I wiped my mouth on my arm and spit out the dog slobber.“What kind of dog is it?” I asked.“What kind do you think it is?” Mr. B asked.“I don...��t know.” I told him.“Look under his belly. Mr. Benson said.I looked. I stupidly, was thinking that the kind of breed this dog would somehow be written on his underside. I got on my hands and knees and looked on the dog’s belly. I could see nothing.“Mr. Benson said. “Look closer.”By now my head was practically under the dog and the only thing I could see. They had met for a drink in the Pine inn. They had met at the "Happy Hour" in the red and white Pine inn bar that spoke of elegance, of quiet, casual wealth and good taste. They had met with the Pine Inn regulars who met every day at five and drank quietly and well.And she had too much to drink! She had driven home tipsy, driving slowly, and felt immediately sleepy going to bed and wondering vaguely and only half-seriously, if anything had been put in her drink. She had become "high" so quickly. More

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