The Dogfather

by Conant, Susan

  There was none. One second, the little newcomer was making friends. The very next second, this same harmless-acting creature had darted underneath Kimi and was ripping into her underbelly. A sneak is one thing. But a dog sneak! And a clever one. Fast, too.

  In a dog crisis, I’m pretty quick myself. Before Kimi could take revenge, I bent down over her and, with one hand on her collar and the other under her chest, lifted her up while addressing the poncho-clad owner. “Get your dog out of here now!”

  The owner was about ten feet away. When she yanked off the hood of her poncho, I recognized the woman whose bicycle had scared Frey a few weeks earlier. She was a real Cambridge type. Perhaps sixty-five, she had a boney, intelligent face and short, straight gray hair cut in an unflattering Dutch boy clip. While retracting the leash, she apologized to me in Harvardian pseudo-British tones and scolded her dust mop in the same voice. “So dreadfully sorry! I can’t imagine what got into her. Elizabeth Cady, bad girl! You had no reason whatsoever to display belligerence, did you? We’ll toddle off back home this very minute and contemplate our sins. So terribly sorry.” The retractable leash was now short, as it should’ve been all along. To my relief, the woman soon found a break in the traffic and led Kimi’s pint-size attacker to the opposite side of Concord Avenue. Elizabeth Cady. Stanton. Pioneer advocate of women’s rights. Cambridge, my Cambridge.

  When we got back to my house, we ended the evening as soon as we’d made sure that Kimi was uninjured. Steve trained dogs, too. Both of us understood the importance of keeping sessions short and happy. If everything is going well, it’s always tempting to push for yet more progress. That’s a beginner’s mistake. Steve and I weren’t novices, especially with each other.

  A few hours later, as I lay in bed awaiting sleep, I searched for a moral to what struck me as the parable or fable enacted that evening. Its title was evident: Kimi and the Dust Mop with Teeth. What eluded me was the moral. I wasn’t alone in the king-size bed. Rowdy was asleep on the floor under the air conditioner, which on this cool April night was, of course, turned off. Savoring happy memories or dreaming of Arctic blasts, he was in a sled dog tuck, his body in a fetal curl, his tail wrapped over his nose. Kimi was stretched out on the bed, her spine pressed against mine. She was on top of the covers, not between the sheets. Steve wasn’t between my sheets, either, but he was presumably between his own. I tried to take comfort in the thought that he and I were both between unspecified sheets and tried not to dwell on the separateness of our beds.

  Kimi and the Dust Mop with Teeth.

  What was the moral?

  CHAPTER 11

  It’s hard being a mobster. You’re always in danger of being shot, strangled, knifed, drowned, blown up, or imprisoned. Before my affiliation with the Mob, I’d heard about all those concrete perils. Household phrase: Concrete boots. What had escaped me was the weighty psycho-vocational burden of worrying about respect, disrespect, and the rest of that macho crap, all of which I already understood in depth: When it comes to machismo, a male human being can’t hold even the most phallic candle to a male malamute and shouldn’t try. Given the opportunity, Rowdy would probably wear flashy rings and get chauffeured around and rule over a pack of capos, advisors, and hit men. Come to think of it, as it is now, I supply Rowdy’s expensive collars and leashes, I drive him around, I serve as his trusted advisor, and I act as his bodyguard. A big chunk of my money goes to him. Never, ever would I betray him. Omerta: the code of silence about Rowdy’s misdeeds. Holly Winter: capo, consigliere, and all the rest in one. Rowdy: capo di tutti capi.

  What leads me to Mob angst and machismo, isn’t, for once, my dogs, but a series of phone calls I received in the days following the dust mop’s assault on Kimi’s underbelly. I got the first of these calls the next morning. Rowdy and Kimi were in their crates, and the puppy boys, Frey the elkhound and Sammy the malamute, were studying a required subject in the puppy curriculum: aggression management via play. When the phone rang, Sammy was winning in tug-of-war with a long fleece snake. The thought crossed my mind that if I heard Guarini’s voice, I probably shouldn’t mention that Frey was losing to another pup. But the caller was a stranger, a man who said, with no preamble, “You the dog lady?”

  I said yes.

  “Mr. Guarini told me to call you. I got a problem with my dog.”

  In one of those abrupt shifts of interest to which puppies are given, Sammy and Frey had dropped the toy snake and were lapping noisily out of the same big water bowl.

  Keeping an eye on the puppies, I grabbed a pen and paper. “Maybe I can help. Let’s start with what kind of dog this is.”

  “He’s a Doberman. But he don’t act like one.”

  “How old is he?” I asked.

  “A male,” I said. Ordinarily, my next question would’ve been, “And is he neutered?” Intuition told me to hold off. “And what’s his name?”

  “Durango.”

  “And what’s up with Durango?”

  “Like I said, he don’t act like a Doberman.”

  “Could you, uh, be a little more specific? What is it that he does?”

  “It ain’t what he does. It’s what he don’t do. Except there’s one thing, and I gotta tell you, this’s driving me nuts. He lays down.”

  “And?”

  “I put him in the car, and he just lays down.”

  “I’m sorry if I’m being dense, but I don’t see what the problem is. A lot of dogs sleep in the car. If someone else is driving, I might sleep in the car. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”

  “But you ain’t a Doberman!” The caller chuckled at his own wit.

  “Don’t be too sure of that. Look, let me take a guess. When you’ve driving around with Durango, what you’d like is to have him sit up and look around and generally behave like a guard dog. But he doesn’t. He curls up and goes to sleep. Is that right?”

  “Yeah, but it ain’t only that. It’s everything.”

  “He’s friendly.”

  “Yeah.”

  “He doesn’t threaten people. He acts sweet.”

  “Yuh, the big dope. That’s what he is. He’s a big dope.”

  “Let’s not leap to conclusions here,” I said. “Have you ever heard the term alpha male?” After a moment of silence, I explained. “In packs of wolves and dogs, the alpha male is the top-ranking animal of the pack, okay? And the true alpha, the established leader who knows he’s top dog, is a calm, self-confident animal. What he doesn’t do is go around snarling at everybody else or starting trouble or picking fights. Why should he? Everyone else already respects him. He’s not some wannabe little scrapper. He’s the boss.”

  “You don’t know Durango.”

  Inspiration struck. “I do know Mr. Guarini,” I said. “Do you ever see him going around getting in stupid little fights with everyone?”

  “Mr. G.’s got a smile for everyone. Most of the time.”

  “Exactly. Does Mr. Guarini ride around in his car glaring out the window and baring his teeth at people and snarling? No. He relaxes. So does Durango. Durango is a self-confident alpha leader. Top dog. There is nothing wrong with him, and you can stop worrying.” Wondering whether I was going a bit too far, I nonetheless added, “In fact, you can take pride in Durango. He sounds to me like the Enzio Guarini of dogs.”

  "You think so?”

  “I’m positive,” I lied. “I’m sure that if the need ever arises, Durango will show his strength. In the meantime, enjoy him. He sounds like a good dog.”

  I expected the caller to end the consultation there. He didn’t. After a little um-ing and er-ing, he said in a reluctant tone, “Mr. G. says I gotta cut his balls off.”

  “Durango’s, I presume.” No, I didn’t say it aloud. What I said was, “Mr. Guarini knows a lot about dogs. And, uh, analogies, uh, comparisons aside, dogs are, after all, dogs. Durango won’t hold it against you. In fact, he’ll never know. So, yes, you should do what Mr. Guarini tells you to do.”

  Purely by
chance, the second little incident, another phone call, also occurred when I happened to be working with dogs. Do we detect a pattern here? Actually, I was training only one dog, Kimi, but my focus was again on aggression. Specifically, Kimi was learning to be a good girl in the presence of our cat, Tracker, and by our, as I was determined to convince Kimi, I meant hers, mine, and Rowdy’s. The only way to ensure that a dog will be safe around cats is to raise the dog with cats from puppyhood. It also helps to start with a mild dog of a non-predatory breed, meaning neither Kimi nor Rowdy nor any other malamute who hasn’t grown up with cats. Tracker was a permanent resident of our household because, having rescued her, I’d failed to find any responsible person who was even remotely interested in adopting her. If you ignored Tracker’s head, she was an attractive-enough-looking black cat, but she was missing a chunk of one ear, and a squiggly pink mark disfigured her face. Worse, her typical expression was sour, and she was fond of hissing at people. To protect her from the dogs, I kept her in my office, and I have to say that she was a nasty officemate. Whenever I wanted to use my computer and had to dislodge Tracker from the mousepad, she spat at me and often scratched my hands. Still, as I had to work at reminding myself, Tracker was not only one of God’s creatures but my cat, and in confining her to one small room, I wasn’t offering her an enviable existence. Also, it galled me to admit even to myself that I was incapable of teaching the dogs to accept her.

  At the moment, Tracker was on top of the refrigerator, where she was going to linger because I’d supplied her with a plateful of Kitty Kaviar, which is shaved bonito and Tracker’s favorite treat. Rowdy was safely locked in my bedroom, and Kimi was on a loose leash and wearing a snug fabric muzzle that allowed her to eat the morsels of roast beef I was giving her when I caught her displaying calm behavior toward Tracker. In the old days, we tried to catch our dogs doing something wrong so we could correct the behavior, usually by jerking on a choke chain. Now, we’re equally vigilant in watching for good behavior, which we reward with positive reinforcement. I was using the same method I’d been teaching to Enzio Guarini, what’s popularly called “clicker training” and technically known as “operant conditioning with an event marker.” The event marker—the click—came from the little plastic and metal clicker I held in my hand. Each time Kimi glanced at Tracker without stiffening her legs, raising her hackles, or showing any other sign of excitement, I sounded the clicker and immediately followed the click with a treat. Just when I’d seen Kimi display a new and welcome behavior, the damned phone rang. For the first time, Kimi had calmly looked up at Tracker and then immediately turned her eyes to me in clear expectation of the click and treat, both of which I delivered.

  “Yes!” I told her. “That’s it! You’ve got it!”

  Oh, well, any good trainer knows to end a session on a note of success. I hustled Kimi into the bathroom, removed her muzzle, shut her in, and ran for the phone. I’m diligent about answering because I’m on many lists of volunteers for Alaskan Malamute Rescue of New England and the Alaskan Malamute Assistance League. The call I don’t answer could be from someone who abandons the effort to reach Malamute Rescue and dumps some poor malamute at a kill shelter instead. Or worse.

  This particular call had nothing to do with malamutes. It was another referral from Enzio Guarini. Like the call about Durango, this was a complaint about insufficient machismo, and before I get precise, I have to tell you that as a dog trainer, a dog writer, and especially as a volunteer for Malamute Rescue, I’ve dealt with thousands of dog problems. When my caller is someone new' to malamutes, I often have to do nothing more than provide information. A typical such call goes like this:

  New adopter of adult female malamute: Nikki’s so sweet and wonderful, and we love her so much, but we’re worried sick that there’s something terribly wrong with her, uh, hormones.

  Me: She lifts her leg.

  Caller: Yes!

  Me: That’s perfectly normal.

  If the dog is destroying the house, my advice is to increase the amount of exercise he gets and to stop giving him the run of the house. He jumps on people? Teach him a solid down-stay. And so forth. But with dog owners, just when you think you’ve heard it all, you learn better. Incredibly, incredibly, this caller was consulting me, a dog trainer, a specialist in behavior, because of his male rottweiler’s infuriatingly disobedient refusal to grow to the gigantic size the owner wanted.

  “My brother’s got a rottweiler that weighs a hundred and seventy pounds,” he informed me.

  “Your brother’s dog is too big,” I said. “The rottweiler isn’t supposed to be a giant breed. Your brother’s dog is incorrect. And at a guess, he’s fat. That dog would be laughed out of the show ring. The owner of the correct rottweiler is you.”

  For all I knew, my caller’s “correct” rottie was thirty pounds overweight and a total fright. Did I care? I did not. My caller was delighted with what I’d told him. And my caller was a Guarini associate.

  The third call came from Carla Cortiniglia, Joey’s widow, and inevitably concerned her memorable little coffin-dancing, bosom-nestling loudmouth, Anthony. Carla began by repeating the profuse thanks she’d offered me at the funeral. “Geez, first Joey, and then if it would’ve been Anthony, too, I don’t know what I would’ve done.”

  At worst, the undertakers would have raised Joey and then somehow raised Anthony from the ground; the rescue would have threatened the dignity of the service, but the dog’s life hadn’t been in any great danger.

  I said, “I was glad to help.”

  “Anthony’s got a mind of his own. He won’t listen to a word I say.” Carla’s proud tone was one that’s dreaded by every sensible dog trainer.

  I spoke honestly. “I have the feeling that you like Anthony just the way he is.”

  “I’m nuts about Anthony. You got that right! He walks all over me. But I really gotta do something.”

  “Dog trainers have a saying: If it’s not a problem for you, it’s not a problem. In other words, Anthony is your dog, and if you’re happy with his behavior, that’s what counts. Unless your neighbors are upset about something? Or he’s biting people? Or—”

  “I got a problem in my flower shop,” Carla said. “It’s my dream, you know? A flower shop. And as soon as I says to Enzio, ‘Enzio, what am I gonna do without Joey?’ he says to me, ‘Carla, what do you wanna do?’ and I says, ‘Run a flower shop.’ And he says, ‘Well then Carla, that’s what you’re gonna do. Which one you want?’ He’s a good man. And I says, ‘You know that one in the center of Munford? Just got redone, all clean and pretty? That’s the kind of place I got in mind. That’s my dream.’ And you know what? The next day, Enzio calls me and he says, ‘Carla? Your dream’s come true.’ ”

  My first thought, duh, was what an amazing coincidence it had been that the flower shop of Carla’s dreams had just so happened to be for sale. My second thought was that whatever Enzio Guarini ever wanted would become instantly available. “And Anthony?” I asked.

  “You gotta understand that Anthony, he’s with me all the time. Like they say, twenty-four seven. He’s my constant companion.”

  “Bosom companion,” I blurted out. “Is that a problem?”

  “I’m not leaving him home.”

  “Is there some reason why you should?”

  There was. Anthony was ferociously guarding his new daytime home against the intruders who persistently tried to enter it. He was also attacking the stock: knocking over potted plants, ripping into ribbons, and puncturing Mylar balloons.

  “For a dog,” I lectured, “having free run of the house or the shop or anyplace else is a great privilege. And it’s a privilege that has to be earned. Anthony has not earned the privilege. And I’m sorry to say that he’s going to have to have the privilege taken away until he does earn it, or you are going to have no customers and nothing to sell them, anyway.”

  “He’s being just awful,” Carla said.

  It’s important to instill hope. “Anthony
could be an asset to your business,” I said. “He’s very cute. The problem isn’t Anthony." Naturally I was tempted to say, “It’s you. ” I didn’t. “The problem is Anthony’s behavior. That’s an important distinction. You love Anthony. And what he needs right now is tough love. We can work on his behavior, but it’s going to be hard work, and he’s not going to shape up instantly. Okay? Carla, do you own a crate?”

  “I’m not putting Anthony in a cage!”

  “If you let him keep doing what he’s doing, you’re letting him practice undesirable behavior. All these behaviors are becoming habits, and once a behavior becomes habitual, and it’s locked in, it’s almost impossible to change.” Yes, as in habitual criminal. It seemed to me that I’d do well to say no more.

  “I saw what you did with Anthony. It was a miracle. Could you come over here?” Carla pleaded.

  “Yes. But not now.” I love training dogs, and I love teaching people to train dogs. What Carla wanted wasn’t what I had to offer; as she’d just said, she wanted a miracle and, worse yet, a miracle performed by me. Of course, a miracle was what I wanted, too: I wanted Carla to undergo a personality transplant that would replace her hysteria with someone else’s calm realism. Then I could help her to train her dog.

  “Tomorrow?” she asked.

  “Carla, I just can’t.” I went on to offer an excuse, possibly the only one that Enzio Guarini would fully accept. “Both of my dogs are entered in a show on Saturday. Tomorrow, I absolutely have to bathe and groom them. Your shop isn’t open on Sunday, is it?”

  “No, but—”

  “Monday,” I said. “I’ll be there Monday morning.”

  She gave me directions. I gave her the toll-free number of a mail-order kennel-supply house and issued a dog trainer’s do-it-now command to buy a dog crate.

  Carla promised to order the crate immediately. I had convinced a mafioso’s widow to lock up her dog—or, as Carla phrased it, to put poor, dear, innocent baby Anthony in jail. You see? I really did perform a miracle. Or so I thought at the time.