She had looked down, below the tirade, to the old dog lying asleep at her feet. Too deaf to be roused from her dreams of fleeing rabbits, the dog’s feet twitched happily. Her pink, shaved belly lay exposed, warm against the carpet, with a black line of staples zipping it shut. “The tumor is typical of lymphoma,” the vet had said.

“That won’t do,” said Winslow Homer.

“Nancy claims to be an artist, but I don’t see how she can make that claim when she hasn’t produced any art work in the past year. Her priorities are screwed up. She spends way too much time in recreational activities. She spends weeks at a time up north in the summer, riding her horses.”

Up North. She could almost smell the balsam as the pony brushed past the twigs. The deep green forest, dripping after a rainstorm, was washed clean that day. The dog, forgetting her arthritis in delirious joy, ran alongside, snuffling noisily through moss and soggy leaves.

“Why do you think that? Nancy, you work, don’t you?” Alex looked at her.

She sighed with the effort. “My work is not the kind that makes a steady income,” she explained weakly. “I draw animals. I do commissions.”

“You’re a NOTHING!” the voice echoed. Poof, went her bangs.

Alex said, “Well, I think the two of you are a good team. The engineer, who handles the technical aspects of life, and the artist, who provides the aesthetic gifts which every life requires. You compliment each other.”

“Hogwash!” Homer bellered.

The clock ticked. She looked at the colorful print on the wall; flowers in a field, with one corner of the poster board rumpled and bent.

“Can you tell me some things that you like about her?” Alex said. “What do you love about her?”

She looked down at the docksiders, saw one tap-tapping on the floor. A quick rhythm; one-two, one-two, then it stopped. She thought about her dog’s paws twitching. She had stepped over the dog to run from the room, with the door banging against the wall as she flung it open.

She had sat on the stairs, wetness trickling silently down her cheeks, and suddenly the dog’s cold nose was thrust against her elbow, nudging it up, and the large head shoved against her, foul dog breath blowing in her face.

“I like it when she is talking on the phone, and I hear her laughing. I like her good looks. I like her humor and intelligence.”

Winslow Homer smirked, and tugged his generous handlebar mustache.

Alex inhaled, a deep sigh, a signal. He said, “Sometimes the way men love is through deeds. You’re a good provider. This is how you show your affection. But it’s important to communicate your feelings, too. What a lot of men do is, they make a laundry list of grievances. These emotions, resentments pile up until one little thing sets it off, and then you blow the partner’s hair back by saying, “Oh YEAH! And then there was the time you… bla bla bla.”"

The Husband laughed, and leaned back in the chair. Up came one of the docksiders, crossing over the knee to rest in comfort. “Yes,” he agreed. “That certainly sounds familiar.”

She watched his hands, tense as they grasped his ankle.

The Husband continued. “The thing is, I can’t label her. She isn’t doing art work any more. What is she? I don’t know what to call her.”

She pictured Winslow Homer in his bowler derby, walking along the rocky shores of Prout’s Neck.

She had watched the fading sunset over Helen’s Lake, with the pink clouds painting stripes across the sky. She threw sticks for the dog into the pink lake, and watched the water splash and foam, then settle flat and pink again. The dog came out, dropped the stick, and shook, her black saddle spiking up, ears askew. Then, panting happily, she picked up the stick, dropping it pointedly a little closer, and closer still. A woodpecker flew silently, dodging among a dead stand of cedar.

“I can’t put a label on her,” The Husband said.

She stood up, bent and reached for her coat. Alex said, “Nancy, what’s wrong? We’ve hardly begun the session.”

“I have to go,” she said. “My dog is sick.”

She stood, with her back straight, and carefully folded the coat over one arm. She walked out of the room. On her way past the table in the lobby, she picked up the magazine, and took Winslow Homer with her.