by Susan Conant
Quinn put his box of drug samples on the table and had me put the box of books in a corner of the room. Then we made more trips to and from Zara’s car. When we’d finished transferring everything from the car to the playroom, Quinn thanked me, and then Rita appeared and said, “Holly, thank you. I was watching from the bedroom window. You are amazingly strong. Look at your arms! You’re going to look wonderful in your dress.”
My matron-of-honor gown was a silk number in a deep shade of peach chosen to echo the color of Rita’s palest-possible-peach silk wedding dress. I was going to look like a piece of peeled fruit—but with strong arms.
“We have to go,” Rita said. “Willie’s crate is in my car.” They were due to spring Willie from Angell—that is, the Angell Animal Medical Center. “Holly, could I ask you a favor? Uncle Oscar should be down in a minute. Could you make him a cup of coffee?”
“Of course. What kind of coffee?”
“Dark. He’s Italian!”
Because Rita had always described Uncle Oscar as Italian, I’d expected him to have an Italian accent, but he didn’t. The occasion for him to speak seldom arose because he was often asleep in his room, dozing in a recliner outdoors, or napping in a chair in the living room. He was Rita and Zara’s great uncle—their mother’s uncle—and the only obviously Italian thing about him was his last name, Carino. Zara had picked him up at his assisted-living apartment in Connecticut. They’d arrived five days earlier so that Zara could help her morning-sick cousin with the move to the new house and with the wedding. Zara was also going to house-sit and dog-sit while Rita and Quinn were in Norway on their honeymoon.
As an aside, let me mention that a potentially mal-de-mer-inducing cruise of the fjords was entirely inappropriate for someone who already had morning sickness, but Quinn had always wanted to visit the fjords, and Rita had failed to stand up for herself.
“Or you can let Uncle Oscar decide,” Rita added. “He likes picking out his own K-cups, but the Keurig confuses him.”
When Rita and Quinn had left, as I was turning on the coffee machine, Uncle Oscar entered the kitchen. He was short and wide, with none of the visible frailty that sometimes occurs in great old age. His short white hair was remarkably thick. In other respects, too, he defied the stereotype of a nonagenarian. His blue-and-white-striped shirt would’ve been appropriate for a man of any age, and he hadn’t covered it with a moth-eaten cardigan; his loose chinos were belted at his waist, not three inches above it; and on his feet were well-polished penny loafers rather than battered bedroom slippers. His face, however, was a mass of shar-pei wrinkles. So thick and deep were the lines and folds on his cheeks and chin that I found it hard to imagine how he shaved as closely as he did. He must have used an electric razor and used it carefully. Otherwise, he’d have been covered with scabs and scars.
“Holly Winter,” he said with a smile. “Holly Winter and no dog? That’s a first.” He gave me a smile and big hug.
“A strictly temporary situation,” I said. Then I offered to make coffee.
As Rita had predicted, Uncle Oscar took obvious pleasure in examining the K-cups in the little rack on the counter. Having made his decision, he handed me one. As I was inserting it in the machine, I noticed to my surprise that he was slyly pocketing two of the others. Why? I didn’t ask.
When I’d settled Uncle Oscar at the kitchen table with his cup of coffee, Zara bounced in and gave him a big hug, and Izzy wiggled all over and nuzzled him.
“Moving day!” Zara announced. “Must make room here for Mommie Dearest. Uncle Oscar, there’s a new wedding present. It’s a set of demitasse spoons. They’re in there”—she pointed toward the playroom—“on the table.” To me, she said, “Uncle Oscar loves presents.”
“Even when they’re someone else’s,” he said.
Although Zara and Izzy were to stay with us only until the wedding and then move back to Rita and Quinn’s, Zara wanted to have none of her belongings in the guestroom that her mother, Vicky, would be using. Zara voiced no such objection about her father, Dave, probably because he wouldn’t arrive in Cambridge until just before the wedding and would leave almost immediately after it. I helped her carry down suitcases, leather tote bags, and briefcases as well as Izzy’s gigantic dog bed. When we’d loaded everything into her car, she said, “Now we just need Izzy. And I want to check on Uncle Oscar.”
We found him in the playroom, where he was happily sorting through Quinn’s drug samples. The capsules and pills weren’t loose; rather, they were attractively packaged in colorful little boxes. Uncle Oscar looked like a child having fun with blocks or Legos. For Uncle Oscar, the playroom was just that.
chapter five
The plan for the evening was that we’d all gather for drinks at Rita and Quinn’s before walking to a nearby restaurant, Vertex, where we had a seven-thirty reservation. Once Zara had transferred her belongings to Rita’s old apartment on the third floor, she stayed there, supposedly to work on a book she was editing. In fact, she spent some of the time on Facebook, as I know because when I was supposedly working on my new book, a light-hearted memoir of my dog-rich childhood, I checked Facebook, too. Before Facebook, we self-employed people had no office water cooler. Now we’re hyperhydrated with status updates.
Earlier in the day, Zara had, of course, reported about the attempted stealing of Izzy. Her most recent status update was this: Izzy and I have moved to Holly and Steve’s lovely third-floor apartment, where we’ll be until Rita and Quinn’s wedding. Tonight, drinks with Rita and Quinn and family, then dinner at Vertex, a neighborhood restaurant. Whoops! Sounds like a greasy-spoon pizza joint. Amend that. Dinner at trendy restaurant in the neighborhood.
My cousin Leah, who was about to begin veterinary school at Tufts, had posted an update on my wall: Hey, Holly, great news! Kimi’s late application to vet school has been accepted, so she’ll be spending the next four years here with me. Leah was, of course, joking. Kimi was strictly a visitor. Leah, who was sharing a little house with five other veterinary students, had actually tried to talk me into letting her keep Kimi there, but I’d refused.
I posted: Sorry, but Kimi won’t settle for anything less than a full professorship. I miss you both!
Of our three Alaskan malamutes, Rowdy was the only one who belonged exclusively to me. Leah had finished Kimi, as it’s said—handled her to her breed championship—and had put Kimi’s obedience and performance titles on her, too, so I’d given Leah a co-ownership. Steve and I co-owned Rowdy’s handsome young son, Sammy. Lady, our timid pointer, and India, our GSD—German shepherd dog—had been Steve’s before we were married. Lady’s neediness made her attach herself to all sources of strength, so she was now mine as well as Steve’s. India was like a planet: she accepted me as part of our solar system, but she revolved around Steve.
As I was scanning my e-mail, Lady, India, and the center of India’s universe entered the kitchen from our fenced yard. In part because our foul-tempered cat, Tracker, occupies my office, I work mainly in the kitchen, where I can enjoy the inspiring presence of Rowdy and Kimi, who can’t be trusted with Tracker. At the moment, I was seated at the kitchen table with Rowdy and Sammy at my feet.
Although I missed my fiery Kimi, her temporary absence had the benefit of simplifying our dog-dominated lives during the hectic week before the wedding. In particular, I didn’t have to monitor Kimi in case she decided to lift her lip at India, and I wouldn’t have to worry about how she behaved with Izzy. Because Rowdy and Sammy were intact male malamutes, I always kept an eye on them, but they’d never had a fight, and they did fine with India and Lady. As to Izzy, who liked other dogs, neither India nor Lady had much interest in her; Sammy saw her as a lively playmate; and, for some unknown reason, Rowdy had an oddly worshipful attitude toward her. If Zara heeded my warnings about malamutes and food, all would be well.
The warnings? Malamutes are obsessed with food. They’ll steal it, and they’ll fight over it. Worse, they have a highly inclusive definit
ion of what constitutes food: food itself, of course, but also pizza cartons, paper towels, tubes of toothpaste, the bark on firewood, clothing with traces of treats in the pockets, mulch, compost, and outright garbage. For obvious reasons, we feed our malamutes in their crates.
“Rowdy, crate!” I said. “Sammy, crate! Good dogs!” I latched the doors. We always have a crate or two in the kitchen and just about everywhere else. When dinner is about to arrive, malamutes are true believers who respond to the last trumpet by trying to drown it out. Since it was impossible to make myself heard over the screaming of the malamutes, I greeted Steve only with a smile; and to preserve the hearing I have left, fed all four dogs as quickly as possible. In the twinkling of an eye, Rowdy and Sammy had emptied their bowls and were casting eager glances at India and Lady, who were munching their kibble in civilized fashion.
“It takes a brave woman to tame wild beasts.” Steve swept me into a bear hug.
Could I love Steve if he looked like a toad? The question doesn’t arise. If he had an ugly face, warts, and short little arms and legs, the chemistry would have been missing to begin with, and I’d never have had the chance to find out whether I loved him or not. Happily, he’s princely rather than amphibian. He’s tall and lean, with wavy brown hair and blue-green eyes, but what’s special about him is his combination of passion and authenticity, and also a kind of magnetism, I guess, that draws creatures to him, all creatures. Even my scratchy, hissing cat, Tracker, loves and trusts Steve. So do I.
But Steve does have a few shortcomings. In particular, when our landline phone rings, instead of checking caller ID, he has an annoying habit of answering immediately. Worse, if the call is for me and if it’s from someone I don’t want to talk to, he can’t seem to understand my nonverbal demands to say that I’m unavailable. In this case, I had good reason to suspect that the caller was Tabitha Treen, and I just didn’t have time to talk to her. Consequently, when Steve answered, I shook my head, mouthed the word no, and pointed to the clock, all to no avail. Looking mystified, he handed the phone to me.
“Tabitha Treen,” he said.
Speaking so that Tabitha could hear me, I said, “Steve, we have to get ready to go to Rita’s. I need to take a shower and get dressed. Hi, Tabitha! Sorry, but we’re going out.”
“I won’t take any time. I just need to vent. I am so upset! Did you see my post?”
I almost asked which one, but it didn’t matter. She’d posted the same lament all over Facebook, and this was far from the first time that she’d posted exactly the same thing.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m so sorry that you lost track of that puppy, but it does happen, you know. You’ve done your best, but even the most responsible breeders sometimes lose track of puppies.”
If it’s possible for a breeder to be responsible to a fault, that’s what Tabitha was. She was a conscientious person who cared deeply about her dogs and her puppies. Also, as the author of two excellent books about her breed, the Labrador retriever, and as the author of dozens of articles about all aspects of breeding, she wanted to serve as a model for other breeders and consequently set exceptionally high standards for herself.
Okay. I’m making excuses for her. She drove everyone crazy. Or maybe I’m just jealous. Both of her books were incredibly successful. One was a long, detailed, gorgeously illustrated volume about the history of the breed, the foundation stock, famous kennels, Labs in movies, health problems of the breed, and so forth. The other was a succinct and inexpensive book for pet owners. The market for both books was gigantic because the Labrador retriever is the most popular breed in the United States, Canada, the UK, Australia, Israel, New Zealand, and possibly the world.
Still, Tabitha irritated everyone by insisting that we help her to locate the missing puppy and that we offer her endless emotional support during her search. Tabitha acted more or less as if the puppy had been stolen, when, in fact, a few years earlier, she’d sold the puppy to some people who’d promised to stay in touch with her and who’d vanished. As I’d reminded her, it happens.
“Well, Holly,” she said, “it may happen, but it doesn’t happen to me, and what I’m really, really upset about is some of the private messages I’ve had. What’s wrong with these people! These are dog writers! They’re supposed to know better. Cheyenne was my beautiful puppy, and I’m just supposed to forget the whole thing? Let it go? That’s what two people told me. Let it go! Well, my beautiful puppy was not a thing. “
She went on to say that her puppies came into the world in her hands and that this puppy was somewhere, and so were those liars who’d bought the puppy. Then she got to the point of her call, which was to blame me: “You know, the only reason I ever sold my puppy to those people was that you referred them.”
“Tabitha, I know how frustrated you are, and I’m really sorry, but I’ve told you before that I have no recollection of sending them to you. They weren’t friends of mine. They weren’t people I knew. It’s possible that I gave someone a list of names of reputable Lab breeders, but I just don’t remember. I’m sorry. And about the private messages? Ignore them. Just—”
Once in a while, God rewards my devotion to the Sacred Animal. At that moment, sirens sounded on Concord Avenue, and two of my own Sacred Animals, Rowdy and Sammy, bless them, took up the call, and their howling put a swift end to Tabitha’s. It’s often brothers who excel at close harmony: the Louvin Brothers, the Everly Brothers. So do my sire-and-son duo. Come to think of it, it’s exactly what I want in my entire household, in the relationships among my dogs, in my relationship with each of them, and in my relationship with Steve: close harmony. That’s how I like all of us to sing.
chapter six
“Now, Steve,” I began as he and Zara and I were walking down the street to Rita’s. Izzy was with us, too: where Zara was, there was Izzy.
“Now, Steve,” he mimicked in a voice pitched a good two octaves above his normal bass, “don’t tell Quinn’s parents about the baby!”
“Well, don’t!” I said.
“His parents are from Montana. They’re not time travelers.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That they live in the same century that we do. They’d probably be happy to hear they’re going to be grandparents.”
“They’re ultraconservative,” I said. “Family values. Besides, Rita and Quinn don’t want them to know yet, and it’s Rita and Quinn’s decision, not ours.”
Zara spoke up. “Aren’t babies family values? But aren’t they going to notice that Rita isn’t drinking?”
Quinn’s parents, Monty and MaryJo, who had driven from Montana, had arrived in Cambridge ten days earlier. After four days here, they’d gone to Maine, so Zara hadn’t met them yet.
“No,” I said. “They had dinner at our house before they went to Maine. They don’t drink at all, so they just think it’s normal. They probably approve. Zara, watch your heel on this brick!”
The high-heeled gene ran in Zara and Rita’s family, or maybe it was the style gene. They were the kinds of women who have handbags and shoes that coordinate with different outfits. Zara’s handbags were oversized, presumably to make room for all of the electronic devices that she carried everywhere. Tonight, she wore a white-dotted black sleeveless dress with wide lapels. Her high-heeled black sandals were hazardous on the rough sidewalk, but they looked great, and she carried a black satchel that was almost as big as a tote. When I admired it, she paused to open it.
“It has room for everything,” she said. In addition to a wallet and a cosmetics bag, it held two phones, a headset, a tablet, and a high-end Nikon digital camera that I couldn’t help envying.
Izzy had service-dog vests for all occasions. At the moment, she wore a black one with white trim. Zara didn’t go so far as to paint Izzy’s nails, but she did keep them short, and she trimmed the hair on Izzy’s feet. Rita had picked out my new white sundress, so I didn’t look too shabby myself in spite of my flat-heeled sandals. I wish that avoi
ding high heels were a political statement, but the truth is that I just hate pain.
When we got to Rita’s, we found her sitting rather stiffly in the living room with Monty and MaryJo Youngman. When I’d first met them, before they’d left for Maine, I’d been irrationally surprised at how old they looked and had wondered whether it was safe for them to drive long distances, especially at night. Quinn had inherited his height from his father, and when I studied Monty closely, I could see a family resemblance, but Monty was fleshy, especially around the middle, and had pouches under his eyes that looked like shucked oysters. To his credit, I guess, he was exceptionally clean. He took showers all the time and was forever brushing his teeth. Furthermore, he made ample use of minty aftershave and matching breath drops. Consequently, I thought of him as Minty Monty.
MaryJo, his wife, was a jumpy little bird of a woman with scrawny arms and legs, a bony nose, exceptionally round blue eyes, and white hair swept back from her forehead in stiff wings. As I happen to know from a wildlife special that Steve and I once watched, there’s an African bird called the oxpecker that subsists on ticks, flies, and maggots that it pecks off the backs of cattle, rhinos, and other large mammals. Disgusting though the comparison may be, whenever I saw the birdlike MaryJo and the big, fleshy Monty, I was reminded of an oxpecker and a rhino, particularly because MaryJo had a habit of plucking invisible bits of lint from his clothing.
Let me add that unlike the oxpecker, MaryJo didn’t eat her gleanings.