Twenty-Eight
Cave Art
“What the hell …”
Finan moves to take the bone—actually, bones—from the dog. “Wait! Don’t touch it!” I yell, my voice bouncing off the massive rock wall that serves as the backdrop for this lovely beach. He pulls his hand away. “Do you have any gloves on board?”
“It’s probably just from a dead animal.”
“Exactly! Gross!” I rummage through the basket for the napkins, even the used ones, and wrap it around the end of the bones firmly clamped in Humboldt’s very strong jaw. “Humboldt, release.”
He doesn’t release.
Over my shoulder, Finan dangles the last of Humboldt’s dog cookies. It works. The bullmastiff abandons his bony bounty and throws himself toward the treat. I, too, let go, and the bones drop onto the pebbled sand. “I’ve not spent a lot of time outdoors or
