Saving Fish from Drowning - Heal Burma

SAVING FISH FROM DROWNING
here,” he said on that segment, “has patience, an observant eye, and
perfect timing.” Pup-pup was almost a year old, and Esmé had
demonstrated that her dog could follow her cues to sit, lie down,
come, speak, shake hands, dance, retrieve a toy, and stay in one place
even when Esmé left the room. She watched this Fido Files episode at
least fifty times. She decided she would become an animal behavior­
ist like Harry. Only she didn’t want to be on a TV show. She wanted
to go back to Burma and rescue dogs. If they treated people that bad
over there, imagine what they did to dogs.
I T IS MY TURN. I now know how I died.
Yesterday, the police detective called Vera. She was trustee of my
estate and, by the way, the one negotiating the addition of my name
to a second new building of the Asian Art Museum—and no, not
just a wing—the seed money for which would come from my twenty-
million-dollar bequest.
The detective said he had a few items that belonged to me. They
included the carpet I fell on, the Miao textile that covered me, and
the things I broke when I fell: a wooden lattice screen, a Ming bowl,
two Tang dynasty figurines of dancing maidens, which were replicas
but very nicely done. And there were the two gruesome objects: the
murderous metal comb and the tasseled tie-back that had gone
around my throat. Did she want them?
No, Vera said, thank you.
He remembered one more thing: There was a personal letter.
Vera wanted to see the letter. She thought I might have written it,
and would keep and treasure it if I had. She made an appointment to
see the detective.
They sat at the detective’s desk. “Can you tell me anything else
about the accident?” Vera said. “Why was that little rake thing in her
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