"

"I did. Third-year behavioral psychology module." Professor Ward turned to Gerald. "Mr. Burton, your assistant is better qualified than you are. You know this?"

"Lisa is excellent," Gerald said, which was the most honest thing he had said in months.

"I would like to offer her a position in my research program," Professor Ward said to Gerald. "Part-time. She can keep working here if she chooses." She looked at Lisa. "If you're interested."

Lisa looked at her notebook, which she was still holding. She looked at Gerald.

Gerald looked at the biscuits.

"That sounds very interesting," Lisa said.

Gerald had decided to agree to Professor Ward's proposal — after four days of careful thought, a pros-and-cons list, and the realization that having a university professor as a partner would look extremely impressive on a new business card. But first, he decided, he needed one more impressive public success.

The Maple Street Annual Pet Show was held every November in the town park.

Dogs were judged in several categories: friendliest, most elegant, best trick, and most unusual talent.

Cats competed in a separate section.

There was also a general prize for the owner who had shown the most improvement in their animal's behavior over the past year.

Gerald offered his services as a judge. The pet show committee, after reading his television interview, agreed enthusiastically.

This was, Lisa later said, where everything went wrong. Though she also said that "wrong" was perhaps not the right word.

Gerald arrived at the park in a long coat and a hat with a wide brim. He thought it made him look like a man who understood animals on a profound level.

Lisa, who was helping him carry his judge's clipboard, thought it made him look like a man in a costume.

The first event was Best Trick.

Twelve dogs competed. Gerald watched each one carefully, asked questions, and made his considering face while the audience watched in silence.

The winner was a small terrier who could open a box and bring a toy to his owner.

Gerald announced the result with a speech about the dog's deep desire to demonstrate generosity.

The terrier sat down and scratched its ear.

The second event was Most Elegant. This was judged on appearance and manner of walking. Gerald took it very seriously.

He walked alongside each dog as it was led around a small course, watching its movements carefully.

He had almost reached his decision when something unexpected happened.

The last dog in the category was a large and very beautiful Afghan hound named Belladonna.

Belladonna belonged to a woman named Mrs. Esther Bloom and was, by any measure, the most elegant dog Gerald had ever seen.

It moved like water. Its coat was the color of gold. It held its head in a way that suggested it had given the matter significant thought.

Gerald was watching Belladonna move when he stepped on a rake.

He did not see the rake. It was lying in the grass, and the handle came up and struck him on the side of the head with a sound that everyone in the park heard clearly.

Gerald fell sideways. His clipboard flew one direction. His hat flew another. He landed in the grass beside the competition course, flat on his back, staring up at the grey November sky.

There was a moment of absolute silence.

Then Belladonna, who had been walking elegantly past the exact spot where Gerald fell, turned and walked back.

She lowered her head and licked Gerald's face once, with great dignity, and then stood beside him, looking at the crowd.

Everyone in the park began to applaud.

Gerald lay in the grass and listened to the applause. It was, he thought, the strangest moment of his life.

Lisa crouched beside him.

"Are you hurt?" she asked.

"Only my dignity," Gerald said. "Mostly my dignity."

"Belladonna just won Most Elegant by a considerable margin," Lisa said. "The audience made the decision without you."

Gerald looked up at the sky. He thought about the rake. He thought about the hat, which was now in a bush. He thought about the business cards in his jacket pocket, which still said Animal Expert.

"Lisa," he said, still looking at the sky, "do you think what I do is — useful?"

Lisa thought about this seriously, which he appreciated.

"Some of it," she said finally. "The listening. The making people feel comfortable. The way you ask questions — you ask different questions than a vet does. Sometimes you ask the question that gets to the right answer, even if your conclusion is completely wrong."

"But Professor Ward is right. I don't actually translate feelings."

"No," Lisa said. "But people feel heard when they talk to you. That matters."

Gerald sat up slowly. Belladonna was still standing nearby. She looked at him with amber eyes.

"What is she thinking?" Lisa asked, with a small, careful smile.

Gerald looked at the dog for a long moment.

"I have absolutely no idea," he said.

It was the first fully honest answer he had given in quite some time.

December came to Maple Street, and with it came cold air, the smell of pine trees, and a new arrangement on the second floor above the bakery.

Gerald had finally agreed to Professor Ward's proposal. The arrangement was simple: Gerald's office would be a first stop for pet owners who needed advice. Gerald would listen and ask questions. Then Lisa — now officially listed as "Animal Behavior Consultant" on the new sign — would assess the situation and give evidence-based recommendations. Medical cases went to the vet. Behavioral cases stayed with Lisa. Cases that needed the university program went to Professor Ward.

Gerald's title on the new sign read: Gerald Burton — Client Support Specialist.

He had wanted it to say Animal Expert. They had negotiated for two afternoons. Gerald thought it sounded professional. Lisa thought it was at least not false.

"It sounds like something a bank would use," Gerald said, looking at the sign.

"Banks have good client relationships," Lisa said.

The first client under the new arrangement arrived on a Tuesday morning. It was a teenager named Sam, who had come alone. He was carrying a small fish tank.

"I know you probably don't do fish," Sam said to Lisa. "Most animal people don't. But my goldfish stopped swimming. It just sits at the bottom."

Lisa looked at the fish. The fish was indeed sitting at the bottom of its tank, very still.

"How long?" she asked.

"Two days," Sam said. "I don't know what I did wrong."

Lisa asked several careful questions about water temperature, feeding schedule, and the position of the tank in Sam's room.

She asked whether anything new had been placed near the tank recently.

Sam said he had moved a lamp beside it two days ago, to light up his desk better.

"The lamp is putting heat into the water," Lisa said. "And it's probably too bright — goldfish need darkness periods to rest. Move the lamp away, and check your water temperature with a thermometer. It should be between eighteen and twenty-two degrees. If the water has gotten too warm, you'll need to cool it down slowly by adding a little cold water at a time."

Sam nodded, looking relieved.

Gerald, who had been watching from the doorway with his tea, walked over.

"Also," he said, "goldfish are very aware of change. When something in their space shifts — the light, the warmth, the placement of objects — they often become still for a day or two. They're not sick. They're adjusting. It's a bit like how people need time in a new place before they feel at home."

Sam looked at Gerald. "Is that true?"

"Well," Gerald said, "Lisa can confirm the scientific part. I'm just saying — don't be too hard on yourself. You moved a lamp. You didn't know. Now you do."

Sam left looking considerably happier than when he had arrived.

Lisa looked at Gerald.

"That bit about adjusting to change," she said. "Did you read that somewhere?"

"No," Gerald said. "I just thought it sounded right."

"Surprisingly, it was correct. Fish do go through a stress period when their environment changes." She paused. "Sometimes you say the right thing by accident."

"As Professor Ward noted," Gerald said, picking up his tea.

The door opened again. Another client. A woman with a large orange cat.

Gerald went to the doorway of his office and gestured warmly.

"Please come in," he said. "Tell me about your cat."

The woman sat down. The cat sat on her lap and looked at Gerald with yellow eyes.

"Her name is Maple," the woman said. "She's started waking me up at four in the morning by sitting on my face."

"Ah," said Gerald. He did his thinking face — the one with the pressed lips and narrowed eyes. The woman leaned forward slightly.

He had absolutely no idea why the cat was doing this.

But he had learned something, over the past several weeks. The question was more important than the answer. And the right question, asked in the right way, could lead an owner to the truth better than any invented theory about curtains or cold memories.

"Tell me," he said, "about what changed in Maple's life around the time this started."

The woman thought. Lisa, in the next room, quietly looked up 'cat attention-seeking behavior at night' and found three likely causes within forty seconds.

Outside, on the street below, the smell of cinnamon rolls came up through the floor from the bakery, and the morning went on in its ordinary, comfortable way.

The sign on the door read: Gerald Burton — Client Support Specialist / Lisa Chen — Animal Behavior Consultant / In partnership with Professor Helen Ward, University Department of Animal Science

Someone had put a small sticker of a dog on the corner of the sign.

Nobody knew who had done it.

Gerald suspected it had been Dorothy from the community center. Lisa suspected it had been Gerald himself.

Neither of them said anything about it.