by Susan Conant
I could hardly blame them. When I fastened the leash I’d brought with me to her collar, I examined her tags. One was exactly what Donna Yappel had described, an ID tag that bore my name and phone number. It also gave my address. Unlike the ID tags on my own dogs, it did not have my cell number. As Donna hadn’t mentioned, it was the sort of engraved tag that you can have made by machine while you wait at kennel-supply shops, and it looked brand-new. The other tag, in contrast, showed heavy wear. It was a rabies tag issued by Steve’s clinic, certainly a rabies tag issued to some other dog. If anyone at the clinic had seen a malamute, and especially a blue malamute, Steve would have known and would definitely have told me. I was headed for the clinic, anyway. When I got there, I’d examine the tag and have someone look up its number.
One other thing that I noticed immediately: the rolled leather collar. Malamute breeders whose dogs live mainly in kennels sometimes leave their dogs without collars unless the dogs are going somewhere, in part to avoid freak accidents in which dogs strangle and in part to avoid leaving collar marks in the dogs’ coats. Flat buckle collars, in particular, mash down the coat and can even damage it. Consequently, many of us—and I use us in the obnoxious sense, meaning those of us in the knowledgeable elite—use rolled leather collars. To the best of my recollection, I’d never seen one on a rescue malamute surrendered by an owner or turned over by a shelter. Still, every pet shop and kennel-supply store in the country sold rolled leather collars. I reminded myself not to make more of the collar than it might actually mean.
“Let’s go, young lady,” I said. “Ride in the car, Miss Blue?” I was following one of Betty Burley’s rules, and a good one: there are no nameless dogs. If you don’t know the dog’s name, make one up.
To my embarrassment, the combination of the name and Miss Blue’s eagerness to go with me reinforced the Yappels’ conviction that she belonged to me. In my defense, I informed them that she was a female rather than the male they’d taken her to be, but my assertion only made matters worse by seeming to prove that I had intimate knowledge of a dog I was trying to disown. The Yappels’ opinion of me didn’t matter. I gave up, thanked them, and led Miss Blue to Steve’s van.
“The same thing happens to my Kimi all the time,” I told Miss Blue as I opened the side door of the van. “She rolls over on her back, and half the world looks at her and still thinks that since she’s big and strong, she has to be a boy. Don’t let it bother you.”
Steve’s van held five big crates, one for each of our dogs. We shifted crates around from Steve’s van to my Blazer to the house fairly often. At the moment, the one just behind the driver’s seat was a big Central Metal wire crate. Since it occupied what Rowdy considered to be the prime location in the van, it was his favorite. If he played Monopoly, he’d go for Boardwalk and Park Place. If I played with him, I’d probably let him win. Or watch him trounce me? Yes, who says that I don’t already? He usually rides where he wants to ride. Anyway, some dogs have a strong preference either for a wire crate or for an opaque, airline-approved crate of the Vari Kennel type. If Miss Blue proved reluctant to enter Rowdy’s crate, I’d try one of the Vari Kennels. If she balked at both, I’d rethink my plans. I hate driving with a dog loose in a vehicle. If there’s an accident, the dog can be thrown against the windshield. If you and the dog are really unlucky, he can collide with you. A great many pets, however, are used to riding loose and are reluctant to enter a crate. The lure of food tossed into the depths of safety sometimes works. And sometimes fails. Miss Blue was easy. She knew what a crate was. As I opened Rowdy’s, I was prepared to offer the enticement of liver treats from my never-empty pockets, but she popped right in and got her treat as a reward, and on the drive to Cambridge, she was quiet and still.
I went directly to Steve’s clinic. Even though he’s my husband, I probably should have called first, but I won’t use my cell while I’m behind the wheel. I grew up in Maine. That’s probably why I’ll never make it as a Boston driver. I refrain from the popular local custom of reading while driving; I never apply mascara while negotiating a crowded traffic circle; I don’t start manicuring my nails at one traffic light and have the polish on by the time I reach the next; and even when I’m hard up against a deadline, I refuse to keep my notebook computer open on the front passenger seat to allow me to steer with my left hand while typing with my right. I could’ve pulled over to make the call, but people would’ve given me funny looks and maybe even called the police to report me for a grossly deviant violation of the rules of the Greater Boston road. For careful driving around here, you’re likely to lose your license. Anyway, all I intended to do at the clinic was to borrow an exam room and then either requisition kennel space for Miss Blue or crate her upstairs in what used to be Steve’s apartment.
As it turned out, one of Steve’s colleagues was free. Dr. Zoe Wang-Lopez had worked for him for only about six months, but his entire staff and clientele liked her, and we hoped that she’d stay. Her credentials were great: she’d graduated from Cornell Veterinary School a few years ago and had spent the time after that at Boston’s famous Angell Animal Medical Center. During her time at Angell, Dr. Zoe Wang fell in love, cut off all but a half inch of her hair, swore off skirts, hyphenated her name to reflect her life partnership with Angela Lopez, and moved across the Charles River to diversity-friendly Cambridge, a sanctuary city in which Angela, who’d been born in Mexico, wouldn’t have to worry about her immigration status. Zoe’s parents had cut her off almost completely but had been unable to sever the tie between Zoe and her trust fund, so she’d bought a house in East Cambridge, where she and Angela lived with the family they’d created. It consisted of two lively pit bull terriers and a Siamese cat that had bitten five people and, in my opinion, had a taste for human blood.
So, only about a half hour after I’d left the Yappels’, Miss Blue was standing on the linoleum in one of Steve’s small examining rooms, and Dr. Zoe Wang-Lopez was peering into her ears and speaking to her in soft, serious tones. “Well, you are young. One and a half? Two? Your eyes are clear. You have full dentition. Seventy-nine pounds is four pounds on the plump side. Let’s settle for having you lose three, okay, young lady? Your heart rate says that you’re not feeling stressed. No vet phobia, huh? That’s good news.”
Zoe was right. The dog I’d christened Miss Blue was gently wagging her tail over her back. Her ears were neither flat nor hyperalert, and her expression was relaxed and happy. Although I remained mystified about her identity, she knew exactly who she was and was obviously content to be herself.
“Do you have a spay scar?” Zoe asked her. “Not that I can find, but you never know for sure, do you? Not unless…Would you like an ultrasound, young lady?”
As Zoe Wang-Lopez continued to educate Miss Blue about her state of health and to pose questions that Miss Blue couldn’t answer, I made mental notes. Miss Blue’s coat showed clear evidence that, until recently, she’d received regular grooming. Malamutes, of course, have a double coat: a coarse, water-repellant guard coat covers the dense, woolly undercoat. In winter, I dress the same way by wearing a parka or a windbreaker over Polartec or silk longjohns that I routinely remove and wash. Malamute undercoat also renews itself in the sense that the dog sheds and that new hair grows in, but if the old undercoat is not thoroughly removed, it can form a dense layer of dead hair and dirt that looks and sometimes smells like an ugly, stinky old carpet pad. Once that layer gets wet, the dirt and dampness trapped against the dog’s warm skin provide an excellent environment for fungal and bacterial growth and for the development of “hot spots,” as they are known, patches of irritation that the dog feels compelled to scratch and lick. Ugh. Enough said. And the dog looks lousy, too. The point is that not every owner of a double-coated breed knows how to remove the dead hair. If you simply run a brush over the dog, you are brushing only the surface, that is, the guard coat. Ideally, you blast with a powerful dryer while brushing against the direction of growth, but you can also use an underc
oat rake, and you can “line brush” and “line comb,” that is, part the coat and work on one small section at a time to brush or comb from the skin out. Miss Blue was fortunate to lack the layer of dead undercoat. Therefore, her owner had either had her groomed by a diligent professional or had done a good job at home. Furthermore, although her nails hadn’t been trimmed within the last week or two, they weren’t overgrown.
The door to the exam room swung open, and a vet tech named Alvin stuck his head in. “Kimi’s rabies tag,” he said. “Her old one.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Zoe, could we scan for a microchip?”
Leaving momentous pauses between her words, Zoe said, “Who…are…you…Miss Blue?”
The scanner failed to answer the question. Microchips, which are, of course, tiny ID devices, are usually injected at the base of the neck, about where the neck meets the back, but microchips can migrate. Zoe checked Miss Blue’s throat and chest and kept looking, but no number appeared on the scanner. In searching for a spay scar, she’d already looked for a tattoo and found none. The absence of permanent ID meant nothing. It’s not all that easy to find someone to do a really clear tattoo on a dog. Some owners don’t trust microchip technology. A lot of people intend to have dogs chipped and never get around to it. And Miss Blue did, after all, have a collar and tags, albeit tags that didn’t belong on her. I’d hoped that a close examination of her collar might yield information, but the collar was not, to my disappointment, a luxurious and expensive one that I might have been able to trace to a particular retailer. It was nothing but a plain rolled-leather collar that I suspected was Miss Blue’s own. It wasn’t brand new, and the leather showed no marks to indicate that it had been used on a dog with a neck larger or smaller than Miss Blue’s.
“Zoe, do you think there’s any chance that she’s pregnant?” I asked.
“Hey, there’s always a chance. You been up to anything, young lady? No, seriously, I’m not finding anything.”
“Good.” A few years earlier, my rescue group had sent an adopter directly to a shelter in Maine where there’d been a female malamute in need of a home, a spayed female, or so everyone had believed. Soon after the adopter got home with her dog, she found herself in possession of twice what she’d intended: one adult malamute and one newborn puppy. Fortunately, she’d been overjoyed as well as surprised. Good sportsmanship is highly valued in all spheres of the dog world, including rescue. “Let’s hold off on an ultrasound. And on her shots,” I said. “It’s possible that I’ll find out where she belongs and get her vet records.”
“You leaving her here?”
“Kimi wouldn’t give her a warm welcome. And let’s check a stool sample and keep an eye on her. She could be incubating something. But I’ll be back tomorrow and give her some play time. Okay, Miss Blue? You’re safe here. I know you’ll be a good girl.”
After I’d led Miss Blue to the waiting room, as I was hanging around to find a vet tech to take her, I reached into my pocket for a treat and tried baiting her as I’d have done in the show ring. She had no idea what I wanted. On the other hand, she sat on command, albeit slowly. In the conformation ring, it’s undesirable to have a dog sit, so dogs intended only for the show ring sometimes don’t know the command. When I returned, I’d try a few obedience commands, but the world of malamute obedience was so small that if she’d been actively shown in that sport, I’d probably have heard of her. But she’d had some pet training. So far, she seemed to be housebroken. She walked quite well on leash. She hadn’t jumped on anyone.
So, although she was show quality, she wasn’t an experienced show dog. The observation meant nothing. I’d heard experts say that the very best dogs weren’t in the show ring but in pet owners’ backyards. But she had a malamute-savvy owner, one who’d bought a correct collar and who’d known how to groom her. The owner had used a crate. Miss Blue was friendly, and even in the potentially stressful situation of a vet visit, she’d remained happy and relaxed. Someone had spent time with her and had taken her to new places. Someone had made sure that she was wearing identification; someone had wanted to be sure that if Miss Blue got loose and was found, a responsible person would be informed. I, of course, was that responsible person.
CHAPTER 20
“Kevin, relax,” I said as he hesitated outside Mr. Bartley’s Burger Cottage, where we’d arranged to meet. “What do you think they’re going to do? Ask for Harvard ID? And not let us in if we don’t have it? It’s your kind of food. And when Jennifer gets back, you’re going to be eating bok choy and tofu again.”
“I’ve been here before,” Kevin declared.
“And you loved it.” I amended the statement. “You loved the food.”
He reluctantly nodded in agreement and held the door open for me. It was early on that same Monday evening. With Steve and Jennifer both out of town, Kevin and I were once again having dinner together. Bartley’s was my choice. I knew that Kevin would object. It’s on Mass. Ave. near the corner of Bow Street, just across from Harvard Yard, and in its own way it’s as Harvardian as University Hall, Widener Library, and the Fogg Art Museum, its own way being noisy, greasy, and crowded. What makes it Harvardian is the clientele, which consists principally, although not exclusively, of students. Alumni and alumnae show up, too, as do members of the faculty and administration eager for real food. No healthy person leaves Bartley’s hungry. That’s one reason it’s my kind of place. The other is that it helps to cure my homesickness for Moody’s Diner on Route 1 in Waldoboro, Maine, which, like Helen’s Restaurant in Machias, serves up traditional Maine fare, the defining ingredient of which is neither lobsters nor blueberries but good old dietary fat. If Maine tourist bureaus were honest about the nature of real Maine food, all of these lobster festivals and blueberry festivals would be subsumed by a single gigantic Annual Maine Grease Festival. I’d attend. It doesn’t yet exist, alas. In the meantime, there’s Bartley’s.
Bartley’s being the popular place it justifiably is, it was crowded. Even if there’d been no customers, it would’ve been hard for Kevin to make his way to the back because the tables were so close together. Since it took us a while to maneuver through the almost nonexistent aisles, Kevin had a chance to read the offerings chalked on the big blackboard and to observe the platefuls of food the servers were carrying, so by the time we were seated, with Kevin mashed in a corner, he’d quit looking uneasy. The menus presented to us by a hurried, hot-looking waiter listed all sorts of sandwiches named for celebrities and a variety of other items not on the blackboard, but Kevin ordered two burgers with American cheese, a side of french fries, a side of onion rings, and a Coke, and I asked for a mozzarella burger and a ginger ale.
Looking around and taking note of the multiracial clientele, Kevin said, “Ethnic. Sign of a good restaurant. But geez, some of these kids are wicked thin. Give ’em some time in America, and we’ll build ’em up.” He turned his attention to me. “So what’s going on?”
“A case of canine identity theft,” I said somewhat melodramatically. “I have the blue malamute. She was found wandering in Lexington. She’s at Steve’s clinic. Kevin, this is the dog in the picture. No question.”
“Tags?”
“That’s the strange thing, Kevin. That’s the really peculiar thing. Yes, she has tags. Two. One is a new ID tag with my name, my address, and my phone number. The other is Kimi’s old rabies tag. Kimi had a rabies shot, and when I put the new tag on her collar, I threw out the old one. The new ID tag on the dog must’ve come from a machine at one of the pet-supply places, but Kimi’s rabies tag came from my trash. Just like my bills and bank statements and stuff. Kimi got her rabies shot before Steve left, and that’s when I threw out the old tag. But the point is that that woman wasn’t just preparing to steal my identity. And the other Holly Winter’s, of course. Preparing is the right word, by the way. I checked my credit. It’s fine. Anyway, while she was gathering information on us, she was also stealing Kimi’s identity for her dog.”
“The dog wasn’t living there,” Kevin said. “At Dr. Ho’s. There was dog hair, consistent with a malamute, by the way, but it was on her clothes, stuff like that. Small quantities. Not all over the place. Not like at your house.”
“I beg your pardon! We own two Dyson vacuum cleaners, and I vacuum all the time.”
Let me pause here for a short commercial break. A household with three Alaskan malamutes, a German shepherd, a pointer, and a cat constitutes a tough test for a vacuum cleaner. Dyson doesn’t just pass the test; it gets an A plus. Every other brand fails.
I said, “Anyway, I don’t know how long the dog was loose. The people in Lexington said that she’d been around for a few days, but that’s just in their neighborhood. And they weren’t very observant. They thought she was a male. Do you know when this woman got to Cambridge? Or when she started living at Dr. Ho’s?”
“August twenty-ninth, give or take. That was a Tuesday. That’s when he took off. She wasn’t there on August twenty-seventh. Sunday. That was when his house sitter backed out. The guy called him Sunday morning. Dr. Ho had some friends there for one of these brunches, and the guy who was supposed to house-sit called while they were there. Ho was wicked pissed. Because of the fish.”
