Brute Strength

by Susan Conant

  ‘Well, you can’t have Ulla,’ Vanessa said with a laugh. ‘She likes cats, but I can’t stand them. Besides, my father is allergic to them. Anyway, Ulla is my pride and joy. She’s not going anywhere.’

  Why will people make a show of disliking cats, as if the prejudice were commendable? And why will people insist on giving particularly loud voice to the senseless dislike in the presence of cat-loving cat owners? Did Vanessa honestly expect Max and me to pipe up and agree with her?

  I said, ‘Of course she’s not going anywhere, are you, Ulla? And we will find Max’s malamute. We just haven’t yet.’

  Before Vanessa had the opportunity to indulge herself in yet greater excesses of tactlessness, Ron, still in dog-face make-up, got Meet the Breed under way. The sound system was now working properly, and Ron did an excellent job of limiting himself to thumbnail sketches of each breed instead of boring the spectators by going on and on. He started with the small breeds and went around the circle. Consequently, Steve and Willie had their turn early, and I have to brag about both of them and indirectly about Rita, too, for keeping Willie groomed like a show dog. As I watched Steve gait Willie around, it occurred to me for the millionth time that if Steve would only take an interest in conformation handling, he’d save us the money we spent hiring professional handlers for Rowdy and Sammy. He moved with just the right smoothness and grace, and he had that magic knack of bringing out the best in the dog. Steve’s good looks didn’t hurt, either, and Willie had the incomparable style of his dashing breed.

  Leaning toward Max, I said, ‘That’s Rita’s dog, Willie.’ Belatedly, I added, ‘And my husband, Steve.’

  ‘First things first,’ Vanessa commented dryly.

  ‘Steve would be the last person to mind,’ I said. ‘In fact, he’d agree. Dogs first.’

  ‘Beautiful dog,’ Max said.

  ‘Willie is very spirited,’ I remarked. ‘He has real terrier character.’

  ‘Mine did, too,’ Max said. ‘A little too much so.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Vanessa asked. ‘That he bit ten people?’

  ‘No, he never actually got anyone. But he did think about it. Or so we always assumed.’

  Gabrielle and Molly were in the ring after Steve and Willie. Molly, an experienced show dog, could practically have handled herself, and Gabrielle pretty much let the little bichon do exactly that.

  ‘Your stepmother looks tired,’ Vanessa whispered to me.

  ‘Do you think so? She looks fine to me. I hope she isn’t tired. She’s driving home to Maine as soon as she’s done here.’

  ‘How does she keep up with your father? He positively radiates energy.’

  ‘He does,’ I agreed. ‘But Gabrielle is pretty energetic herself.’

  Soon thereafter, as Ron announced that the puli was a medium-size sheepdog originating in Hungary, Elizabeth McNamara rose from her seat and gaited Persimmon around. Elizabeth wore black, perhaps as a sign of mourning, perhaps as an indication of oneness with her dog. The latter explanation seemed the more likely, mainly because Elizabeth’s flowing shawl had cords of fringe identical to the cords of Persimmon’s coat.

  Whispering in my ear, Leah asked, ‘Isn’t this a little soon after . . .?’

  ‘That’s why she’s here, I guess,’ I murmured. ‘This was Isaac’s party.’

  If Isaac had been alive, he’d have been the one at the other end of Persimmon’s leash, but it seemed to me that if he were looking down from heaven, he’d be glad to see how pretty Elizabeth looked and what a beautiful picture she and Persimmon made. Elizabeth’s white curls, the fringe of her shawl, and Persimmon’s cords all bounced in harmony. If Isaac was in posthumous attendance, I hoped, however, that he had a bad seat, his view partly blocked by some cosmic object that hovered between him and Tom Oakley, who stood behind Elizabeth’s chair and regarded her with unabashed adoration.

  When it came time for the malamutes to have their turn, Vanessa and Max did a capable job of leading Mukluk and Ulla around the ring while Ron said the Alaskan malamute was the largest and strongest of the Northern breeds. As he was adding that the malamute was a challenge to train and thus suitable for experienced dog owners, Ulla, with the breed’s uncanny ability to identify the head honcho in any group, suddenly plunked herself down in a sit in front of him, raised a paw, waved, and issued peals of woo-woo-woos that rang throughout the hall and had everyone smiling.

  ‘The call of the wild,’ Ron said. ‘Next, we have the pointer, a member of the AKC’s Sporting Group and . . .’

  I’m proud to report that Lady mustered her entire supply of self-confidence to present a lovely image of her breed. Her eyes showed apprehension, but only a little, and when we’d made our way around, pride won out, and she looked delightfully pleased with herself. Leah and India were predictably wonderful, and when the breed-by-breed part of the event ended, we were surrounded by a gratifyingly large number of strangers, which is to say, miracle of miracles, people who were not members of the Cambridge Dog Training Club. Out of the corner of my ear, I monitored Vanessa’s and Max’s replies to questions about malamutes and was relieved to hear the general public being informed that malamutes don’t just steal food but often extend the definition of food to include firewood, wild rabbits, and songbirds caught on the wing. Meanwhile, I was happy to sing the praises of the pointer, a breed sadly displaced in popularity by the German short-haired pointer for reasons I have never understood. I love German shorthairs, but not to the exclusion of the pointer, an intelligent, handsome, and affectionate breed adaptable to life as a lively family pet as well as to fine performance as a gun dog.

  For the hour after I’d returned Lady to her crate in Steve’s van, I was busy non-stop signing copies of our books, running Sammy through a mini version of a rally obedience course, and handling Rowdy in a demonstration of advanced obedience. Formal obedience never draws the crowds that flock to demos of flashier sports. Only an educated eye is equipped to appreciate perfect heeling, and as to the scent discrimination exercise, few spectators realize that they’re witnessing a miracle. Suppose that I ask you to examine a set of identical articles and to pick the one that I, behind your back, have just handled. Could you do it? Of course not! Neither could any other mere human being. But the dog’s nose knows, as does his brain: once trained to understand the point of the exercise, the dog selects the recently handled article by using a power that his species has in abundance and that our own species almost entirely lacks. The astonishing feat does not, however, wow crowds. When Jesus turned water into wine, there were probably a lot of spectators who shrugged their shoulders and said, ‘Big deal! So what!’ When miracles look easy, they’re pearls before swine.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  On the other hand, Rowdy knew what he’d done, as did I, his disciple, and when I crated him in the van, I told him how proud I felt and gave him a big handful of treats from my never-empty pockets. By then, I was so hungry that the lint-dusted liver brownies looked almost appetizing. Consequently, my first stop when I went back inside was at the refreshments table. In front of each of the platters, bowls, and trays was a card with information about the ingredients in the dish and thus about its suitability for people with particular dietary needs. The fried chicken, which contained cornstarch and cornmeal, was gluten-free and lactose-free, and had not been cooked in peanut oil. The lasagne, suitable for ovo-lacto-vegetarians, contained cheese but no meat. The flourless chocolate cake had been flavored with gluten-free vanilla, but it did contain eggs. And so forth, all very Cambridge.

  As I helped myself to chicken, lasagne, and salad, I said to Avery, ‘Your food has been a big hit.’

  Ever morose, she said, ‘There’s still a lot left. I know what we’re having for dinner for the next week.’

  ‘But a lot has been eaten, too. Your mother did a great job with publicity. That’s why we had so many people. I’ll be back for seconds. And dessert.’

  Carrying my plate to the Malamute Rescue table, I found Ma
x, Rita, and Gabrielle. Max had a plate heavily laden with desserts, Rita was nibbling on a strawberry, and Gabrielle, with Molly in her lap, was diving into a plateful of lasagne, ham, chicken, and salad.

  ‘Fortifying myself for the drive home,’ Gabrielle explained. ‘Molly passed! She got her CGC.’

  ‘I knew she’d do it! Good for you, Molly! Gabrielle, congratulations.’

  Gabrielle slipped a piece of chicken meat to her dog. ‘Now she gets to eat from the table,’ said Gabrielle with a naughty smile.

  ‘You’ll arrive home with good news,’ I said. ‘Buck really will be pleased. Speaking of going home, I think we can start to pack up whenever we’re ready. A lot of people have left. We had such a crowd!’

  ‘All of your books are gone,’ Max said. ‘We talked to a couple of possible adopters.’

  ‘And discouraged a couple of others,’ Rita added.

  ‘Was that your job, Rita?’ I asked.

  We both laughed. Rita loves my dogs, and they return her affection, but she refuses ever again to help me out by feeding them. She just can’t seem to understand that for malamutes, it’s perfectly normal to herald the prospect of dinner by jumping three feet in the air and issuing shrieks that shake your brain loose from your skull. I’ve tried to convince her that the dogs are doing their best to clink wine glasses and say, ‘A votre santé,’ but she maintains that she’d rather carry a side of beef into a cage of hungry lions than ever again to dole out kibble to Alaskan malamutes.

  ‘I told the truth,’ Rita said. ‘Didn’t I, Max?’

  ‘You did.’ Was that admiration in his voice? ‘We both did.’

  ‘Where’s Steve?’ I asked between bites. I don’t hurl myself into the air and scream, but the impulse was there. ‘This food is wonderful,’ I added. ‘Has he eaten yet?’

  ‘He’s over there talking to Vanessa.’ Gabrielle pointed to one of the doors to the parking lot. ‘He doesn’t look awfully happy. Maybe she’s hitting him up for free veterinary advice.’

  ‘He’s used to that,’ I said. ‘People do it all the time. And he isn’t even Ulla’s vet. I’ll rescue him.’ I waved and beckoned to him.

  Catching sight of me, he looked relieved, and when he got to the Malamute Rescue table, he said, ‘Successful event. Let’s wrap it up. I’m going to help clean up, and then we’ll go.’

  I finished eating while simultaneously packing up Malamute Rescue materials, thanking Max and Rita for their help, and saying my goodbyes to Gabrielle, who had returned with a plate of desserts and was continuing, as she’d said, to fortify herself.

  ‘Are you sure that you don’t want to stay here tonight?’ I asked.

  ‘Positive, but thank you. I’m just going to zip home. I won’t have to stop for food, and I have a Thermos of coffee that I just filled. We’ll be there in no time.’

  Leah showed up, and she, Steve, and I followed Gabrielle to her car, hugged her, bade farewell to Molly, again congratulated them on passing the CGC test, and saw them on their way. As Gabrielle drove off, Max, Mukluk, and Rita appeared in the parking lot. Max and Rita did not leave together. Willie was crated in Rita’s car, and Max would need to take Mukluk home. But with luck, Max and Rita had made plans to meet later. The rain had become nothing more than mist. It would be a lovely evening for Rita and Max to stroll through Harvard Square together. They’d poke in bookstores, enjoy a romantic dinner, linger over dessert, and return to her place or his to watch one of those depressing foreign films that Rita likes and that Max probably did, too. As Steve, Leah, and I helped to break down baby gates, roll up mats, and put away folding tables and chairs, I imagined Max and Rita happily discovering, at either his house or her apartment, that they had identical taste in literature, music, liqueurs, and who knew what else.

  As we were about to leave, I noticed Avery, Vanessa, Hatch, Tom, and Elizabeth at the dismantled refreshments table. My arms were full, but I said to Leah, ‘Why don’t you go help Vanessa and Avery get all that stuff to their car. There’s a lot left to carry out. There are heating trays and big coolers and all those bulky things, and Tom and Elizabeth aren’t going to do a thing. They’re just standing around.’

  ‘If you don’t mind, I’d rather not,’ she replied in an undertone.

  ‘Why not? Leah, that’s not like you!’

  ‘I’ll tell you later.’ She made a face.

  ‘Steve,’ I said, ‘why don’t you—’

  Cutting me off, Leah replied for him, ‘Because, Holly. Because he doesn’t want to.’

  ‘Aren’t we mysterious!’ I said.

  ‘Yes, aren’t we,’ Leah agreed.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Instead of taking advantage of the privacy of Steve’s van to spill everything, Steve and Leah tacitly agreed to utter not one damned word to satisfy my curiosity. Ever the dog trainer, I resolved not to reinforce their annoying collusion by begging for explanations. Far be it from me to tumble into the most common pitfall in dog training, which is, of course, unintentionally reinforcing undesired behavior. Instead, I spent the brief drive home exclaiming about what a great success the day had been, as it truly had. The combination of Vanessa’s excellent publicity and the bad weather had meant much better attendance than we’d dared to hope for. Ulla and Mukluk had been model malamutes during Meet the Breed. Lady had shown remarkable self-possession and had even had fun. Kimi, Rowdy, and Sammy had performed well during the demos. Molly was now an official Canine Good Citizen. I was, I proclaimed, happy for all of us and proud of the club’s accomplishment. Furthermore, Max and Rita had really hit it off, hadn’t they! And Willie had made an excellent impression on Max, as had Mukluk on Rita. Then I made the mistake of adding that Isaac McNamara would have been very pleased to have his plans carried out so well.

  ‘He’d have been thrilled at the sight of his all-too-merry widow,’ Leah commented.

  ‘People deal with grief in different ways, Leah,’ I said pompously.

  ‘Well, if Steve dies, I hope that you—’

  I took the bait. ‘Leah, stop! That is not funny.’ As I’ve said, the most common pitfall in dog training is . . . failing to ignore behavior you don’t like.

  Steve said, ‘She’ll run personal ads in the AKC Gazette and the Journal of the American Veterinary Medical Association.’

  ‘That’ll be after she’s replaced you with a dog,’ Leah said. Mimicking me, she added, ‘“People deal with grief in different ways.”’

  I had to wait for more than an hour after we got home to get the truth out of Leah and Steve, in part because they persisted in their irritating game and in part because we had to unload the van and feed the dogs. Finally, at six o’clock or so, we decided to take advantage of the clear skies to sit in the yard and give the dogs a chance to play. Because all three of us had eaten heartily only a few hours earlier, we weren’t hungry, and neither was Rita, who, to my disappointment, was alone rather than with Max Crocker when she joined us. She did, however, arrive with a more expensive bottle of Australian Shiraz than I’d have sprung for, and I felt certain that the wine and the presence of a good psychotherapist would combine to loosen Steve’s and Leah’s tongues.

  I’d finished wiping off the picnic table and padding its damp benches with old towels when Rita made her way down the back steps, the bottle of wine in one hand, a wine glass in the other. Leah followed with three more glasses. Sammy was delivering the coup de grâce to a doomed peony plant by rolling on its crushed remains. As he wiggled blissfully on his back, Kimi kept a close and astonished eye on him, as if to say, ‘Yet one more instance of this puppy’s brainlessness! Isn’t he ever going to grow up?’ Rowdy was taking care to lift his leg on a wet forsythia branch without actually touching it. When Steve took a seat at the table, India stationed herself next to him, and Lady settled for me.

  Pouring wine, Rita said, ‘Your friend Max is such a lovely man.’

  ‘Isn’t he!’ I said.

  Handing a filled glass to me, she said with a sigh, ‘Damn shame.�
�

  ‘What is?’

  ‘That all the best men are married or gay or both.’

  ‘Max isn’t married. I’ve been to his house. He lives alone. Beautiful house, by the way. Anyway, his application says that there’s no one else in the household. We ask. And he doesn’t wear a wedding ring.’

  ‘Who said that he was married?’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘Rita, you’re wrong.’ I sipped my wine. ‘This is really good. Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome, and I’m right, more’s the pity.’

  ‘Rita, when we screen adopters, we look for this stuff. I do! Rita, most rescue people are very biased in favor of gay adopters because there’s a fair chance that they’ll have dogs instead of children. A nice, stable gay or lesbian couple? Preferably older. Settled. Lesbian couples do have babies sometimes, and gay men adopt children, but especially with an older adopter, the odds are heavily in favor of the dog, so it can be the perfect home.’

  ‘Without the bothersome complication of human relationships.’

  ‘No! Well, in a way, but that’s no more true for gay people than it is for anyone else, except that for gay people, the gigantic advantage of a dog is the absolute certainty that the dog isn’t harboring any lurking prejudices or stereotypes or negative feelings. The dog cares whether the owner is gay or lesbian about the way Rowdy cares whether I’m a Capricorn or whether I read Jane Austen or like the color blue, OK? He just doesn’t care.’

  ‘Holly, Max is gay.’

  ‘I take it that he didn’t ask you out,’ I said.

  ‘Holly, I meant what I said. I like him a lot. We have a great deal in common. I hope that I’ll see him again.’

  ‘And when you do,’ I said, ‘you’ll realize that I’m right and you’re wrong.’

  ‘Truce?’ Rita asked.

  ‘Truce,’ I said. We both laughed.

  Then everyone had a little more wine, and Rita said to Leah, as casually as if she were asking about the weather, ‘I saw you with the good-looking young doctor.’