by Susan Conant
“Poor kid? Kevin, they seized sixty-eight dogs from that disgusting place. Walter wasn’t the only one responsible for that. Just because she’s simpleminded or whatever she is, it doesn’t excuse that. You don’t have to be exactly brilliant to understand that animals are suffering. So don’t tell me—”
But Kevin interrupted. He’d interviewed Cheryl Simms after the TV segment had been taped. He had some news that hadn’t made the five o’clock report I’d watched. Kevin is a good cop. Smart. He asked Cheryl about Joe Rinehart, and she said, predictably enough, “Me and Walter don’t know nothing.” Then Kevin asked her about Diane Sweet, and, of course, she said the same thing. Finally, Kevin thought about the background information he’d been given on the Simms family, and he asked Cheryl what had happened to her father. Her reply? “Me and Walter don’t know nothing.” The excavation of the dirt floor of the same shed that had held Rinehart’s body revealed the largely decomposed remains of Cheryl and Walter’s father, who had died of gunshot wounds about two years earlier. When Walter Simms was informed that Cheryl could be charged in the death of their father, he confessed to the shooting and claimed that he’d been protecting his sister. Kevin believes him. The pedigree? I told you to look, didn’t I? Yeah, the father-daughter breeding. Kevin was right, of course. When people know, they mind a lot.
32
Dog’s Life published my article on Sally Brand, who was so pleased and flattered that she offered me a free tattooed portrait of the dog of my choice anywhere on my body. I had to decline, though. I finally realized that every dog I’ve ever loved is already written all over me, plainly visible to the canine eye. Who knows what smiling face or wagging tail Sally might inadvertently cover up?
I’m the tattooed lady, and I’m not unique. In fact, if you’ve ever loved a dog, check out your arms, your legs, your torso, even the palms of your hands and the soles of your feet. Look into a mirror and stare into the depths of your eyes. The retina’s a tender place for a tattoo, of course, but you know that already, don’t you? When you lost that dog, you nearly died of pain.
We are the irezumi, the tattooed ones, engraved, emblazoned, permanently decorated with elaborate patterns of rich design, and together we form a kind of benevolent, joyful Yakuza, too, the legal, happy Mafia of dog fancy, neither secret nor exclusive, but open to absolutely anyone who’s ever bragged about a dog. Mafia? The literal meaning? Boldness, bluster, swagger. Dog lovers, and proud of it. And we’re everywhere, of course. We’re the guy pumping gas at your local garage, the pharmacist who filled your last prescription, the UPS driver who delivers your orders from Cherrybrook, and the homeless woman in Harvard Square who feeds herself on garbage, but begs change to buy food for her dog. We’re Barbara Bush and Cleveland Amory, and I sure hope we’re Robin Williams. We’re Doris Day, Brigitte Bardot, and Dan Quayle. We’re the queen of England.
And damned if we aren’t Enzio Guarini, too, who despite his involuntary residence in Rhode Island, has never visited Sally Brand’s studio, but who bears on his heart the portraits of two beloved Norwegian elkhounds. When the news broke, Guarini made a large donation to the Eleanor J. Colley Society in memory of his late daughter, Maria, and also arranged to have a quick-setting concrete boot hand-fitted to the foot of Rinehart Pet Mart. Rinehart Motor Mart is still in business, but the associated animal brokerage firm sank so fast that no one even saw the bubbles. So you see? We’re everywhere.
Jane M. Appleyard confided to me that the tipster who provided probable cause for the warrant and was thus responsible for the raid on Cheryl and Walter Simms’s puppy mill was, in fact, Bill Coakley. I should have guessed. A friend of the family? I mean, who else could have ignored or endured the stench? According to Mrs. Appleyard, Bill Coakley was trying to buy her off; he informed on Walter Simms, and, in return, she was supposed to leave Coakley alone. She hasn’t, of course. She hasn’t got him yet, but I have faith in her, and I have faith in you, too. If the AKC-registered mini dachshund you bought from Bill Coakley looks suspiciously like a pug, or if Coakley sold you a kennelful of cute little pet tapeworms, whipworms, and roundworms as well as the Pomeranian you wanted, complain! For a start, call Mrs. Appleyard, the Westbrook Health Department, the SPCA, the Humane Society of the United States, the American Kennel Club, and the United States Department of Agriculture.
But I’m pretty sure that Mrs. Appleyard is wrong about why Bill Coakley informed on Walter Simms. I can’t prove it, but I have a hunch that my bribe worked. I’d bet that Bill Coakley wanted my five hundred dollars, tried to buy Missy back from Simms, and decided to get revenge when Simms refused to part with her.
With regard to the Coakleys, I regret to report that, in spite of the recent scandal that hit all the papers (“Scabies Cases Traced to Local Kennel”), Your Local Breeder is still in business. Although Sarcoptes scabiei, the itch mite, is not yet registrable with the AKC, Janice Coakley apparently received a large shipment on a litter of Italian greyhounds flown in from Missouri. As I hope you’ve never had to learn, scabies itches like crazy. It’s caused by female mites that burrow in and lay their eggs under your skin.
Oh, while we’re on that topic—under your skin—I have happy news about Gloria Loss, who kept the braids, lost the acne, and, at my suggestion, responded to an ad that read TATTOO FOR LOVE AND PROFIT. Gloria still doesn’t believe that we have a right to own companion animals, but she realizes that our dogs and cats are better off with us than they are in a research laboratory and that, at least until they’re all returned to the wild, a tattoo is the best protection we can offer them. And speaking of research laboratories, I’ll confess that I introduced Gloria to someone from my past who knows a lot about them and doesn’t like what he knows. Let’s just say that he’s committed to change, okay? And so is Gloria, of course.
Steve offered to spay Missy free of charge, but refused to perform the surgery until I’d obtained written permission from her owner, Enid Sievers, or a signed document stating that Missy belonged to Malamute Rescue. I’d intended to call Enid Sievers, anyway. I wanted to have another go at persuading her to hand over Missy’s papers; I didn’t like the sound of the gentleman friend who’d recommended Bill Coakley’s boarding facilities.
On the early March day when I stood on her doorstep, Enid Sievers’s house looked even more intensely raspberry than it had in February, almost as if the fruit had ripened. When Mrs. Sievers answered the bell and welcomed me in, she wore a chartreuse dress with dyed-to-match pumps. Prancing and yapping at her high heels was an incredibly cute little short-haired brown-and-white mixed-breed dog, half smooth fox terrier, I guessed, half something much smaller, anyway, a lively, yipping character with alert eyes and a bold expression. Within thirty seconds, he’d produced more noise than I’d heard from Rowdy and Kimi in the entire time I’d lived with them.
Bending from the waist, Enid Sievers leaned down to the little dog and coyly shook an admonishing finger. “Friend, Pedro! Friend! Pedro, hush! Pedro, Mommy has company!”
Pedro leaped in the air, danced in circles, and kept up the high-pitched barking. Eventually, though, Enid scooped him up in her arms and cooed at him until he quit.
“Pedro is adorable,” I said. “Some terrier there, huh?”
Enid Sievers’s expression was one I recognized immediately. I don’t usually see it, though; I just feel it spread across my own face whenever someone admires my huskies, my shepherd mixes, or, believe it or not, my beautiful Akitas. “Pedro,” she informed me, caressing the dog’s little head, “is a Chihuahua.” I sealed my lips. She read my face and asked in a tone of arch condescension, “You’ve never seen a Chihuahua like Pedro before, have you?”
“No,” I admitted. “Actually, he seems a little, uh, bigger than usual.”
“Well, that’s what I said when I first saw him,” Enid Sievers said. “So I said to the salesgirl, ‘Isn’t he big for a Chihuahua?’ But she explained that Pedro is supposed to be big like this because he’s a standard Chihuahua, not jus
t an ordinary one. That’s why he was a little bit extra, of course. They’re very rare.”
Rare? The standard Chihuahua is a member of the rarest group of dogs on earth, the AKC’s famous Nonexistent Group, which also contains the mini Saint Bernard, the hairless puli, and the legendary unicorn hound. Pedro came from Puppy Luv. But he must be a Chihuahua, I guess. After all, he has AKC papers to prove it. Enid Sievers showed them to me. She also parted with Missy’s, and, while she was at it, signed a form turning Missy over to Malamute Rescue.
But you don’t care about Enid Sievers, Bill and Janice Coakley, Enzio Guarini, or Cheryl and Walter Simms, do you? You care about what happened to the dogs. Walter Simms’s arrest and the raid on the Simmses’ puppy mill resulted in the removal of all dogs from Cheryl Simms’s custody, but she managed to get back Champ, who obviously hadn’t been abused, and six of the small dogs, none of them spayed or neutered. The court felt sorry for Cheryl because of her diminished capacity and her sad history. I’m sorry for her, too, but I don’t believe that the dogs should have been returned to her. The court paid too much attention to Cheryl’s mental limitations and too little attention to her real disability: She has a diminished capacity for kindness.
And the other dogs? The Eleanor J. Colley Society and local purebred rescue organizations took most of them, but Lorraine, Rhonda, Pete, and the rest of Steve’s staff fell in love with the golden retriever bitch. They named her Val—Valentine, of course. High-quality protein was a wonder drug. Val’s litter was very small, only three puppies, but they all survived. Because of superb veterinary care, Val is doing very well, and the puppies, now cured of the intestinal parasites to which they were exposed before birth, are little golden teddy bears come to life. After a really terrible fight, Rhonda gave in and said that Pete could take Val if she could have pick of the litter. Lorraine is taking one of the remaining two pups, and the third, a darling little male, has been promised to a carefully selected client, a guy named Ron Coughlin, who’s my plumber as well as the treasurer of the Cambridge Dog Training Club.
Missy’s sire, Yukon Duke, the male malamute who growled at me, went to Malamute Rescue, of course. When I visited him in his isolation kennel at Betty Burley’s and got my first good look at him, I felt heartsick. It’s hard to find good homes for beautiful, friendly, young dogs. What in God’s name would we do with this rangy, badly proportioned, cranky ten-year-old? And the damn thing was that despite the horrible life he’d led, Duke was perfectly healthy. Also, although he didn’t have the ideal malamute temperament, he wasn’t vicious, just reserved, crotchety, and, of all things, protective. Even so, absolutely no one would want to adopt him. These decisions are terribly hard to make, but Duke was taking up space at Betty’s that we might need for a friendly, young, readily adoptable rescue dog. His situation seemed hopeless.
Fortunately, though, reality is not my father’s strong point. Buck is convinced that one of these days, the right adoptive owner will come along, and, until then, the now-neutered Duke will live in Owls Head.
The raiding party discovered Icekist Sissy inside the tumbledown broiler farm. She’d given birth to a litter about three months earlier. Her coat was a thin, ragged mess, and she was suffering from malnutrition. Also, she was frightened of almost everything. But, to my surprise, Lois Metzler made good on her promise to take responsibility for Sissy. Lois paid her vet bills, including the cost of spaying, and she’s even paying Betty to board Sissy until we can place her. It may take a while. Sissy needs a very special home. She’s not a typical malamute, of course. You can already see that once she puts on a little more weight and gets her coat back, she’ll be gorgeous, but she’s hand shy and rear shy. Loud noises startle her. She’s terrified of strangers. Even the most gentle word of correction makes her cringe. Amazingly enough, though, she loves other animals, especially cats.
Missy, too, is still looking for a good home. It’s only fair to warn you that she’ll shed copiously about twice a year. Also, she’s tremendously strong, she isn’t great with cats, and she turns out to be a food thief, too. But she’s healthy, outgoing, spayed, fully housebroken, very pretty, and, at least for an Alaskan malamute, she’s almost docile. Interested?
And the malamute puppy at Puppy Luv? When John Sweet reopened the pet shop two weeks after his wife’s murder, I tried to talk him into letting me leave some breed and obedience-training information with the puppy’s papers, but he refused. One day in Harvard Square, though, I happened to spot the puppy, and I talked to the couple who bought her. The wife is an assistant professor of economics at Harvard, and the husband has a Ph.D. in biology. Educated people, right? And decent people, too. But when they came to my house to meet Rowdy and Kimi and to pick up some information about malamutes, I tried to suggest that they might consider buying their puppy chow someplace other than Puppy Luv. I explained that pet shops that sell dogs support the puppy mill industry. A Harvard professor and a Ph.D., right? Economics and biology. They asked me what a puppy mill was. Believe me, I told them. They listened, too.
And you? We can close the puppy mills, you know, we really can. The AKC won’t do it, and the USDA won’t do it. We will. Remember, we’re everyone, and we’re everywhere, and, before long, none of us will buy so much as a single morsel of premium kibble from a pet shop that sells dogs. Peace will come. Let it begin with us.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SUSAN CONANT, the recipient of 1991 and 1992 Maxwell Awards for Fiction Writing, lives in Massachusetts with her husband, two cats, and an Alaskan malamute. Her work has been published in Pure-Bred Dogs/American Kennel Gazette and DOGworld. She is a member of the Alaskan Malamute Club of America and is the state coordinator of the Alaskan Malamute Protection league.
If you enjoyed
Susan Conant’s
BLOODLINES,
you’ll want to read her latest
dog lover’s mystery,
STUD RITES
available now in paperback from
Bantam Books
Look for it at your bookstore!