by Susan Conant
Diane Sweet could have been telling the truth, of course. The puppy was nuzzling my neck and licking my hands. It’s certainly true that dogs know who loves them, and, besides that, the pup must have smelled Rowdy and Kimi.
“She sure is cute,” I said.
“Uh, how much is this dog?” Steve asked quietly.
“She’s six hundred dollars. This is a show dog,” Diane Sweet said shamelessly.
Well, look, it has happened. There are a few famous cases of pet shop puppies that went on to become and to produce AKC champions—a Maltese called Lover, the sire of the legendary “Aennchen dancers” who all went Best of Breed at Westminster—but those cases are famous because they’re rare and improbable.
“And,” Diane Sweet assured Steve, “you’ll get the purchase price back the first time you breed her.”
Steve cleared his throat.
“Think it over if you want,” Diane Sweet said, “but I have to tell you that this puppy isn’t going to be here long. It’s Valentine’s week, and this is a very special puppy. We’ll get other malamutes, but I can’t guarantee you one like this.” Then her voice dropped almost to a whisper. “You know,” she advised Steve, “it would really be a shame to separate them.”
4
When I got home, I forced myself to watch a videotape about which I’ll say nothing except that it showed a raid on a puppy mill in the Midwest and that the dogs on the tape included Siberian huskies, Dobermans, and Alaskan malamutes. This tape is so gruesome that I’d put Rowdy and Kimi outdoors in their fenced yard before I’d popped it into my new VCR. I won’t expose my dogs to filth. As for myself, I took the tape as a booster shot, the sharp jab I needed to protect myself from buying either the malamute puppy or the poor little Boston terrier. Fact: Puppy mills breed their bitches the first time they come in season and every six months thereafter until the age of five or six, when the litter size decreases. And then? If the bastards used needles instead of shotguns, I suppose it could be considered mercy killing.
While the tape was rewinding, I went to the door, whistled, and called, “Rowdy! Kimi!” Then I back-stepped to avoid the dogs, who barreled up the steps, fled past me, and barged into the kitchen, where they neatly planted themselves in front of the food closet and trained angelic eyes upon their favorite companion animal.
“You see that clock?” I asked politely. “Three hours to go.” They eat at five. Actually, they eat from five o’clock until precisely twenty seconds after five. Tired of finicky eaters? Could I interest you in a nice rescue dog? “Find something else to think about, huh?”
Having offered that advice, I took it myself. My dogs weren’t overweight, but when I spread my hands over their solid chests and rubbed hard, I could feel the healthy layers of muscle that hide their ribs from view even in the summer when they’re shed out. I stroked their thick, clean, sweet-smelling coats, checked their ears and teeth—pristine—and glanced at their well-trimmed nails. Dogs don’t absolutely need to be bathed and groomed like that. In fact, Rowdy is convinced that a warm bath is a life-threatening event, and, especially when I shampoo his tail and flanks, he yowls and shrieks so loudly and intensely that the sound waves whack against my head like breakers smashing into a seawall. Since acquiring Rowdy, I’ve certainly sustained a significant hearing loss and probably undergone a series of minor noise-induced concussions, too, but, as I’ve said, dogs don’t actually require and often don’t even enjoy show-ring perfection. But to remain healthy, they need basic cleanliness, not to mention food, shelter …
So I wasn’t very successful in trying to think about something else, and, in any case, despite the limits on what anyone could do, I needed to do something. For advice about exactly what, I called Betty Burley, one of the most effective Malamute Rescue people around here. As I’ve confessed already, my own Malamute Rescue efforts had consisted largely of repeated failures to find good homes, not that I entirely blame myself. I mean, if you think about it, God undoubtedly has exactly the same problem in placing rescued angels. The prospective adopters are all lined up, they’re full of enthusiasm, wild about the breed, and then all of a sudden, they ask what seems like one last perfunctory question, namely, “Say, they don’t shed, do they?” And God, eyeing those richly feathered white wings, clears Her throat, ers, ums, and reluctantly spits out the truth. “But,” the Deity hastens to add, “only twice a year. And with a really powerful vacuum cleaner and a good daily brushing, you’ll hardly notice it!” The people, unconvinced, say thanks, hang up, and dash to the nearest pet shop to pay six hundred dollars for a toy-size lap demon. So, as I’ve said, why should I feel guilty or inadequate? Everyone who does rescue has the same problem.
The exception is Betty Burley, who has been breeding, showing, and rescuing malamutes for thirty or forty years. Oh, and by the way, when I say that Betty does rescue, I don’t just mean that she takes back her own dogs. Every ethical breeder does that. Let me add that although not everyone around here is crazy about Betty Burley, she and I get along fine. One reason I like her a lot is that she reminds me of Kimi, and you’re welcome to tell Betty I said that, too. She’ll probably be flattered. She should be. Kimi is highly intelligent, incredibly pretty, unmistakably feminine, outrageously dominant, and genuinely tough. I first met Betty Burley at a local kennel club’s annual banquet, where we found ourselves seated next to one another. After we’d exchanged only a few words, I discovered that I’d draped my left arm around my dinner plate and was keeping a vigilant eye on Betty in case she made a Kimi-like lunge for my broiled Boston scrod. In brief, despite the absence of a thick double coat, a full mask, and, so far as I know, a long plumy tail, and despite Betty’s seventy-odd years, she is so much like Kimi that her presence turns me food protective. All this is to say that Betty is good at getting what she wants, namely, responsible homes for rescue dogs or, in the case of the kennel club banquet, the fish that I didn’t finish. So Betty has more experience in rescue work and greater force of character than I do, and I needed help. I reached her at her kennel number and explained about Puppy Luv.
“That place!” Betty swore under her breath. “I’d like to strangle them.”
“Failing that,” I said, “is there anything we can do?”
Betty ignored the question. “That damned Puppy Luv. We’ve already got one of their dogs on our hands now.” Coincidence? Let me repeat: Ethical breeders take back their dogs. The ones that end up with rescue are mainly strays and pet shop dogs. Betty continued. “As a matter of fact, I was going to call you today to see if you’d go and take a look.” Betty gave the kind of sigh you hear from someone about to tell a familiar story. “This is some lady in Cambridge. Her husband died—it was his dog—and she says she’s thinking about moving and doesn’t have room and it’s not fair to the dog and all that. Basically, she just doesn’t want the dog. You live closer to her than I do. You think you could go take a look?”
“Sure,” I said. “Where does she live?”
Betty gave me the woman’s name, address, and phone number, and then a brief description of the malamute, a young unspayed female. The woman was named Enid Sievers, and she lived somewhere off Mass. Ave. in North Cambridge. The malamute was called Missy.
“There’s no big rush,” Betty said. “The lady’s not threatening to take her to the vet or anything, and I really think she’s trying to be responsible.”
“I could go take a look today,” I said. “I’ll call. But I’d rather not have her here over the weekend unless it’s an emergency. I’m really not set up for it, and I’ve got Rowdy entered on Sunday. I’ll be gone all day, and my neighbors aren’t going to love it if she and Kimi start anything.”
If you don’t show your dogs, you may not realize that shows, obedience trials, tracking tests, and other such events require advance entry and that the entry fees are usually not refundable. You’re sometimes allowed to withdraw a bitch from a trial and get back your entry fee if you submit a veterinarian’s certificate to prove that
she came in season, but if you get the flu or just decide that the dog isn’t ready, you lose your entry fee. But that’s beside the point. I wanted to go, and I intended to spend tomorrow, Saturday, grooming Rowdy and doing a run-through as well as doing my own grocery shopping and errands. An unknown rescue dog wouldn’t be much help. Want a few more excuses? On Sunday, when Rowdy and I went to the show, I wouldn’t be able to leave Kimi and the rescue dog loose together in the house because Kimi harbors unsisterly feelings toward other malamute bitches; and if I crated both of them, their complaints would irk my neighbors, especially the male Scottie who belongs to Rita, my second-floor tenant and first-class friend. Also, Kimi, an indoor dog, lacked the superthick winter protection that malamutes develop only if they live outdoors. The rescue dog was probably an indoor dog, too. If the frigid weather continued through Sunday, it would be cruel to leave either of them outside. In brief, it wouldn’t be convenient for me to take the dog until Monday.
“No problem,” Betty assured me. “Like I said, there’s no rush, and you don’t need to keep her there. If it’s a problem, I’ll take her.”
Although I honestly am not set up for a third dog, I felt guilty. “I’ll drive her out to you,” I volunteered. “I could probably do it Monday.”
“Whenever,” Betty said. “So did you get a look at the papers on this pet shop dog?”
If you’re a breed loyalist, maybe you’ll understand. If not, I’d better explain. Yes, but how? Look, suppose you’re strolling through your local mall and happen to notice a baby shop that’s selling an infant, and not just any old infant, either, but one that’s unmistakably a member of your own family. Uncle Harry’s nose, Grandpa’s eyes, the whole bit. Wouldn’t you be a little curious about how that baby got there? About who and where the parents were? And whether they were all right? Is that a little radical? If I’ve gone too far for you, take that raw sense of recognizing your own tiny relative for sale in a baby shop and tone down your feelings one small notch. Not all the way, just a notch. That’s why Betty asked about the papers.
“No,” I said. I hadn’t even tried. “I just assumed she came from the Midwest or Pennsylvania or whatever.”
Doesn’t everybody know this? Maybe not. The big puppy mill states are Iowa, Kansas, Missouri, Arkansas, Oklahoma, Nebraska, and Pennsylvania.
“Probably Missouri,” Betty said. “But not necessarily. Next time, see if you can get a look at the papers.”
“I, uh, I wasn’t … Betty, I really didn’t know what to do. I mean, I still don’t.”
“First of all,” she said firmly, “it’s not the end of the world. Most of the people who buy from a pet shop just don’t know where else to get a dog, okay? You’ve got to try and think that they aren’t bad people. They just don’t know any better.”
Well, they damn well ought to, I thought.
Betty went on. “So what you want to do is go back there and be nice.”
“I was nice this time,” I said.
“What did you say?”
“They, uh, assumed I was interested in buying a puppy.”
“Jesus,” Betty said. “Why’d you …? Look, just go back there, say who you are, talk to them, and act nice. That’s what the affenpinscher people say to do, and they know about it. They’ve got a much bigger problem than we do.”
In case you didn’t know, an affenpinscher looks something like a tiny terrier with the face of a really cute monkey. That combination of very small and very cute makes for a big problem: Puppies of large breeds rapidly enter a gawky preadolescence, but little bitty adorable balls of fluff have a long shelf life in a pet shop; a four-month-old Akita, malamute, collie, or chow is undoubtedly a dog, but a six-month-old affenpinscher, Maltese, bichon, or mini anything is obviously puppyish, which is what most buyers want. Consequently, it’s the toy breed people who have the giant problem with pet shops.
“So I go back there and say I’m from Malamute Rescue?” I hated the idea.
“Yes,” Betty said in a Kimi-like voice. “But act nice! Get them on our side. What you want them to do is put something with the papers. You have any of those booklets?”
The booklet, The Alaskan Malamute: An Introduction, is what we mail to people who inquire about the breed.
“Yes,” I said.
“Okay, so put your name and address on it, or mine if you want, and go back there and try and talk them into leaving it with the papers. Or get them to pass along your name. That’s the best you can do at this point.”
“But what if—”
“Don’t buy that dog!”
“I won’t. But what if—”
“Look, how old is the puppy?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe seven weeks, I think. She’s a baby.”
Seven weeks is the minimum age at which a good breeder will let a puppy go—most insist on eight weeks—but all good breeders warn buyers not to let the puppy have any contact with strange dogs until four months, when he’s fully immunized. Pet shop conditions maximize a puppy’s chances of getting sick: A large and changing population of incompletely immunized puppies from different but mostly dirty places, all living together indoors, isn’t great, but it’s especially dangerous with a ventilation system designed for people, not animals. Dogs require many more changes of air per hour than we do, much more fresh air than a pet shop provides, especially a shopping mall pet shop. Cat lover, too, are you? Kittens are the canary in the pet shop gold mine because they’re the first animals to show upper respiratory diseases and ringworm. I didn’t make up that canary business, either. It’s a quote from an article in a magazine for pet shop operators: “Think of those kittens as the canary in your gold mine.” Is that unbelievable? I mean, is that how you think about your cat? It’s probably not even how you think about your canary, for God’s sake.
“Seven weeks old,” Betty said. “Honest to God. I would really like to strangle these people.”
5
Enid Sievers lived in one of those late-Victorian houses a few blocks off upper Mass. Ave. in North Cambridge on the Somerville line. It stood out from its neighbors by virtue—or sin—of being painted an unspeakably intense shade of raspberry. Because of that god-awful color, it was the kind of house that makes people gasp, titter, and return with friends who just have to see it and simply won’t believe it when they do. But they do believe it, of course—its undiluted reality is undeniable—and ask one another whether that ultraraspberry was the embarrassing result of some unimaginable misunderstanding with the house painter or whether, God forbid, it was chosen deliberately.
Thus the stunned queasiness on my face must have been the expression Enid Sievers saw whenever she opened her front door to anyone, and in case you’ve ever wandered by there and wondered the inevitable, the answer is, no, that raspberry was no accident, as I guessed the second Enid Sievers opened her door. Transpose that screaming raspberry into a violent electric green, and you’ll see the color of the garment she wore, a silky pantsuit or polyester evening costume or possibly a pair of nineteen-thirties Hollywood-movie lounging pajamas minus the feather boa. Exactly what the outfit was didn’t actually matter, I thought: Anyone willing to wear it at all would probably be willing to wear it anywhere.
The woman herself was in her late fifties, I guessed. She was very slim and had what my grandmother always refers to as “good posture,” meaning that she held her shoulders back as if in perpetual defiance of imminent osteoporosis. Her most striking feature was exceptionally sparse black hair that had been cut, gelled, curled, fluffed, and sprayed to create the illusion of thick tresses, but a prominent part down the side revealed a good half inch of white scalp. Delicate, fragile, heavily moisturized skin stretched across the fine bones of her face. Thick glasses magnified the lines and pouches under her darting hazel eyes, which seemed to focus on a fascinating series of objects that didn’t exist. I had the immediate impression that Enid Sievers believed something extraordinary: that alien beings had subjected her to grueling medical tes
ts aboard their spaceship, or that Elvis regularly returned to earth to offer her spiritual counsel and tips on the lottery.
But her welcome was perfectly ordinary, even gracious. As soon as she introduced herself and made sure that I was, in fact, Holly Winter, she invited me in, saying proudly and confidently, “You didn’t have any trouble finding the house, did you?”
“No,” I said, half embarrassed. “Not at all. I spotted it right away.” I was sorry I’d worn old jeans.
“No one ever has trouble finding us,” Mrs. Sievers assured me as she led me through a little foyer and into a living room. “Edgar liked cheerful colors,” she went on to explain. Her voice was high and wispy, as if amplified from a great distance, for example, Mars or Saturn. “Edgar always said that vision is a great blessing and that we should use it to the best of our ability and not just waste it.”
She swept a bony green-swathed arm around to direct my attention to the room’s furnishings, of which there were hundreds, maybe even thousands, and I’m not exaggerating. The windows were not so much curtained as red-velvet-barricaded against light, and above each window hung great swathes of the same red velvet augmented with heavy gold braid and thick tassels. Elaborately upholstered in a bewildering variety of red brocades and crimson patterns, dozens of Victorian love seats, fat couches, and old-fashioned overstuffed armchairs battled for floor space against the armies of highly polished mahogany coffee tables, teak magazine racks, wrought iron plant stands, French provincial end tables, and standing lamps about which the less said, the better. Small area rugs with the bright, happy designs of Poland were scattered here and there on the richly textured bright maroon wall-to-wall carpet. The intricately carved green marble mantle of the fireplace supported an ormolu clock, two oversize modernistic jade green vases, a small collection of expensive-looking crystal owls, and a pair of china shepherdesses with candles sticking out of their heads.