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A bunch of mourners at Li-Li Young’s memorial service wore black. None looked Chinese. They obviously hadn’t done their homework like Abigail.

We sat on an aisle at the funeral home behind two balding men with a large tote bag between them that had this printed in red on the side: Never Trust a Person Who Doesn’t Love Dogs.

At the front of the room there must have been thirty bouquets of flowers in clear or black vases. Most of the flowers were red and white, and they were displayed in groups on different-sized tables. Like they were going to be judged and awarded ribbons after the service.

Not six seconds after we sat, a tiny dog that looked to be made entirely of cotton and static stuck its head out of the bag and yipped at us.

“Shush,” Mrs. B. told it, while Abigail reached to pet it, and I remembered a couple old ladies at Bluestone Court who carried their little dogs in big bags too. I just didn’t know anyone would take them to a funeral. But I had seen some odd stuff that summer. This was just more of it.

The cotton-and-static dog yipped again. One of the men mouthed “Sorry” at us and cradled the shaking fuzzball on his lap.

“You know, I got sent out of the church for making noise at a funeral,” I said quietly to Mrs. B., who patted my knee and said, “You shush too.” It made me laugh a little while I double-checked that my phone was off.

Abigail signaled me with a nod to her right. Across the aisle from us, I saw another woman with another small dog on her lap. Two rows up, a young man and woman fed treats to some kind of little terrier with a blue scarf around its neck, and minutes later, two more men walked in, each holding a Chihuahua.

“Mrs. B.,” I said. “Are we in the wrong place?”

“No, this is where the obit-wary says to go.”

“You’re sure?” I asked, and, oh my God, a second dog popped its head out of the Never Trust a Person, etc., tote bag. And it pointed its bulging eyes right at Mrs. B. and blinked nervously.

“I have with me the noosepaper,” Mrs. B. said as she began searching through her purse, which she called her pocketsbook.

As she dug, an older man, with a rim of white hair and deep creases from his nose to the corners of his mouth, walked to the front of the room and thanked everyone for coming and for “bringing your darling babies with you. My Li-Li loved dogs. All dogs.” He pressed both hands over his heart and said through a cracking voice, “It would have meant so much to her to see this turnout and to know how important she was not just to me but to you too.”

“Mrs. B.?” I whispered.

“I am lookink,” she whispered back.

“Check your skirt pockets,” I suggested.

“Li-Li was the center of my life,” the man continued. “Which is exactly how she liked it.” That got some quiet laughs, including from Abigail.

“Ah. Here,” Mrs. B. said, handing me the neatly clipped and folded obituary.

“Li-Li loved . . .” the man said and stopped, swallowed, trying to regain his voice, as I quickly scanned the obit. “. . . three things.”

“Mrs. B.,” I said, keeping my voice low.

“She loved me, of course,” the man said to audible sighing.

“We are not at a Chinese funeral,” I said, and Abigail leaned close.

“Pekink,” Mrs. B. said, pointing at the obit. “She is from Pekink. She is Chinese.”

“She loved her friends,” the man said.

“That doesn’t say Peking,” I said.

“And she loved a good game of fetch,” he said.

“It says Pekingese,” I said.

“Yes. Pekink-ese. From Pekink.”

“Mrs. B., we’re at a dog funeral.”

“From the moment I rescued her at ten weeks old, she was my life,” the man said, and his voice cracked, and he pressed the bottoms of his palms into both eyes for a second. “She was part of me for sixteen years. You know what it’s like when you love and lose an animal. You’re never the same again.” He cleared his throat. “You’re never the same because part of you is missing. It’s that little piece of your heart they take with them, but it’s also that little piece that connects you, I think.” His eyes filled. “No matter where Li-Li is right now, my heart is with her too.” He cleared his throat again and showed us a red rubber crab. “She loved this,” he said. He squeezed it. It squeaked. And all the dogs in the room started yapping like crazy.

The man laughed. I did too. He wiped away tears, even as fresh ones fell down his face.

Around me, everyone was wiping their eyes and laughing. The cotton-and-static dog licked its owner’s face.

Abigail pressed both hands over her lips, her eyes watering, her mouth smiling. On the other side of me, I heard mmm-mmm-mmm, mmm-mmm-mmm, mmm-mmm-mmm and saw Mrs. B.’s shoulders moving up and down as she lifted her glasses and brushed away tears.

I felt a tap on my shoulder.

I turned, expecting someone to hand me a tissue, but saw a vaguely familiar woman, with deep lines in her forehead, like an accordion, holding the leash of an entirely familiar dog. A Portuguese water dog, a little gray around his snout. With a collar that read Wesley.