CHAPTER 1

In which our Hero, theWorldly McMurray, Is TaughtSomething about the World

McMurray stretched his sturdy limbs and let out acontented half-sigh, half-growl. Oh, but the sun felt sogood. He lay drowsily on the ground, basking in the heat ofthe sunlit sidewalk. Although he preferred to rest on his side,he soon rolled onto his back so as to allow the warm, morningbreeze to tickle his ample belly hairs. Then, as he always didafter a good rest, he extended his four legs and turned overuntil he was standing on them, and shook out his full, reddish-browncoat of hair.

"Now, that was a nice little catnap," McMurray chuckledto himself.

Catnap. What a funny thing for McMurray to take pleasurein. After all, McMurray was a dog. And not just any dog – McMurraywas a dog's dog. If McMurray's pedigree were tobe officially labeled, (and it had been in so far as a mutt's canbe), he would be deemed a Labrador-German shepherd mix.But a good deal of other breeds had been added to his lineagethroughout the years, including Irish setter, which explainedhis name. It was the terrier in McMurray which was responsiblefor his relatively small stature.

Just as humans sometimes blame their relatives for whatthey perceive to be their less than desirable traits, McMurraypossessed characteristics which he found less than appealing.He couldn't resist frequently stopping to admire the reflectionof his wavy, lustrous coat in store windows, and the way hisshaggy tail curled ever so delicately at the tip. But wheneverhe did he was reminded of how he hated his pointy ears. Thenagain, he conceded, he did have excellent hearing. And hisblack nose, while often too wet and shiny for his taste, didprovide him with a more heightened sense of smell than otherspossessed. It was McMurray's stature which he resented most – thatbit of terrier in him which had given him shorter legs thana dog as sophisticated as he should possess. They weren't overlyshort, per se, but sometimes when he saw a purebred Germanshepherd walk by, tall and regal, he recognized his ears, andwished he had also inherited those long, lean legs.

The stockier legs McMurray did inherit had served himwell during his nearly eight years in the world. While hesaw other dogs his age being wheeled down the sidewalk inmanmade contraptions designed to compensate for bad hips andweak backs, McMurray still had a bounce in his step – and agrowl at the ready. He'd been on his own for a long time, andin those years he had heard and seen it all.

* * *

McMurray was born on the streets, so to speak, althoughliterally speaking he was born in a basement. His mother didan admirable job of fending for him and his five siblings. Shehad carved out a nice little corner of the world for them in thecrowded cellar of a brownstone on Manhattan's Upper WestSide. The homeowners, during a mad spat of redecorating,had tossed a treasure trove of unwanted items down there,most of which were in good condition – rolled up carpets,boxes of old curtains, outdated children's toys. That basementheld everything a pup needed to stay warm and entertained.There was even a leaky pipe which provided plenty of drinkingwater.

McMurray's mother was able to come and go as she pleased,having figured out how to push open and then reclose an oldbasement window that led to a discrete, concrete staircase – whichin turn led to the narrow alley between their buildingand the next. In this alley, a great deal of perfectly tasty garbagewas stored for pick-up in rather flimsy containers.

It bears repeating that this was the Upper West Side ofManhattan. While in places its population represented humansfrom varied walks of life, the brownstones on the street whereMcMurray was born housed not multiple families, but single,privileged ones. These families had very nice things, and atevery fine food. Luckily, they didn't eat a lot of it.

Once McMurray and his siblings were weaned, their mother,who was overprotective and not comfortable allowing herpups to venture outside just yet, would journey up to the alleyand return bearing discarded food from some of Manhattan'sbest restaurants. At a very young age, McMurray developeda taste for medium rare filet mignon, pecan crusted brooktrout, and pasta carbonara. Every Friday night, the peoplewhose basement McMurray and his family inhabited dined onhigh-quality Chinese take-out. And every Saturday morning,McMurray enjoyed his favorite dish – moo shuu pork. Luckily,their "host" family didn't seem to believe in leftovers.

As her pups grew, McMurray's mother had to face thefact that she couldn't keep them in the basement forever. Asspacious as it was, there wasn't much light down there, and heroffspring were getting curious about the world outside. Eventhough they knew they shouldn't make a sound, for fear ofgetting evicted, sometimes they couldn't contain their youthfulbarks when she returned from the alley. They yapped at herexcitedly, begging to learn what lay beyond the chalky brickwalls which contained them.

McMurray's mother was also getting antsy. Since she hadgiven birth to her pups, she had confined herself to the basementand the alley above. She was afraid that if she ventured further,something might happen to her and she would be separatedfrom her boys. She was, after all, a runaway. The people withwhom she'd been living, who "owned" her, had no interest intaking care of a litter of puppies. Before she took up residencewith them, she'd lived with a woman her new owners called"grandma," but whom McMurray's mother knew as Nanny.Nanny called McMurray's mother Honey – the new peoplereferred to her as "that dog."

"I can't believe Grandma made us promise to take care of thatdog without telling us she's pregnant!" the female shouted.

"That's our out then. We promised we'd take care of onemutt, not a litter of `em. As soon as they're born, we'll drop`em off at the shelter," the male told her.

"But the cost!" The female was always talking about howmuch things cost.

"Grandma left us a lot of money for that dog. There's plentyto cover the vet bills and we'll still have some cash left over forus." The male always found a way to pay for things.

McMurray's mother knew her situation was dire. Eventaking her puppies out of the equation, she had no desire to staywith those people, as she referred to them. Nanny had been kindto her, although she'd become very absentminded toward theend, forgetting to put food in the dog bowl. And Nanny hadgrown very thin, apparently forgetting to feed herself as well.

McMurray's mother had taken to wandering the UpperWest Side at night, after Nanny fell asleep. She learned wherethe best, most accessible food in the neighborhood was – notoutside restaurants, as some might think. The people whoowned restaurants were concerned about their bottom line.Even at the nicer places, they kept the food a while, until itwas about to turn and they had to toss it. Then they locked itin dumpsters out back, to keep the rats at a minimum.

But the people who ate at these restaurants ... they werenot nearly as concerned about money, it seemed. They ate outalmost daily, and then casually tossed their succulent leftoversin trash cans in the alleys between their homes. Some peoplestored the cans in bins which were hard to get to, but otherswere much more careless. McMurray's mother quickly learnedwho the cavalier residents of the Upper West Side were.

She'd had help. It didn't take McMurray's mother long tocome across others like her. Some dogs she met were homelessin the traditional sense – meaning they weren't kept by humans.Others were dissatisfied with their places of residence, andthose with whom they resided, and were prone to escape. Andthen there were those like McMurray's mother, who were onthe street because they had to be.

Although she learned a lot from them, McMurray'smother didn't like all the dogs she met at night – some she wasdownright afraid of. She came across some mean mutts whosebite was every bit as bad as their bark, who would follow heras she searched for food, then tackle her and steal what she'dretrieved. Dealing with these dogs made it easy for her toreturn to the safety of Nanny's rent controlled apartment eachday just before sunrise.

Then she met McMurray's father. He was, of all things, apurebred – a gorgeous Irish setter. Most dogs roaming the streetswere mutts like her. She was flattered when this meticulouslygroomed creature took an interest in her, a dog with no papers,who began her life in a shelter, not with a breeder. Not onlydid this Irish setter have one fancy home, he had two. Onthe weekends, the people with whom he lived took him totheir residence in the country, where he was able to run freethrough the woods and hunt wild game. He found it painful toreturn to Manhattan every Sunday night, where he was onlypermitted outside on a leash, and only twice a day at that. Sohe took matters into his own paws and made a break for it asoften as possible.

The people with whom McMurray's father lived were veryattached to him. It bothered them that he got out so muchwithout their permission. They took him to be examined bya man in a white coat, who wasn't like a regular veterinarianin that he talked to the people with whom McMurray's fatherlived more than he poked and prodded him. Then he asked tobe alone with McMurray's father.

The man in the white coat spoke nonsense to him, butin very soothing tones. He felt his muscles for tension, andrubbed the tips of his long ears. It was all very relaxing, butMcMurray's father decided this man was one of the loonierhumans, not to be taken at all seriously. That was, until heissued his diagnosis.

"I believe," the man in the white coat said to the peoplewith whom McMurray's father lived, "that your weekends inthe country have spoiled Paddy. There is a longing, a sadnessin his eyes that I have seen before in similar cases. The fact is itwould be less stressful for all of you if Paddy remained at yourhome in Larchmont for the duration. Is that possible?"

It was indeed, for the Larchmont house was occupied at alltimes by a grumpy, older man whom everyone called UncleJake. Uncle Jake seemed to be happy only when he was outsideshooting things. This suited McMurray's father just fine, as longas he could be outside with him. He told McMurray's motherso, the last time he saw her. She handled the news stoically.If this had been the decision of the humans, well, then theremight have been reason for yelping and carrying on. But thisis what McMurray's father had wanted, and his mother coulddo nothing except be happy for him.

About a week after McMurray's father departed for hisnew permanent home in the country, McMurray's motherfound herself on a walk with Nanny after dark, a very unusualoccurrence. McMurray's mother allowed herself to be put on aleash because she knew that was the law of the land, and a lifewith Nanny was preferable to one in the shelter from whichNanny rescued her three years prior, when she was five monthsold. McMurray's mother had seen more than she'd ever wantedto in that shelter. She felt fortunate that Nanny took her in whenshe did. Puppies had a chance, but older dogs ... McMurray'smother couldn't bear to think about what happened to the olderdogs. So she acquiesced, and donned a leash when she had to.Besides, Nanny wasn't exactly a task master.

"I don't know if I'm walking you, Honey, or if you'rewalking me!" Nanny frequently exclaimed when they wereout together.

McMurray's mother knew – she was the one in charge. Buton this one off night, things went terribly wrong. For starters,although Nanny was wearing her nightgown, she didn't seemto realize she should be in bed.

"Come on, Honey. Time to go to the store. We're out ofmilk! And I need to get the paper. I don't remember the lasttime I read the paper."

The newspaper was delivered every day. McMurray's motherbrought one in every morning when she returned home fromforaging, and piles of newspapers lay untouched around theapartment. Against her better judgment, McMurray's motherdidn't resist when Nanny clipped the leash to her collar. This ispart of the deal, she thought to herself. She gives me a warm placeto stay, I protect her.

McMurray's mother led Nanny to the corner, hoping shewould realize that the market was closed and turn back. Instead,Nanny, who had not put a coat on over her nightgown eventhough it was early November, said, "Let's go to the DuaneReade!"

Nanny started tugging at McMurray's mother's leash."Come on, Honey! Let's go! Be a good girl now."

McMurray's mother didn't have to move – she had thestrength her German shepherd and Labrador lineage gave her,and the agility of an Airedale terrier, although she still wasn'tcertain how that breed got in the mix. But she didn't want toleave Nanny on her own; more than obligated to her, she feltalmost maternal toward this old human. Nanny just seemedso lost.

So McMurray's mother followed Nanny across the street,against the light, with horns honking and cars swerving in theirwake. Duane Reade wasn't a restaurant, so McMurray's motherhad no reason to be familiar with the chain – she had no ideawhere one was. She tried to lead the old woman back to theapartment, but Nanny was growing very agitated.

"The Woolworth's was right here! Right here!" sheshouted, pointing at a bank.

Passersby, although few and far between in that neighborhoodat that hour, were staring, but not one stopped. McMurray'smother was confused ... "I thought we were going to DuaneReade," she said to herself. "What's Woolworth's?"

Then Nanny started crying. "Hank! I want Hank!" shewailed. McMurray's mother knew that Hank was the humanwho appeared with Nanny in many of the photographs in theapartment. Nanny told Honey about him sometimes. More andmore, Nanny spoke to Hank as if he was in the room for real,and not just in a picture.

McMurray's mother didn't know what to do. She sat downand waited patiently for Nanny's tantrum to pass. Then Nannysat down as well. McMurray's mother walked over and lickedNanny's face, hoping the slobber would snap her back intoreality.

"Good girl, Maggie. Good girl," Nanny said softly, pattingMcMurray's mother's thick, tan coat.

Maggie was the cocker spaniel Nanny had when she was alittle girl; she talked about her sometimes, but more often lately.And that's when the policemen found them, sitting on thecold cement steps of the Chase bank that Nanny kept insistingshould be a Woolworth's, Nanny half frozen in her see-throughnightgown, gently petting a dog she called Maggie.

When McMurray's mother was brought to the shelter laterthat night by Animal Control, "Maggie" was the name they puton her cage. The humans seemed to take pity on her becauseof the circumstances in which she was taken in – loyally caringfor an old lady with severe dementia. They stroked her and toldher what a good girl she was.

McMurray's mother, in turn, took pity on the humans forbeing so easily suckered in by this sob story, and decided torespond when they called her Maggie. It didn't matter to her.Before she'd been named Honey, she'd been dubbed Suzy Qby the shelter Nanny got her from. She believed the only namethat should mean anything is the one your real mother gaveyou, if you were a lucky enough mutt to know it. She wasn't.

McMurray's mother spent one full day and another nightin the shelter, trying to resign herself to her fate as a prisoner.She couldn't, so she focused on her chances of getting out. Shewas almost four, but could probably pass for two. And she wasattractive in a unique sort of way, except for her oddly shapednose, courtesy of that pesky Airedale. But it turns out her fatewas not sealed. The next morning, the people who calledNanny "grandma," whom McMurray's mother recognizedfrom photographs but had never met, came and picked herup.