“Oh my god, this can’t be happening! I’m getting dating advice from my dog.”

  Sitting on her bed, Jen held the locket tightly. Or maybe, she thought, she should hold it loosely. How had she been holding it the night before? Would pressure make any difference? What about the angle at which she had been holding it? What about the ambient temperature? Had the aircon been running? Was there a breeze in the room? Was she obsessing over irrelevant details? Did such things actually matter where the impossible fantastical were concerned?

  The answer was simple. Since she couldn’t remember a single one of those things, she would have to proceed while ignoring them.

  Stuart, on the other hand, knew exactly where he had been sitting the previous night, looking on worriedly while Jen willfully degenerated into progressive blottoness. He sat there now, watching her, wondering what she was going to do next and what might happen as a result.

  “Just sit still, okay?” she told him. “We have to fix this. Somehow.”

  “How?” He wagged a non-existent tail.

  She rubbed her forehead. “I don’t know. Try different things, I guess. Necromancy isn’t my area of expertise. You might think it’s required in order to get a California realtor’s license, but it isn’t.” She paused, then brightened. “I know. I’ll repeat what I said last night, only backwards. Maybe it’ll reverse the transformation.”

  “Okay.” Where Jen was involved, Stuart was up for anything. Unless she turned him into a cat. Then they would have a problem.

  Readying herself, Jen closed her eyes tightly, pursed her lips, and…sat there. Said nothing. Finally she opened her eyes.

  “What did I say last night?”

  Stuart considered. He had a better memory for other things. The location of buried bones, the sound of a can opener releasing the delicious aroma of pre-macerated dog food, the scent of a certain bitch—but he made an effort.

  “I think it was, something like something about voting control, new business, how mom’s always right even when she’s wrong….”

  She cut him off. “Yeah, yeah, I remember, I got it. Somehow I don’t think any of that is relevant. Need to try something more pertinent to the situation.” She squinted, took a breath, and recited in a voice that was solemn but not quite sepulchral.

  “I wish that my dog—becomes a dog again!”

  They both held their breath. The aircon hummed softly. It was not a moment to inspire Poe. Lifting his right leg, Stuart struggled to bend it to scratch behind one ear. The movement might have pleased a yoga instructor but did nothing to validate Jen’s demand.

  “Let me think,” she muttered. After a moment Stuart birthed a suggestion of his own.

  “Sing it!”

  She made a face. “’Sing it’? Yeah, maybe music will help. Aren’t magical spells usually done to music? Can’t hurt to try.”

  Rising, she walked to a closet, opened the door, and began searching. From the top shelf she removed a guitar case glazed with a thin layer of gray dust. Blowing it clean, she finished the job by wiping it with one palm. Stuart let out a sneeze, bent to wipe his nose on the bedspread, quickly thought better of it. Returning to the bed she sat down and cradled the instrument. It snugged neatly against her, as if it hadn’t been lying dormant in the closet for many years. Reaching down, she began strumming and singing along with the tune.

  “How about…hmm. Turn it around, round, round, turn it around, round round. Go back the way you were before, turn it around, round, round….”

  She stopped. The aircon hummed softly. It was not a moment to inspire Dylan. Then Stuart broke into applause.

  “That was great! Did you write that? Just now? Wow! ”

  Her expression was dour. Nothing had changed. Only that she realized how badly out of practice she was. Not that being out of tune either vocally or instrumentally likely had anything to do with the failure of the attempt.

  “Uh, nothing. I used to play a little in college, remember.” Her eyes widened slightly. “What if,” she set the guitar aside, “we change—the picture? The one in the locket? If it’s the locket that’s even responsible. We don’t know that. But the picture changed from one of dog you to one of human you. What if we try to force change it back?”

  Rising, she went over to the dresser and removed one of several photos of a certain Boston terrier. Taking scissors from a drawer, she cut the picture down so that it would fit in the locket. Removing the photo of the human Stuart, she replaced it with the freshly trimmed canine portrait. Stuart observed the whole process intently.

  “How are you gonna wish this time?”

  “How about, “downward dog near or far, meet your body where you are?”

  He frowned. “’Downward dog’?”

  “I’m kidding. Seriously, now…hmm. Maybe I should just be straightforward about this. Not try to imitate something medieval. I’d probably get the Latin all wrong anyway.” Holding the locket shut in one hand she pointed with the other and intoned, “Reverse the drunken wish I made and make him furry once again!”

  Squinting at the pointing finger, Stuart held perfectly still and concentrated. It made no difference. Once again, nothing happened.

  Well, almost nothing.

  Taking a deep, hopeful breath, Jen opened the locket, peered within—and let out a scream. The image was still that of human Stuart. Only this time the pose was different. He was blowing a kiss. Also, he looked a bit shaggier.

  “What is it, Jen? What’s wrong?”

  Rejoining him, she showed him the locket and the new picture. “What the heck, Stuart? New pose?”

  He broke out into a wide, innocent grin. “How cool is that?”

  “It’s not cool. You’re still not a dog. You’re human Stuart, badly in need of a trim Stuart.” Returning to the dresser, she fished her phone out of her purse.

  “This is nuts. I better call Arthur.” She dialed his cell number.

  Rising onto all fours, Stuart executed several circles on the bed before sitting back down again. “What are you gonna tell him?”

  “Well, I’ll tell him that after our dinner I came home, got really really drunk, kinda angry, took his picture out of the locket, replaced it with yours, and made a wish. A wholly inadvertent wish. Then in the morning, when I got up, I thought you had gotten out of the house. And you had gotten out of the house, and I went looking for you, and when I finally found you, my dog had become a man. And it’s all his fault for not giving me a ring instead of this stupid, stupid, stupid locket!”

  Drawing back her arm she prepared to fling it across the room, only to catch herself at the last moment. There was no telling what might happen if it slammed into the floor, or the wall opposite. It might kill Stuart. It might kill her. It might scramble whatever enchantment had taken place and turn Stuart back into a dog or her into a poodle. And she had never liked poodles.

  Stuart voiced his own opinion. “Great idea! Call him and tell him that.”

  Yeah, sure, she thought. Nothing like telling your fiancé that your dog has turned into a dude to rekindle a relationship. He’d never come back from San Francisco. That set her to wondering if he ever did intend to come back from the City by the Bay. Which led her to ponder other matters of relevance, which offered nothing in the way of reassurance.

  As she sat in stasis wondering what to do next, a voice reached her from outside.

  “Jen, it’s your mother! I got some good news, open up! And this time don’t hold Stuart out the window!”

  Not much likelihood of that, she thought as she eyed the current six-foot tall iteration of Stuart. She shook herself out of the momentary stupor. “Coming, keep your pants on!” Hanging up the phone before the call was completed, she put it back in her purse, opened the bedroom door, and started out—only to stick her head back in a moment later.

  “Stay! Stay, Stuart.”

  “Do I get a treat when you come back?”

  For an instant, just an instant, his reply took her aback. Then she remembered exactly who it was she was talking to.

  “Yeah, sure. A treat, right. Stay here until I come for you.”

  Downstairs, she opened the front door—but not all the way. Just enough to poke her head out. Sylvia frowned at her.

  “What are you doing?”

  “What are you doing?” Jen shot back fretfully. “I’m changing.”

  “Let me in.” Without waiting for permission, Sylvia pushed hard on the door, forcing the issue. Jen stepped back. “I changed your diapers. What’s with the sudden reluctance? Frilly red underwear? One could hope.”

  Before her mother could wander off to anywhere else, Jen led the way to the kitchen. That suited Sylvia just fine, as the small dining table provided an ideal place for her to deposit a folder full of paperwork.

  “So since you didn’t answer his most recent messages (this delivered in a tone straight from the Arctic), Derek Jones contacted me and I followed up with him. He still wants to meet you for lunch tomorrow to sign papers. You’ll find the suggested time and place in your messages from him. Nice restaurant he picked; for a jock the man has taste.” She indicated the folder. “Here’s your packet. It’s all filled out for you. It looks like you did the hard part, getting him on board with Townsend. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. I’ll get his John Hancock.”

  Sylvia studied her daughter closely. “You still look frazzled. Maybe you’d better check to make sure you don’t ask him to write ‘John Hancock’ and that he signs ‘Derek Jones’.”

  Jen replied dry. “Ha ha, it is to laugh.”

  “That’s right, quote Daffy at me.” Her tone softened. “So, how did it go with Arthur?” Her gaze dropped to Jen’s right hand. “I don’t see a ring. That means it went well?”

  “That’s child abuse.” She turned away, fearful of what her mother might see in her face. “I can’t even tell you what happened because you wouldn’t….”

  “Another woman?” her mother interrupted. Her voice rose. “I knew it! Knew it from the beginning, it was so obvious.”

  Jen turned back. “Then why didn’t you say anything?”

  “What, and interfere in my daughter’s life? What do you think I am?” Before Jen could provide one of several dozen possible responses, Sylvia raced onward. “Anyway, speaking of Arthur, I confirmed today that his family is building a new shopping center, and you’ll never guess where.”

  “I heard.” She sighed. “The dog park. He never even mentioned it. Jim, a guy who works at the park, told me. I didn’t believe it.”

  “Well, it’s true,” Sylvia assured her. “Arthur Daly and his family would build a car wash over a cemetery if it meant making a buck. I told you from the first time I met that man that he….”

  A very loud sneeze from somewhere upstairs caused her to break off and peer in that direction.

  “Gesundheit!” she called out, adding with a quizzical glance at her daughter, “who was that?”

  The sound of feet descending the stairs was all that broke the ensuing silence. Entering the kitchen, Stuart walked past both women and headed directly for the cupboard. Opening it, he searched for a moment until he located the box of Milk Bones. Retracing his steps, he paused halfway back to the stairway to regard the two silent women.

  “I never understood that. ‘Goes in tight’ when it actually come out loose.” He added a shrug before walking the rest of the way across the kitchen and heading back upstairs. Having followed his progress intently, Sylvia now turned back to her daughter. Had she been in a boardroom she would have coughed lightly.

  “Explain?”

  “Who is that?” Letting out a nervous laugh, Jen proceeded to improvise, as she had all morning. “That’s Stuart. He’s an old friend from school.”

  “You don’t have any friends,” Sylvia said matter-of-factly.

  “Mom.” Jen let out an exaggerated sigh. “He’s a psychologist.”

  “Even for a psychologist he has terrible taste in clothes. And his name is Stuart? Like your dog.” A sudden thought made her pause and she found herself searching the kitchen. “Where is Stuart? He’s always right next to you.”

  More nervous now but not laughing this time, Jen nodded toward the stairs. “He’s upstairs sleeping. The two of us were up all night crying. I mean, I was crying and he was whining. Like, empathy. So I made a call to an old friend and this morning sneezing Stuart came by to help me try and figure out the Arthur thing.”

  Sylvia raised an eyebrow. “The ‘Arthur thing’?”

  Jen met her mother’s gaze without flinching. “Yeah, the Arthur thing. You coined it, you own it.”

  The older woman shook her head slowly. “You’ve lost your mind.”

  More clumping on the stairs and Stuart reappeared, upbeat as ever. “Jen! Let’s go for a walk.”

  A chance to get out of the house—and get away. “Great idea. Let me grab my shoes.” Her gaze switched rapidly from him to her mother. “I’ll be right back.” She left the room, moving fast.

  It left Sylvia alone with Stuart. A risky move on Jen’s behalf. She studied the bearded man closely. There was something curious about him. She couldn’t quite put a finger on it. A kind of happy-go-lucky innocence. Not that that was necessarily a detriment. On the other hand, his tracksuit smelled as if he had just run from Newport to San Diego. And his breath held a faint odor of—some kind of carbohydrate. Old hotdog buns? Milk Bones? That was crazy. Probably just cold toast. They were not all that dissimilar.

  “So you went to school with Jen?”

  “All the time. We’re best friends. She tells me everything! Always has. Also,” he finished proudly, “I’m a real good listener.”

  Sylvia considered. “Everything, huh?”

  “Yep. I know her better than anyone.”

  “Is that so? You think you know her better than her own mother?”

  It was a challenge that would have shut down almost any man. But Stuart wasn’t almost any man. In fact, he was hardly almost a man. Instead of a challenge he reacted as if it was just another question.

  “Do you know the lyrics to all her songs? I do. She sings them to me all the time. Does she sing them to you? Do you know who her friends are at the park? I do! Her dog friends as well as her people friends. Did you know Arthur didn’t propose?”

  “Okay, okay, I get it.” It was clear this was one friend of her daughter’s that, for whatever reason, was not easily intimidated. There had been no malice in his reply; just evident honesty and genuine affection for Jen. “I guess you do know some things I don’t. Big deal.”

  “When she talks, I just listen. I don’t interrupt. Because I listen, she tells me everything. I’ve noticed that few people can or are willing to do that. Most of them just want to talk. Talk, talk, talk, and most of the time they don’t seem to say very much. So I sit nearby and listen. Then things just work out.” He paused a moment to study Sylvia. “I know you’re her mother and that you love her, but do you ever just listen to Jen?”

  Jen had said that this Stuart was a psychologist. He was proving it now. He might need a change of clothing, but she could not deny the charm of his bedside manner.

  “I do tend to talk more than I listen. Part of it is the nature of my work.”

  “Don’t blame yourself. I got bigger ears than you.”

  He really did know his stuff, Sylvia had to admit. It was almost as if his perceptiveness was an inborn trait.

  “It’s that simple, huh?”

  “Well, actually,” he began, but Jen returned, breathing hard. She hadn’t been gone that long and he wondered why she had been in such a hurry to retrieve a pair of shoes.

  “Ready, Stu—eh, Stuart?”

  He nodded. Rather vigorously, Sylvia thought, but at the moment her attention was more focused on her daughter. Stepping forward, she gave the other woman a firm hug, then released her.

  “Honey, do you remember that song you used to sing on the porch? Whenever you were home?”

  The question was unexpected, and Jen hardly had room for any more of the unexpected. “You mean, “Poopie on the floor?”

  “That’s it!” Sylvia beamed. “I love that one.”

  It was plain that she was in no hurry to leave. Wordlessly, Jen and Stuart continued to stare at her. As the moment stretched into uncomfortability, she finally took the hint.

  “Anyway, have a nice walk.”

  As soon as Sylvia was out the door, Stuart turned to Jen. ’’Poopie on the floor? I don’t know that one.”

  “I just made it up,” she told him proudly. “Not like she would know, anyway.”

  He was confused, but only for a moment. “So—she was pretending that she remembered a song that never existed?” Jen nodded. “I wonder why she would do something like that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it had something to do with whatever you guys were talking about when I was upstairs.” She peered hard at him.

  He replied with hesitation. “One of the things we were talking about was the songs you sing to me. I told her I had heard them all, and I asked if she had.”

  “Ah.” Jen looked past him, down the walkway her mother had taken. “Now I understand.”

  “I don’t. Can you explain it to me?”

  “Some other time. It’s not important. Right now, I have to do something that is important.”

  Picking up her phone she dialed Arthur’s number. It rang immediately. Several times. “C’mon, Arthur. Answer the phone!” She held it near her right ear as it continued to ring. At the same time she gave Stuart yet another once-over. “Stuart, you can’t keep going around in what’s left of my track suit. Let’s get you some proper clothes.”

  He winced suddenly. “Get me to a tree first.”

  There was a pause following a final ring and she held up her hand to quiet him. There was no Arthur on the line; only his answering service.

  “Hi, this is Arthur. I can’t take this call because I’m either at the Round Table with Galahad and Lancelot or on my yacht. Leave a message.”