There is a fountain in the park, not far from the baseball diamonds, a simple thing really, that sends low towers of water, maybe ten or twelve in all, shooting up from the floor of a small, simple cement courtyard. I discovered it last Summer shortly after we moved in, when the nights had begun to cool off and the days were slipping into darkness earlier and earlier. On hot afternoons I watched as barefoot children and dogs danced through the columns of rippling and cascading water, parents and companions gathered around to smile and clap their approval. Duncan has never enjoyed getting wet, going so far as to sidestep even the smallest of puddles on our daily walks. He'd eyed the thing nervously last year but I'd hoped that after his spectacular swimming escapade on Easter that he'd be willing to at least investigate it. Today was the first day the water has been on since August and as we approached it, I noticed he hung back, falling directly behind me, as if to keep me as a barrier against even the smallest of drops or the mist that was carried away by the wind. When I turned and stepped aside to let him see it, he stepped right with me, staying behind me, not even wanting to look at the thing. I faked right then quickly hopped left only to turn and see he hadn't been phased at all and was still shielded from it. After several minutes of coaxing and faking and pulling he grew tired of my antics and grabbed the leash in his jaw and began pulling me away. For once I was the uncooperative one not doing as I should. He pulled and reeled me in exactly as I collect the slack when we near the baby bunnies. He would have none of it and slowly but surely pulled me well out of range and back toward the safety of the grass where, exhausted and relieved, he collapsed and refused to look directly at me.