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“He'd say you're supposed to join me.” Now I'm laughing through my tears. Stephen picks up the shovel and steps back to let me go first. I hesitate.

“Go on,” he instructs. “Into the house, Mother. I'll make some coffee,” he says, “and put a few armed guards on that tree.”

Fall, 1995

Northampton's emergency room is crowded this Friday night. I've been waiting over an hour to see a doctor, a blood-soaked towel wrapped around my right wrist. I've left a message at home for the boys explaining my departure by ambulance, along with instructions not to approach G.Q., who earlier attacked me.

The boys weren't at home at the time of the attack. Now and then I dial the pay phone to see if anyone answers.

I hold the towel tight against my wound to keep the bleeding down. Impatient, considering leaving the emergency room to go home and tend to the wound myself, I open the towel to see that no, I'd better stay. The wound is bad, the flesh torn to the bone.

I'm confused about what has happened. Against reason my feelings are deeply hurt over the fact that G.Q. lashed out at me. It's true that we've begun to notice changes in him. At first we attributed those changes to the additions of Rufus and Buster to the household, not to mention the new fitter of cats, whom we kept, every one. No doubt G.'s territory was impinged upon.

And yet G.'s strange behaviors seemed to have little to do with the other animals. For one thing we can no longer walk him off leash because he runs at cars. Recently he bolted straight at a neighbor passing our driveway, hit the passenger side, and bounced off. I was sure the dog was hurt, but on the contrary, he picked himself up and walked back, undaunted, toward me.

Other times as he's sat with the kids on the floor of the living room, he suddenly stiffens. His eyes wild and remote, he begins to pant and growl and lick his lips. Recognizing danger, the boys have known to move away from him—in that split second he has lunged at one of them. Then he's walked away, as if baffled at his own behavior.

I took him to the vet, who suggested that when such an incident occurred I offer him one of Buster's Valiums.

“He might be having a kind of seizure,” the vet explained. “And be careful,” he warned. “This dog could be dangerous. He might just be crazy,” he concluded. “These dogs are overbred. In such cases it's better to put them down.”

I heard what the vet told me. At the same time I could not imagine that what he said was true, until tonight, when G. had lunged at my arm as I set his dinner bowl on the kitchen floor.

Perhaps I had unwittingly connected G.'s behaviors with Stephen's of a few years before, behaviors of aggression that have all but vanished, in part because of his love for this very dog.

G.Q. was the first being in a long time with whom Stephen authentically and positively connected. Through that connection his empathy for others was rekindled.

G.Q. taught me many things as well. The night Stan retrieved Stephen from the police station, I witnessed the dog's unconditional greeting and Stephen's response. And I had coined a phrase that night we've repeated—affecting cheer: “G. doesn't care about criminals …”

After the doctor cleans my wound and stitches me up, I try calling home once more, but no answer. A taxi takes me the ten miles to Amherst. Once home I mop the blood off the kitchen floor, wary of G, who greets me with the old charm and makes his way back to the living room, where he jumps up on the couch and falls asleep.

When they arrive home, Trevor and Stephen are wild with concern. Stephen makes us tea while Trevor paces, trying to make sense of what has happened.

“I don't know,” I say. “I've had many dogs, Trev But I've never seen this before.”

We both look over to G.Q. Sprawled out on his back in his bed, he snores loudly.

“He can't be attacking you,” Trevor states.

The next morning I call a friend of mine, the dean of the Tufts School of Veterinary Medicine in Grafton and a veterinarian