by Dead
take good care of the house till I got back. I had a meeting of the Cambridge Dog Training Club to
attend. I knew exactly the kind of ferocious guard dog Rowdy was — none at all — but I didn’t want
him to suspect that I had less than complete confidence in him.
Until one of our members, frank Stanton, died and bequeathed us the house at the good end of
Appleton Street — not that my end is bad — we took turns holding board meetings at our houses. At
first, we were all so impressed by our new acquisition, our little English cottage nestled in the
splendor of the neighboring Victorian mansions, that we tried to hold formal meetings. We didn’t
wear kennel clothes. We got nothing done. Before long we reverted to lounging around in jeans
without worrying about mozzarella on the carpet and rings on the mahogany table.
Thanks to an unsuccessful attempt to scrape all the paint out from under my nails, I was the last
to arrive. The others were already sitting around the table in the dining room. At first, we tried to
call it the boardroom, but no one could say “boardroom” with a straight face, even though the room
doesn’t disgrace the name. It has white paneling, a fireplace with brass candlesticks on the mantel,
and a genuine painting by Sir Edwin Landseer of one of his favorite subjects: a black and white
Newfoundland. Ray and Lynne Metcalf, who have Clumber spaniels, were there, as well as Arlene,
who has greyhounds. Ron Coughlin, the club treasurer, was at the head of the table, and Diane
D’Amato was next to him, with Curly her miniature poodle, in her lap. Try that with a malamute.
You may have seen Curly. He’s the little black dog who dances around on his hind legs and yaps out
a song in the Snappy Bits commercial. Curly wasn’t the only dog there, just the only canine board
member. Hussan, Vince Dragone’s Rottweiler, was on a long down in the front hall — Vince is our
head trainer — and one of Barbara Doyle’s shepherds, Freda, was behaving herself on the floor at
Barbara’s feet. The people were all talking and the dogs were all silent. I was glad I’d left Rowdy
home. He’d have woo-wooed his way into the conversation.
After I took a seat across from Ray and Lynne, Ray turned to the woman seated next to him, the
one person there I didn’t know. “Mimi,” he said, “I’d like you to meet Holly Winter. Holly, Mimi
Nichols.” He sounded uncomfortable about using her first name.
I wished I’d brushed the dog hair off my shirt and emptied my pockets of dried liver treats before
leaving home. We shook hands. Hers had paint on, rather than under, the nails.
“Holly,” she said. “I’m delighted to meet you.”
She made it sound genuine. With the smooth, dark hair sweeping away from that oddly unlined,
immobile face, she looked as if she’d have a wispy Jackie Kennedy voice, but hers was strong — not
loud, just powerful. You could tell she’d be able to say “boardroom” without smirking. To attend the
meting of a dog training club, she’d put on a cream-colored dress made of something I couldn’t
identify. Silk and vicuna? Is that possible? The very rich actually are different from you and me.
They wear mysterious clothing. What was she doing there? As I tried to think of something normal
to say, I realized everyone else was having the same problem. I thought about asking her whether I
could borrow the dress to wear to a veterinarians’ dinner, but then I remembered I’d been
disinvited.
“So, Holly, what have you been up to?” Ron asked.
Mimi Nichols’s presence hadn’t intimidated him too much. Ron moves with ease through all
social worlds. Pipes burst impartially on the rich and poor alike, and anyone with any sense,
regardless of income, defers to a good plumber.
“Not a lot,” I said. Scintillating. “Rowdy got in a fight with a pointer. I have writer’s block. I got
stung by a bee. Actually, it was my own fault. I knew there was a hive. Otherwise, it’s been a great
week. You?”
The look on his ruddy, round face let me know I’d said something wrong, but I couldn’t figure out
what. I didn’t have time to try. Barbara opened the meeting.
“We have a lot to take care of, so let’s get started,” she said in that soft, fluffy voice that matches
her soft, fluffy blond hair, but not her character. “First, I’d like to welcome Mimi Nichols. As you
probably know, Mimi lives a couple of houses away, and she’s interested in the petition. Mimi can
only stay for a few minutes, so we’ll start with zoning. Mimi?”
We were about to petition the Cambridge zoning board for permission to open the house as a
library, or, really, to open it officially. A lot of people had used the library for years. The collection
of books was and is incredible: stud books, breed books, book son training, handling, and gait, the
breed quarterlies, histories, every book you’d ever want to read. All we were trying to do was let
people in, but for zoning permission, we needed neighborhood approval. Typical Cambridge
politics.
“As I understand the situation,” Mimi said, “neighborhood concern centers on two issues, traffic and parking. Since you don’t propose training or kenneling dogs here, dogs are not the real issue.
As I’ve explained to Barbara and Ron, I may be able to suggest a solution to the parking.” She
gestured graciously toward them and gave us all the best smile she could manage without being
able to move the muscles around her eyes. Fifty looking forty? Sixty trying for thirty-five? A lovely
lady of uncertain age, certain surgery. “The principal use of the library, I believe, would be limited
to day-time hours. Ten to five? Monday through Saturday. No Sunday use. Is that right?”
We all nodded yes. Once again, she did her best to smile. Nothing crinkled. I felt sorry for her.
Maybe if she got a dog, she’d laugh enough to put some expression back. A Rhodesian Ridgeback,
an Afghan hound, a Saluki, something as sleek as she was.
“As you’re aware, St. Luke’s has ample parking around the corner.”
Faces fell. The church had given us a flat no. Twice.
“The problem is availability. After some preliminary checking, I believe that might work itself
out. If so, traffic will be a nonissue.”
She didn’t say it, but the traffic —there wouldn’t even be much — could enter and leave the St.
Luke’s lot from Brattle Street, which is busy, anyway. None of the people on Appleton would see or
hear it.
“Yeah, but they’ve turned us down twice,” Arlene said.
Ron looked hard at her and tapped his lips quickly with a finger to hush her. She got the message.
Mimi continued. “I’m also here to request your support in regard to another matter. As you
probably know, in less than two months, the city council will be asked to enact a law regulating
animal research in Cambridge. Of course, that includes research on dogs.” She paused. Of there’s
one thing dog lovers don’t want to think about, that’s it. She gave us a few seconds to ponder it,
anyway. “St. Luke’s has a strong commitment to social action. Right now, they’re especially
interested in the ethical treatment of animals. That is, you share what I assume must be a common
concern.”
I expected her to go on, but a big guy I jeans who looked as if he’d bulked up with free weights stuck his head through the door to the front hall. Mimi Nichols look
ed first at her watch, then,
tilting her head to one side, at Ron, who dutifully popped up, thanked her, and, of all things, helped
her into no ordinary American trench coat. She had the manner of someone who had never put on a
coat unassisted.
“We promised Mimi we’d only keep her a few minutes,” Barbara said. “She has another meeting.”
Like Ron, Barbara thanked her. Everyone else thanked her. I, for one, had no idea why. I
expected to be told as soon as she left, but people just kept looking at each other. And at me.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “Did I miss something?”
There were some uncomfortable laughs before we started to act like ourselves again. Ron went
into the kitchen and came back with some cans of Bud and Coke. Money has its down side, I guess.
You never know how people act when a rich person isn’t around. That Mimi could afford
unidentifiable clothes didn’t necessarily mean she wouldn’t have liked a beer, too, or at least a
Coke. Anyway, with Mimi gone, everyone spilled everything except the drinks. I hadn’t been all that
stupid. I’d just been the only person to arrive after Mimi Nichols, so I’d missed the background.
“How was Holly to know that Edward Nichols died of a bee sting?” Lynne said kindly, but
everyone laughed again.
“Stings,” Barbara corrected her. :He got stung and went into shock.”
“Oh, God,” Ron said to me. “When you said it was your fault that you got stung . . . “
“It wasn’t exactly Nichols’s fault,” Barbara said. “It wasn’t the same. Apparently, he was supposed
to carry one of those kits, but he forgot it, and he didn’t get to the hospital in time.”
“Obviously, I had no idea,” I said. “She was awfully nice about it. Who is she, anyway? What’s the
deal? I mean everyone’s been acting as if Princess Di had dropped in.”
“The deal is that she’s decided to take us up,” Lynne said.
“The deal is that she’s saved our sweet ass.” Ron cleared his throat. “Sorry.”
“She does causes,” Diane said. “The latest is animal rights, and she’s into grass roots. Cambridge
animal rights. We’re the grass roots.”
“You may be,” said Arlene, pulling her chair away from the table. “Speak for yourself. I don’t
know what those people are so worked up about. They just don’t have anything better to do. I mean,
it isn’t as if Cambridge had any of those labs you read about. You know. Maybe there are some mice
and rats, but so what?”
“Hold it,” Ron said. “Holly still doesn’t get who she is.”
“Yes, I do. A woman who needs a dog.”
”As a matter of fact,” Ron said, “she already has three.”
“Oh,” I said. “What kind?”
“Pointers,” three people said at once.”
“Pointers, huh? I like pointers,” I said. “Did I say something bad about them? All I said was that
Rowdy had a fight with one. For all I know, she thinks Rowdy’s a pointer, too.”
“If you had a pointer, she’d know you,” Barbara said coolly. ‘You’d know her.”
“She doesn’t show in obedience, does she?” I said. Hardly anyone shows pointers in obedience.
Or malamutes, of course.
“No,” Barbara said. “And she doesn’t handle them herself, anyway. Remember Libby Knowles?
You know her, don’t you?”
“She used to train all those goldens with us,” Arlene said.
“I know her,” I said. “She’s good.”
“You know, those dogs weren’t hers,” Arlene said indignantly. “They all belonged to other people.
She does it for money.”
“A hooker!” Ron said jubilantly.
“I know Libby,” I said. “I hang out with her at shows sometimes. She’s a good trainer. She’s a
good handler.”
“And Macho Man takes care of the dogs,” Barbara said.
“I thought he was a bodyguard.” Lynne looked disappointed.
“Chauffeur,” said Ron. “You know he lives there? He’s the security man. He does everything. He’s
not a bad guy. He’s real good with dogs, and he does some kind of dog rescue thing. Picks up strays.
Stuff like that.”
“Is she aware of that?” Arlene asked. “She didn’t strike me as the rescue type.”
“Of course. It’s like the research law,” Ron said. “Along the same line. Well, not exactly the same
line, but, you know, it’s all grass roots.”
“If I have to hear any more about grass roots,” Arlene said, “I’m going to turn green and need
mowing.”
“Look, let’s cut it short,” Ray said.
Ron laughed.
“Oh,” Ray said. “No pun intended. Anyway, the story is that she worked things out with St.
Luke’s. Needless to say, she’s a parishioner. That’s on reason they’re suddenly so enthusiastic about
animal rights. She gives to them. She gives to that committee on animal research. She just doesn’t
take much credit. She’s a very modest person. Anyhow, it’s done. It’s wrapped up. St. Luke’s really
only needs that big lot on Sundays. We pay a fee. We support the animal research law.”
“Don’t we already?” I asked. “I do.”
“Actively,” Lynne said.
“Can we give money? I don’t think that’s in the will,” I said.
When Frank Stanton died, he left more than his house to the Cambridge Dog Training Club. Most
people don’t know precisely how much because my editor at Dog’s Life thinks it’s vulgar to discuss
money, and she cut that part out of the article I wrote about his murder. I still haven’t completely
recovered from the shock of his death — any my unexpected involvement in the murder
investigation. The one benefit of that whole mess, of course, was that it brought Rowdy and me
together.
“As individuals we can donate money,” Ray said. “The club can’t.”
Most of our members don’t’ have any more to give than I do. A few do. The Metcalfs. Ron. A
couple of others.
“Mimi Nichols is, in fact, a philanthropist,” Ray said. “It sounds funny, but it’s true. These people
really do exist, and she’s one of them. We’re the community, and our part is community support.
We give signatures. We write letters. We have handouts ready for the meetings. We put something
in the newsletter. We talk to people. When the same kind of thing comes up again, we do it again.”
“We should’ve been doing it all along, if you ask me,” Barbara said. “This is not a joke. Nobody
wants to think about it, but it’s really serious.”
Contact lens solution, deodorant, makeup, household cleansers, herbicides, insecticides, almost
all of them are tested on animals. In the name of science and medicine, dogs are crammed into tiny
cages to wait their turns for vivisection. Of course, they’re still dogs, so they try to protest. They try
to call for help but no one hears them. I’m not getting poetic. No one hears them because science
and medicine remove their vocal cords. It‘s known as surgical debarking.
“If you want my opinion,” Arlene said, “the whole thing is too political. And it’s a straw man. I’ve
seen the awful pictures, too, but those labs aren’t in Massachusetts. They’re in New Jersey.
California. Here, it’s just politics.”
“This is Cambridge,” Diane said. “Everything’s politics.”
“Exactly,” Arlene said. “It’s all just politics, and it’s only mice and ra
ts, anyway. Not dogs.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Diane objected. Curly was still perched on her lap, turning his head
back and forth, eyes bright. “What I meant is, sure, everything in Cambridge is politics. But I, for
one, don’t know anything about research labs. For all I know, the ones here do use dogs. How
would I know?”
Dog people talk all the time. We talk at classes. We call each other up. Most of what we do at dog
shows is sit around and talk. We talk about dogs, of course, and we talk about each other, but we
don’t talk politics, except the politics of the breed clubs and the American Kennel Club — not real
politic. What dog people share is an interest in dogs. Otherwise, we’re everyone: old, young, men,
women, liberal, conservative. I knew that Vince was active in the Republican Party and that he
might not be happy with the idea that we were forcing him into some left-wing cause. He didn’t say
a thing. No one else wanted to talk real politics any more than Vince did. Instead we argued about
dogs, and it was pretty amazing. There we were, crazy about dogs, spending every Thursday night
and some part of every day training dogs. Most of us subscribed to at least two magazines about
dogs. I wrote for one. Some of us showed our dogs. Some of us bred them. Dogs were our life. And
not one of us knew whether Arlene was right. Nothing but mice and rats? If she was wrong, I
thought, it didn’t matter what kind of hypocrites we were, left wing or right.
-5-
A big dog show is the genuine greatest show on earth, a circus with all-day, nonstop action in
twelve, fifteen, twenty rings, more hype and hoopla than Barnum & Bailey, more excitement than
high wire with no net, and two thousand tae performing animals from every part of the globe —
Tibetan spaniels, Chinese Shar pei, Japanese chin, Finnish spitz, Australian cattle dogs, Rhodesian
Ridgebacks, French bulldogs, Norwegian elkhounds, Belgian Tervuren, in every size from giant to
toy, Irish wolfhounds, Great Pyrenees, and St. Bernards to papillons, pugs, and Pekinese, Almost
anything in the world you really need, you can find at the concession stands: collars and leads in a
rainbow of colors, rake combs, flea combs, mat combs, bristle brushes, slicker brushes, pin brushes,
