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We met through a review in the New York Times of a book I'd written. Frank read the review and noticed that I taught at Tufts on the Medford campus. Because the book, in part, described my childhood relationships with animals, the dean sent me a note through intercampus mail. In the note Frank commented on how much he liked the book, and he extended an invitation to tour the Grafton campus hospitals and wildlife clinic.

Since our meeting, Frank has come to our aid during our many animal crises. He faxed us information on how to care for our orphaned kittens, and he's kept an eye on Buster by way of sending us information regarding canine epilepsy.

Aware of the problems that Stephen encountered in Brookline, Frank also invited Stephen to visit Grafton. On one occasion we brought GQ. with us. Frank walked us among the horses, sheep, and cow barns, sparrows sailing the wide girth of the stables.

Like me, Frank believes in the significance and healing power of human and other animal relationships. As he listens to my story of G's attack, I am afraid he is going to suggest, as our local vet has, that G is too dangerous to remain with us. But Frank has another idea.

“I am going to put you in touch with our animal behaviorist here,” Frank says. “Let's make the appointment right away. There still might be something we can do.”

We live close to one another and to the animals. Stephen and Trevor share a tutor on weeknights. While they work I get dinner ready—four packages of ravioli and two boxes of broccoli dumped in boiling water that steams the kitchen windows, two loaves of bread and a salad, all of which will disappear when we sit down together in front of a fire.

Charles and I take turns feeding and walking the dogs. He usually takes them out in the mornings and midday, while I set out with them in the evenings. Often Stephen or Trevor comes with me. It's a good time to talk about problems they are having at school, or with one another.

Some of our older cats come along on our walks even when winter's at its worst. They dart far out in front to lie in wait behind a bush. As we approach they leap out to surprise us. Other times we find them lounging in the dust at the roadside.

And there is the ritual of the laundry. For most of our last two years together it must be taken to the Laundromat, our dryer hopelessly broken, in pieces on the basement floor.

Once he pronounced it unfixable, the electrician who came out to look at it left in a hurry—happy to escape what must have appeared to him a madhouse of activity and noise, the dogs joyously sniffing and circling him and his tools, the boys at work in the adjoining basement room mixing and recording, our cats batting lint balls around him as Rufus, grunting and growling, would try to corral them; Rufus, whom we believe to be going through interminable postpartum depression regarding the cats. They're fully grown and these days they mostly taunt and/or ignore Rufus, who mothered them in their orphaned infancy.

Because we don't have the money to buy a new dryer, we drop our laundry off to be done by attendants at a local Laundromat. But when we pick it up, we find notes taped to our bags that read, Dear customer, we do not appreciate receiving dirty laundry that contains so much animal hair. Some of our staff is allergic.

Another time a note says, “Dear customer, the sheets in the laundry you dropped off smelled of urine. We ask that you rinse these items before giving them to us.”

“This is humiliating. Buster can't help it. They're treating us like the Snopeses,” Charles says, referring to a family in Faulkner, as he unloads the bags from the car.

“I agree. We'll do it ourselves from now on,” I offer.

Going to the Laundromat for a couple of hours each week actually becomes a job I look forward to. Pretty soon Stephen comes along as we discover a shared domestic pleasure, doing such mounds and mounds of dirty laundry—six to ten loads—taking up many washers including the huge industrial ones for the sheets and blankets