by Susan Conant
Just as Enid Sievers invited me to have a seat, my legs seemed to go out from under me. When I’d caught my breath, I found myself in the soft depths of one of the love seats. Fringed pillows nudged at me like friendly lap dogs. The end table to my left held a large brass lamp, a foot-wide porcelain ashtray, a set of cork-and-plastic coasters, and two glass candy dishes piled with paper-wrapped caramels.
Enid Sievers took a seat on an equally pillow-laden couch opposite me. Between us lay a pie-crust-edged coffee table crowded with glass objects and candy.
“Edgar was an optometrist,” Enid Sievers explained brightly. She sat stiffly upright, her ankles crossed, her knees locked tightly together. “It taught him the value of seeing. He always said that we should use what God had given us.”
“That seems like a good idea,” I said stupidly or maybe even stuporously. The house was sickeningly hot and had a stale reek of perfumed soap and microwaved food additives. Where was the dog?
Enid Sievers leaned forward, picked up a candy dish, and graciously proffered it. “Would you like a caramel?”
“No, thanks,” I said. “Uh, you, uh, called about your dog?”
“Missy is an Alaskan malamute.” She sounded as if she were reciting something she’d memorized. “She is a registered purebred dog. Are you sure you won’t have a caramel?” She pursed her lips and stared at me.
I cleared my throat. “No, thanks,” I repeated, pulling myself out of the depths of the love seat. “About Missy?”
Enid Sievers met my gaze. “This isn’t easy for me,” she said. “She was Edgar’s dog, really.” Her eyes were nearly tearful.
I helped her out. “But she’s the wrong dog for you.”
Her face brightened. “That’s it,” she said. “That’s just it. She’s the wrong dog for me.” Enid Sievers and her jam-packed room cried out for a Pekingese, a Pomeranian, a Maltese, a toy poodle, a Shih Tzu, any of dozens of tiny breeds. “Would you rather have a chocolate? And I have some very nice pralines that my sister just sent me from Florida.” She half rose in apparent search of them.
“No,” I said firmly. “No thanks. Do you think I could take a look at Missy?”
“Well, of course,” Enid Sievers answered, reseating herself opposite me, “I feel terrible about this, you know, but when Mrs. Burley heard about Missy, she was so thrilled! And I realized, well, Missy will really have a better life there. So it’s really better for everyone.”
“We’ll find a good home for her,” I said.
Enid Sievers’s eyes focused on some apparition behind my head, but her correction was almost sharp. “Oh, you don’t need to find a home for her. Mrs. Burley is very anxious to have her.” Now she surveyed me as if in search of signs of mental deficiency. “Mrs. Burley raises Alaskan malamutes, you know,” she informed me. “And Missy is an outstanding specimen of the breed. Edgar always said so, and he was very knowledgeable.”
“I’m sure he was. Do you think I could take a look at her?” Show me the dog!
“Well, of course,” she said, but retained her ladylike pose on the couch.
I found myself glancing around. As you probably know, malamutes are among the few creatures on earth that never talk unless they have something to say. Consequently, they often remain silent for hours. On the other hand, most of them are almost ridiculously friendly. I began to feel alarmed. If, in fact, Missy were tucked behind one of the couches, chairs, or love seats or hidden under one of the dozens of tables, there must be something horribly wrong with her.
“Mrs. Sievers,” I said in my firmest dog-training voice, “where is Missy?”
Enid Sievers gestured vaguely toward the back of the house and asked, “Or maybe you’d like a chocolate-covered cherry?”
“Thank you,” I said. “Maybe later. Right now, I’d like to see Missy.” Then I finally caught on. “Mrs. Sievers, would you like me to get her?”
“Would you? I have a terrible time with her.” Her odd, vaguely mechanical voice was pitifully grateful, and she finally rose from the couch and gestured to me to follow. As I trailed after her through a furniture-packed dining room and into an out-of-date, surprisingly bare lime green kitchen, she went on about her troubles with the dog. “She’s knocked me over five or six times! And I know she doesn’t mean it, it’s just that she’s terribly strong, and, of course she’s very young and so vigorous! And I know she misses Edgar—he used to take her for her walkies every morning and twice at night, when he was able. Edgar worshipped this dog—and I’ve hired a boy to walk her, and that helps, but it’s not enough! And I can’t let her run through the house, can I? Just imagine!”
And I did. Candy dishes emptied and smashed, porcelain figures flying, lamps crashing to the floor, tea tables toppled … How the hell had a malamute ever ended up in this worse-than-a-china-shop? I knew the answer, of course: Puppy Luv, that’s how.
Mostly because I’d entirely dismissed Enid Sievers’s claim that Missy was an outstanding specimen of the breed, I expected to see the opposite: a tiny “malamute” with some obvious Siberian husky in her; or maybe a grotesquely oversized monster with bad hips; or simply a poor specimen, a malamute with a snap tail and coat; or perhaps a wooley. A wooley? That’s a malamute with a really long, shaggy coat. Woolies are spectacularly pretty, but that coat isn’t what the standard calls for, so you can’t show woolies in the breed ring. Anyway, Missy wasn’t one. In fact, for a pet shop dog, she was surprisingly decent looking, and she was loaded with personality.
As it turned out, she’d been confined to a large pantry at the back of the kitchen. The little room had been stripped of its original contents and furnished with a mammoth red dog bed, a set of stainless steel bowls, and a big Vari-Kennel complete with a cozy-looking fake-sheepskin crate rug. Enid Sievers had supplied me with a sturdy inch-wide leash, and I’d cautiously opened the door, but the second Missy caught sight of me, she dashed forward, wiggled all over, rubbed her head vigorously against my knees, and then veered, dashed in a couple of happy circles, and returned to me.
“Hi, pretty,” I said, massaging her neck and rubbing the top of her head. “Are you a good girl?”
She plunked her bottom on the floor, flattened her ears against her head, rose up a little, gently placed both front paws in my hands, and held my eyes in hers. I was crazy about her, of course. I am a complete sucker for dogs, but especially for malamutes. And here’s the damn thing, the real killer: Her color and facial markings were a whole lot like Kimi’s. Gray dog, white trim with a little tan, the full mask, the whole bit. Her eyes were paler than Kimi’s, her coat was a lighter gray, her tail was shorter, and her build was more delicate than Kimi’s—she’d end up smaller than Kimi, I thought, with legs and feet too fine for the breed—but the superficial resemblance was there. And sweet? Missy was a born cuddler, much more submissive than either of my dogs. She rubbed herself against me like a cat. When I knelt down, she wrapped her forepaws around my neck and—I swear it’s true—gave me a big hug. She didn’t just rest her paws on me; she squeezed. I loved her on sight and felt a momentary rush of anger at Rowdy and Kimi, who would’ve welcomed her with all the joyous enthusiasm I’d display if Steve announced that, guess what, our life was about to be enriched by the addition of a new woman. Damn them, I thought. And damn the show on Sunday, too. This was one rescue malamute who’d be easy to place in a good home.
“Well,” I said to Enid Sievers, who hovered timidly in the background, “she’s a sweetheart.” Then, although the floor of the pantry was clean, I asked, “Is she fully housebroken?”
“Oh, yes,” Enid Sievers said.
“Any, uh, bad habits? Chewing on things? Anything like that?”
“Just her toys.” They littered the pantry floor: one large Nylaring, one giant Nylafloss, two plaque attackers in different sizes, three hard plastic balls, a tug-of-war toy, a big red rubber Kong toy, a chew-proof Frisbee, to mention a few. “The lady at Puppy Luv explained to Edgar that toys are very important.” Well, they a
re, of course. But two or three hundred dollars’ worth? “And,” she added as if transmitting a piece of insider information, “water must always be available. That’s very important for Alaskan malamutes.”
“Yes,” I said. Missy’s water bowl was full. “Mrs. Sievers, has Missy come in season yet? Has she had her first heat yet?”
As you’ve probably guessed, Enid Sievers wasn’t exactly a real dog person. Her pale, fine skin turned from ivory to pink to scarlet. I heard her catch her breath. Her voice was faint and controlled. “Not that I’ve noticed,” she said. “But I’m not …”
I tried to dream up a probe that wouldn’t embarrass this woman. Notice any bloody vaginal discharge? Any swelling of the vulva? In fact, it seemed to me that there was some. “Um, have there been any, uh, red spots on the floor?”
She peeped a response: “No!”
“Okay, well, don’t be surprised if there are. It’s perfectly normal. Look, we’ll be glad to take Missy. She’s lovely.” Missy dropped to the floor, rolled onto her back, and eyed me. I scratched her chest and rubbed her tummy. Enid Sievers probably thought I was mad. “But,” I said, “uh, I can’t take Missy today, and neither can Betty Burley. If it’s okay, I’ll come back for her on Monday, and I’ll drive her out to Betty’s. Is that okay? Can you keep her for the weekend?”
Enid Sievers said that it was no problem at all. Remember that, would you? Remember that. Then I asked whether she had Missy’s papers.
“Those are very important documents, you know,” she informed me. “Edgar said that those were valuable documents. Missy’s papers meant a lot to him.” Her tone became reluctant, stubborn. “I don’t think Edgar would like me to part with them.”
You do any purebred rescue? If so, you’re not surprised, are you? The papers had more sentimental value than the dog did. You’re used to it. I’ve seen people abandon the dog, but insist on keeping the collar and tags. Honest to God. Anyway, if Enid Sievers had been someone other than who she was, I’d have pressed hard for those papers. I’d read about the sale of AKC papers to puppy mills. I’d heard that papers are auctioned off. Blue money, right? AKC papers. But Enid Sievers? Never. If I’d wanted to sell or auction a dog’s papers myself, I wouldn’t have known where to begin. Enid Sievers certainly wouldn’t, either. Besides, I’d be back on Monday. I could try again. In the meantime, I asked to look at the papers. I said that I was curious about where Missy had come from, who her parents were.
While Enid Sievers was digging the documents out of a drawer somewhere, I sat on the floor of the pantry, dug my fingers into Missy’s coat, stroked her muzzle, and talked softly to her. “You’re perfectly safe and happy here,” I said. “You’re just a little bored and lonely. And I’ll be back for you in three days. And then Betty and I will find a wonderful family for you, and you’ll go on long walks every day. And you won’t have to be alone any more. I promise. I hate to leave you, but I’ll be back. And then everything will be much, much better.” Yeah, I know. Spaying. All purebred rescue dogs are spayed or neutered before they’re placed or immediately afterward. But why worry her with details?
Then Enid Sievers returned, and I gave Missy a big hug, shut her in the pantry, and followed her mistress back to that overstuffed, cloying living room. Enid Sievers hesitated a moment, clutching a manila folder against her bosom as if I might snatch Missy’s papers and take off, but then handed it to me. I took my old place on the love seat, put the folder on the coffee table in front of me, and opened it. I was a little surprised to find that besides the familiar white, violet-lettered AKC registration slip, the folder contained an AKC-certified four-generation pedigree, for which Edgar Sievers had paid fifteen dollars in addition to the registration fee. According to the registration slip and the pedigree, Missy was Princess Melissa Sievers, a wolf gray and white Alaskan malamute female whelped eight months earlier. The breeder’s name was Walter Simms. I’d never heard of him, and neither the registration slip nor the pedigree gave his address. I assumed that he was a Kansas farmer who’d found hogs unprofitable, or maybe chickens. Did you know that in Kansas alone, puppies are a forty-two-million-dollar-a-year business? Yeah, forty-two million. A year. According to something I read somewhere, there are more dogs in the chicken coops of Kansas than there are chickens. Jesus. My eyes reached the bottom half of the pedigree, the section that showed Missy’s maternal line. The names staggered me.
Enid Sievers must have read my expression. “It’s very impressive, isn’t it,” she said. “There are a lot of champion dogs there. The lady at Puppy Luv explained to Edgar that Missy was really a show dog, you know. All of her dogs are.”
Without asking Enid Sievers’s permission, I reached into my purse, pulled out a notebook and pen, and began to scrawl down the names on the pedigree. Those on Missy’s sire’s side sounded like puppy mill names to me: Sir Snowy II, Caesar the Great. But her dam? Ever hear of Icekist? Icekist is the kennel name of Lois Metzler. I knew Lois. I ran into her at shows all the time. Betty Burley knew her, too. Lois Metzler was no chicken farmer in Kansas. She was a reputable malamute breeder, and her kennel was right here in Massachusetts.
Remember that business about spotting one of your infant relatives in the window of a shopping mall baby shop? Remember about taking that feeling and toning it down? Well, in the case of Lois Metzler, forget that. Take that feeling and let it rip until it blasts your chest open. A dog from Lois Metzler’s lines for sale in a pet shop? I would have sworn it was impossible. So, I thought, would Lois. No wonder Missy was decent looking. After all, she came from Lois’s lines.
6
Sometimes I imagine myself at a meeting held in the pale yellow cinder-block assembly room of a church basement. Rows of brown-painted metal folding chairs face a podium. In these chairs sit men and women with the brave, ravaged faces of recovering addicts. It is my turn to testify. My left hand clutches spasmodically as I grab at a nonexistent leash. I step forward and face the audience.
“My name is Holly,” I say. “And I am a dogaholic.”
What I really need isn’t Dogaholics Anonymous, but Dog Spenders Anonymous, a self-help organization devoted to squelching the compulsion to throw away money on canine paraphernalia. Just put me within spending distance of the concession booths at a dog show, and the urge overwhelms me. How does anyone resist? If your dog does great, well, naturally, you have to celebrate. If he does miserably, you both deserve a little consolation, don’t you? And if you don’t even have a dog entered that day? If you’re stewarding? Or just wandering around? Well, then, you don’t even have a ribbon, never mind a trophy, to take home, do you? After all, this is not just anywhere, is it? This is a dog show. No one leaves empty-handed.
Thus, Sunday afternoon found Rowdy and me studying leashes in the depths of the Cherrybrook booth at the Shawsheen Valley Kennel Club’s annual AKC dog show and obedience trial. The show site was the Northeast Trade Center, which is just off Route 128 in Woburn and not in the Shawsheen Valley, but clubs have a hard time finding places to hold shows, especially indoor shows. Except when transfigured by several thousand gorgeous show dogs, the Northeast Trade Center is an unprepossessing structure that looks like an abandoned single-story, flat-roofed post-World War II factory. As a show site, though, it’s not bad. Dogs are, of course, allowed, and the interior space is open and fairly large. Also, the location is convenient, and the place is easy to find. In fact, if you’ve ever taken Route I-95 through Massachusetts, you’ve passed it, because I-95 is what everyone around here calls 128, America’s Technology Highway. Even if you’re coming from out of state, you can’t miss the site: Just take the Woburn exit, Route 38, turn into the shopping mall, follow the little road that runs parallel to the highway, and you’ll end up in the parking lot.
As I was saying, having once again failed to qualify in Open—yes, once again, the long sit—Rowdy and I were prowling around the Cherrybrook booth in search of consolation. So far, I’d accumulated a beautiful new rolled-leather collar that Row
dy didn’t need, an identical but slightly smaller collar that Kimi didn’t need either, a fourteen-ounce container of Redi-Liver treats (for the unbeatable price of thirteen dollars and thirty cents), a bottle of coat conditioner, and (at a mere eight dollars and seventy-five cents each, less than half the pet shop list price) two large-size Nylafloss dental devices.
I was fingering a handsome bright red leash that hung with hundreds of other leashes in all colors, widths, lengths, and materials, when a tiny, wiry woman with a mobile face and a head of short white curls popped up next to Rowdy like an elf materializing at the side of a tame wolf and said, “Rotten luck!”
Betty usually wears bright-colored warm-up suits that make her look like a heavily wrinkled but exceptionally agile stretch-suit-clad infant. That afternoon, though, Betty was spiffed up for the breed ring: tweed suit, lacy white blouse, patterned black stockings, black flats. You might guess that Betty Burley would own one pampered apricot toy poodle or an adorable little Pomeranian, but as I’ve mentioned, she’s been breeding, showing, and rescuing malamutes for decades.
“Thank you,” I said. “I don’t feel too bad about it. I know he can do it. Right now, it’s mostly a matter of being patient.”
If you know anything about obedience, you’ll realize that since Rowdy was in Open, the obedience class you enter for a C.D.X., Companion Dog Excellent title, he already had his C.D. The obedience ring has always been a struggle for him. He got his C.D. with scores that are nothing to brag about, and, although he loved the jumping and retrieving in Open and was capable of better scores than he’d achieved in Novice, the problem we faced now was qualifying at all. In breed, though, Rowdy is a natural. Anyway, one legacy of Rowdy’s career in conformation is his adoration of breed handlers, all of whom carry liver and other goodies to bait their dogs in the ring and most of whom, Rowdy had discovered, could be coaxed into doling out treats. So at the sight of Betty Burley, he posed himself in a flashy show stance, caught Betty’s eye, slapped a winner’s grin on his face, and wagged his tail hard enough to send the Cherrybrook leashes flying like colorful banners blown by a strong wind. Also, I suspect that Betty reminded him of Kimi.