All Shots (2 page)

As Holly Winter—the other Holly Winter—an
, pause, other Holly Winter—another Holly Winter or, in retrospect, yet another Holly Winter—is walking through Harvard Yard toward Quincy Street, a loose dog takes a break from Frisbee to run toward her in what I would undoubtedly have viewed as a friendly manner. To her disgust, the dog not only reaches her but goes so far as to deposit its saliva on her, which is to say that the dog licks her hand.

Yes, what kind of dog? The first question to spring eternal to my dog-hopeful mind—a Finnish lapphund, a Nova Scotia duck tolling retriever, a fascinating mix of let’s guess which wonderful breeds?—never even begins to cross hers. She does not know, she does not ask, she does not care. Rather, once the dirty thing has gone away, she fishes in her purse, extracts a little sealed packet containing a moist towelette, and uses it to decontaminate her hands, thus defending herself against the threat of bacterial, viral, and parasitic disease. Such an extreme reaction! The dog’s tongue, after all, touched only one of her hands, yet she cleans both.

I am tempted to make the rebellious claim that I, in contrast, would have licked the fingers the dog had lapped. Not so. Or not quite so. But it’s quite likely that I’d subsequently have fixed food for myself and happily eaten it without first washing my hands. As it’s said, better after a dog than after a person. The adage, by the way, is one I’ve been accused of misinterpreting. Specifically, I’ve been informed that the point I’m missing concerns the filth of human beings, whose dirtiness is said to exceed even the extreme foulness of dogs. Nonsense! The correct and true point concerns the microbial and spiritual purity of dogs, which is to say, their biological, not to mention cosmic, superiority to human beings.

But Holly Winter would certainly disagree. The other Holly Winter, of course. An other. Another. Yet another.

The moment Leah answered her cell phone, I said
, “Now Leah, I’m going to be blunt with you. You can be very high-handed, and I’m used to it, but this time, you’ve gone too far. You do not—repeat, not—let total strangers into my house and then just leave them here. I do not expect to arrive home and find bikers sitting in my kitchen, and I don’t like it, especially when you know perfectly well that Steve is away and Rita is away and I am alone in this house and—”

“There was only one biker,” Leah said. “And the dogs were there.”

All three were with me now in the fenced yard, where I was keeping an eye on them while using my cell. Steve was always comfortable letting all five dogs run together, but I was more cautious than he was. For one thing, if they ripped one another apart, I’d be unable to stitch them back together. Steve has a general veterinary practice, but he’s an excellent surgeon. Not that either of us encourages dogfights. As a dog writer and dog trainer, I know a lot about preventing them, and one of my rules is to be exceptionally careful if two of the dogs are intact male malamutes. Intact: unaltered, not neutered, possessed of the full male apparatus required to enter a dog in conformation at an American Kennel Club show. But more about that topic later. In fact, soon. Rowdy and his handsome young son, Sammy, were both entered on Saturday.

“Sammy was in his crate,” Leah continued, “but I left Rowdy and Kimi loose. And it was twelve thirty or one. Steve and Rita would’ve been at work, not that Rita would—”

Steve and I have the first two floors of the house. Rita, who is our friend as well as our tenant, rents the third-floor apartment. A clinical psychologist, she’d just left for a psychotherapy conference in Palm Springs, in other words, for a tax-deductible ten-day vacation. The conference itself didn’t actually start until tomorrow, Friday, and it ended on Sunday, but Rita had decided to treat herself to a week at a spa after the meetings were over. Cambridge psychotherapists are big on the idea that self-indulgence enhances mental hygiene. For all I know, Rita deducts the cost of manicures, pedicures, and hair coloring as if they were psychiatric treatments needed to maintain her emotional well-being.

“Rita knows how to make phone calls, but you’re right. She’d have been seeing patients, and it’s probably a good thing she wasn’t here because I’d have had to listen to her interpretation of the Harley.”

“The Harley was cool.”

“What did I just say? Rita would’ve been interested in its symbolic value.”

“Come on. You thought it was cool, too.”

“Okay, it was cool. And the guy, Adam, wasn’t all that scary, but you still shouldn’t have left him here. Leah, I am not a nervous type, but at the moment, I’m aware that Steve and Rita are away, okay?”

“I’m staying there tonight. And tomorrow night. We can’t move in until Saturday.”

This was Thursday, September 7. Leah had spent the summer working at Steve’s clinic and living with us. She was beginning her senior year, and the prospect of having her leave Greater Boston was breaking my heart. And all because damned Harvard didn’t have a school of veterinary medicine! But she was applying to Tufts, which is in North Grafton and only an hour or so away, and everyone thought that she had a good chance of getting in.

“I haven’t heard an apology yet,” I said.

“According to you, what you’re supposed to do about undesired behavior is ignore it. If you don’t reinforce it, it goes away.”

“The principle doesn’t apply to egregious violations. And it doesn’t apply to self-reinforcing—” I broke off when the phone rang indoors. “The other phone,” I told Leah. “It might be Steve. Bye.”

Feminism being the force that it is in Cambridge, I feel the need to explain that I did not habitually hang up on women on the off chance that the incoming call on another line was from a man. While Steve was in the wilds of northern Minnesota, he did, however, have priority. Cell phone coverage in the Boundary Waters was unreliable. I hate call-waiting and had disabled it on my cell, so he might have gotten a busy signal and dialed our regular number.

“Rowdy, with me! This way, buddy.” Leaving Kimi in the yard with our third malamute, Sammy, the adult-sized baby of the family, I hustled Rowdy into the house with me. The answering machine had picked up. My own voice was asking the caller to leave a message. The tone sounded, and Betty Burley began to speak. I grabbed the phone. Betty, who is top dog in our local Alaskan malamute rescue group, is practically a member of my family, not only because we do rescue together but because Betty is a second manifestation of my own Kimi. Let me explain that all three of my malamutes are dark gray and white, as is Betty’s hair. Betty lacks the “full mask,” as it’s called, that distinguishes Kimi from Rowdy and Sammy, who have “open faces,” all white, in contrast to Kimi’s combination of black goggles around the eyes, a black cap, and a bar down the muzzle. But Betty’s oneness with Kimi is not a matter of appearance; rather, Betty and Kimi represent a rare instance of two bodies simultaneously inhabited by the same spirit. Identical twins are two separate individuals who have genetically identical bodies. With Betty and Kimi, it’s the reverse: inside, they’re the same individual; the difference between them is strictly corporeal. Strong and intelligent, they value their own opinions above everyone else’s and have exactly the same air of quiet authority. Also, they snatch food. My strongest evidence for their spiritual unity is the oneness of my response to them. For example, on a potentially embarrassing occasion when Betty was having lunch at my house and got up to fix herself a third sandwich, I broke into a sweat and almost into tears, exactly as if my greatest fear about Kimi were being realized, namely, that she’d figured out how to open the refrigerator door. It’s a miracle that I didn’t snap, “Leave it!” at Betty and escort her to Kimi’s wire crate.

On this occasion, Betty was not in a position to steal food, of course. In fact, her call was about rescue. “There’s a message on my machine, and I need you to handle it,” she said. “It’s about a lost dog in Cambridge. Not one of ours. A Siberian.” Ours are, of course, Alaskan malamutes. In the dialect of dog fanciers, a Siberian husky is a
Siberian
rather than a
husky
. An Alaskan malamute, however, is not an
Alaskan
but a
malamute
. An
Alaskan husky
isn’t a purebred but is a mix bred for sled dog racing, whereas a cross between a Siberian and a malamute is known in malamute circles as a
Siberian cross
and in Siberian circles as a
malamute cross
, or sometimes as a
malberian
or a
Sibermute
. “A woman named Francie,” Betty said. Then she dictated a Cambridge number.

One of the rules for dealing with tough dogs is that if the dog demands something, then he definitely does not get it. Even so, I complied with what I chose to interpret as Betty’s request. A woman answered. After I’d introduced myself, explained that I was from malamute rescue, and verified that I’d reached Francie, she asked whether it was my dog that had escaped from Mellie’s.

“No, I’m from malamute rescue,” I said for the second time. “If you’ll give me the details about the dog, maybe I can help.”

She spoke with the genteel vowels of the gown side of the town-gown divide. “It’s all terribly complicated.” She paused. “Because of Mellie.”

Feeling impatient, I said, “Let’s start with what happened. A dog got loose. In Cambridge, I gather. When did this happen?”

“Oh, not all that long ago, but Mellie is so conscientious, and she takes everything so literally. So concretely, really. I can’t imagine that she actually needs any sort of license or permit to do what she does, but she’s frightened of the police, all authority figures, actually, although she’s hardly going to be arrested for dog-sitting without a license, is she?”

“I’m wondering exactly how long the dog has been missing. Days? Hours?”

“Oh, hours. Today.”

“Great. From Mellie’s house?”

“Her yard, I should imagine.”

Stop imagining! Give me facts! “And where does Mellie live?”

“A bit north of Rindge Avenue. She’s a neighbor of mine.”

Persistence yielded Mellie’s address, but when I asked for her phone number, Francie insisted on explaining Mellie to me.

“Mellie is the sweetest person on earth,” Francie said. “She has special needs. She has the mind of a child, really. But I think it’s fair to say that she’s a model for independent living. She lives in the house she grew up in.”

“Alone?”

“People help her. Her parents died before they’d touched their retirement money, so there’s some sort of little trust fund, and there’s a man at the bank who helps. She has someone who deals with bills. Her priest helps out. We pitch in. I make sure that she sees her doctor. The dentist.”

“And she does dog-sitting.”

“Mellie just loves animals. She had a little dog that died a few months ago, and she takes dogs in. She walks dogs. Feeds people’s cats. It’s all very informal. But unfortunately, she saw something on television that scared her, something about a kennel. I don’t know. That’s why she won’t call animal control about this husky.”

“Who’s the owner?”

“I have no idea.”

“And what does the dog look like?”

“It’s a husky. Gray.”

Gray doesn’t go without saying. Both Siberian huskies and Alaskan malamutes exhibit a wonderful variety of coat colors. Furthermore, the average person can’t tell one breed from the other. In different circumstances, I’d probably have probed for information about the dog’s breed, including eye color. Happiest words in malamute rescue:
blue eyes
. Siberians have blue eyes, brown eyes, or, in bieyed dogs, one eye of each color, whereas all malamutes have brown eyes, preferably dark brown, sometimes light brown or even hazel, but never blue. There are many other differences between the two breeds, but a blue-eyed dog is, as Betty had phrased it, not one of ours. I also didn’t bother to ask Francie why it was malamute rescue she’d called. Because the general public confuses the two breeds, we sometimes get calls and e-mail about Siberians. Like most other breed rescue groups, we are chronically desperate for foster-care space, so we have to reserve it for malamutes, but if I don’t have to come up with a foster-care slot, I’m always happy to do what I can to help with a Siberian or, for that matter, any other breed or mix.

“Male or female?” I asked.

“Female.”

“I’ll do what I can,” I promised, “but I have to warn you that Siberian huskies love to run. The dog could be long gone by now. But maybe not.”

“Thank you,” Francie said. “I really appreciate it. Mellie is special. She is a pure soul.”

After I hung up, I said, “Hey, Rowdy, I’ve got a fun job for you. You want to go find a pretty girl?”

And we did find a pretty girl, too. Or a once-pretty girl. But not the kind I meant.

In a self-sacrificing act of husband preservation, I’d insisted
that Steve and I trade vehicles for his trip to Minnesota. My newish Blazer was much more reliable than his old van. Because of his attachment to the rattletrap, I never called it that within his hearing, but a rattletrap was exactly what it was: every loose part rattled, and every part sounded loose. But it was perfectly set up for dogs. It easily held crates for our five dogs, and it had boxes, compartments, and hooks for leashes, harnesses, old towels, veterinary supplies, and other gear that Steve always wanted to have at hand. Because of Steve’s loyalty to the rattletrap, I hadn’t come right out and said, “Look, if you try to drive that collection of loosely attached auto parts to Minnesota and back, it’s going to break down en route if we’re lucky, and if we’re unlucky, you and the dogs are going to die in an accident, so take my Blazer.” On the contrary, I’d pleaded with him to let me have his van so that Rowdy, Sammy, and I could have charming and convenient transportation to the show they were entered in on September ninth. Never marry a dog trainer. We are sooooooo manipulative.

To avoid the traffic at Fresh Pond, I took Garden Street to Sherman Street to Rindge Avenue and then wound my way down a couple of narrow streets with small, closely spaced wood-frame houses until I found Mellie’s address. On the way, I kept an eye out for the loose Siberian but saw no sign of any off-leash dogs at all. Mellie’s house was a tiny two-story place, a cottage, I suppose, painted pale green. It had a miniature front porch set so close to the street that the wooden steps ran almost to the sidewalk. On either side of the steps was a patch of well-tended lawn. I hate trying to parallel park the van, and there were no big spaces nearby, anyway, so I pulled into the empty driveway by the house.

When I got out, a short, slightly plump woman in a pink tracksuit came running down the sidewalk toward me. Her gait caught my dog watcher’s eye: she rocked back and forth, and her step was heavy. Her age was hard to guess. Thirty? Thirty-five? She had a round face, small brown eyes, and short brown hair. She looked vaguely familiar. Maybe I’d seen her in a local store or on the street. The drive from my house had taken under ten minutes, so it was likely that we shopped and walked in the same places. From Francie’s description, I’d wondered whether Mellie might have Down syndrome, but her face showed none of the characteristic features.

When she reached me, she came to an abrupt halt, clutched the crucifix that hung around her neck, and said in a slightly hoarse, loud voice, “Did you find Strike?”

“No,” I said, “but I’m going to try. I’m Holly. You must be Mellie.”

After releasing the crucifix, she held out her hand with great formality. “Pleased to meet you.”

When we shook hands, she seemed a bit unsure of when to let go, as if she felt a strong need to cling to something: her crucifix, my hand, anything. Letting go of her damp palm, I said, “No matter how careful you are, dogs get loose once in a while. With luck, the dog will come back on her own. Strike. That’s her name?”

Mellie nodded and burst into tears. “I should’ve never left her alone in the yard! I only went into the house for like two seconds, and when I came out, she was gone. She went out under the fence. God is going to punish me!”

“No matter how careful you are, any dog can get loose. I’m sure that God won’t punish you for being human. And I’m sure that God understands that Siberian huskies are escape artists. He’ll take that into account.”

Mellie’s face was suddenly composed and serious. “Will He?”

“Yes. I’m certain of it. Now let’s go over a few things. You were taking care of Strike. Is that right? That’s her name?”

Mellie nodded.

“And she slipped out under your fence.” I tried to keep the statement matter-of-fact. “The way dogs do,” I added. “Now, when was that?”

Mellie rolled her eyes up as if the answer would be written in the heavens.

“Before breakfast? Before lunch? After lunch?”

Mellie nodded emphatically.

“After lunch?”

“Tuna fish,” she said.

“So, after you had tuna for lunch?”

“Yeah. After.” Her face clouded up. “You aren’t going to tell the police, are you? Francie said you won’t tell the police.”

“No, there’s no need to call the police. Strike hasn’t been gone all that long. Besides, I have a good friend who’s a policeman. If we do need—”

Mellie’s face twisted in agony, and her hands became hard white fists. I’d intended to reassure her by telling her about my next-door neighbor, Kevin Dennehy, who is a detective rather than a finder of lost pets, but I decided against it. “But we won’t need to,” I said. “She may come back any minute. And we’re going to look for her. I have lots of dog treats with me.”

Mellie reached into a pocket and displayed a little pile of sliced hot dogs on her open palm. She had small hands with exceptionally short fingers.

“Perfect,” I said. “And how does Strike feel about other dogs? Does she like other dogs? Not like them?”

With a sly grin, Mellie said, “She likes boys.” To my relief, she went on say, “But she had an operation.”

“Excellent. I have one of my dogs with me. A boy. Rowdy. If Strike is still around here, she might be curious about him. Or he might help us find her.”

When I emerged from the van with Rowdy on a six-foot leather leash, Mellie said solemnly, “Strike looks like that.” After a pause, she added, “But different. Hi, Rowdy! Can I pat him?”

I gave permission, of course. Somewhat to my surprise, instead of thumping Rowdy on top of his head, Mellie moved to his side and gently touched his shoulder while murmuring, “Nice dog, nice big boy, Rowdy.”

Big Boy responded by hurling himself to the ground, rolling onto his back, and presenting his white tummy. Mellie laughed like a child and then gave Rowdy the tummy rub he wanted. “All done for now, Mr. Rowdy,” she said.

“Yes, all done,” I echoed. “You’re really good with dogs,” I told Mellie.

Her face fell. “I was bad. I lost Strike. I—”

“We’re going to look for her right now. Here’s what I think we should do. You stay here, okay? In case she comes back. If you see any of your neighbors, tell them to watch for Strike. Ask them whether they’ve seen her. Ask children. Especially children. Kids notice dogs. If you see Strike, use your treats. Just hold out your hand with the food in it and walk toward your house door. Don’t run after her.”

“If you run after them, they run away.”

“Exactly.” I handed her a fabric slip lead from Steve’s clinic. “You know how to use this?”

With an expression of concentration, she passed the lead through the ring to make a loop.

“Perfect. If she gets close enough, just slip the loop over her head and tighten the leash. It’s easier than grabbing her collar. Now Rowdy and I are going to check out the neighborhood, okay? And you’re going stay right near here. And call for her. Okay?”

Armed with treats of my own and a second slip lead, I set off. I kept Rowdy’s lead loose and kept a close eye on him. Rowdy was not trained to track; his job right now was simply to be a lure for Strike. Still, I wanted to take advantage of the canine ability to hear sounds beyond the range perceptible to mere human beings, the miraculous canine power to detect scent, and my own skill in reading my dog. In between studying Rowdy for any change in his expressive face, the position of his ears and tail, or the quickness of his gait, I scanned for the lost dog, but neither Rowdy nor I picked up a hint of her presence. Our walk was an ordinary walk along city sidewalks paved in uneven brick, past wood-frame houses, many apparently built at the same time by the same builder, some gentrified, some not, many with porches, most set close to the street in a way that gave the area the cozy feeling of being a real neighborhood. A few blocks from Mellie’s house, we ran into a couple of people, and I asked about a loose dog. One of them said he’d seen a husky about an hour ago. I tried calling Strike. Because of a lifetime devoted to dogs, I have a dog trainer’s voice, by which I do not mean that I bark out commands; rather, when I speak to dogs, I expect them to understand and cooperate, and that’s often what they do. “Strike!” I called. “Here, good girl! Strike!” My efforts entertained Rowdy, who waved his gorgeous white tail, pranced around, and conveyed his optimistic eagerness to have my happy expectations fulfilled by bursting into peals of
woo-woo-woo-woo-woo
. Rowdy, I might mention, is musically gifted. Kimi has a clear, true voice and excellent articulation, and Sammy
woo-woo
s with force, but Rowdy’s range and power are extraordinary. He is the Pavarotti of malamutes. Still, neither my calls nor his arias summoned Strike.

We headed back toward Mellie’s. When we were four or five houses away, a young woman with braided hair and library pallor emerged from a doorway, and I asked whether she’d happened to notice a loose dog.

“Actually, I did,” she said. “A big husky. Smaller than yours, but something like that. It went down a driveway. This was maybe thirty minutes ago.”

“Near here?”

“I’ll show you,” she volunteered.

Rowdy and I trotted after her. When she was two doors from Mellie’s, she stopped and said, “Here. The dog ran down that driveway. Good luck.”

The woman walked away, and Rowdy and I headed down what was, in fact, a small cutout, a freshly graveled area with low shrubs on either side and exactly the space required for the one car that occupied it, a bright blue subcompact hybrid sedan. I remember wondering why the owner of the house hadn’t sacrificed the greenery, widened the cutout, and rented out the parking space. In every possible way, Cambridge parking is a nightmare. Even if you have a resident permit for on-street parking, you’re in danger of being ticketed and, worse, towed. In the winter, you have to be careful not to park in places that are tow zones during declared snow emergencies, and during the rest of the year, you have to check the signs to make sure that you aren’t leaving your car on the side of a street scheduled for street cleaning. The towing for street cleaning is draconian: enforcement is vicious, and reclaiming your car is, as my neighbor Kevin Dennehy says, wicked expensive. Consequently, even the most unprepossessing little off-street parking space can go for a high rent.

The owner of this house, however, apparently didn’t need the income. Like Mellie’s, the place was almost a cottage, two stories high, with a small porch and wooden steps, but it had been recently painted in the warm yellow familiar from the Longfellow House on upscale Brattle Street. The windows looked new and had off-white fabric blinds, all lowered. When Rowdy and I walked to the end of the parking area, I saw that the backyard was landscaped with diminutive shrubs that I couldn’t identify, a dwarf weeping tree of some sort, and a heavy layer of bark mulch. A five-foot-high wooden fence stained dark brown ran around the sides and the rear of the yard. There was no sign of the missing Siberian and no sign of anyone at home. Rowdy showed no particular interest in entering the yard. I continued mainly because the pale woman had said that the dog had been here. It was possible, I thought, that the owner of the pretty little house had taken her in and had perhaps called animal control. Only then did I realize that I’d neglected to ask Mellie whether Strike had an ID tag on her collar and, if so, whose name and phone number were on it. On second thought, would Mellie have noticed? Did Mellie know how to read?

When we rounded the corner of the house, I saw the full extent of the renovations. At the back were large sliding glass doors, and across the entire rear of the house ran a low deck with teak planter boxes, matching benches, and a small teak patio table and chairs. I also saw unmistakable evidence of recent neglect: the lawn needed mowing, and the petunias in the teak boxes were wilted, as were the mums and patio tomatoes in large terra-cotta pots on the deck. Cambridge being the temple to academe that it is, the life of the mind always has top priority around here; the failure to mow the lawn and water the plants might simply mean that the owner was writing the final chapter of a book or completing preparations to teach a new course. Still, I felt mildly critical. This yard was about the size of ours, and if we could miraculously cure the dogs of ruining our potential oasis of urban greenery, I’d find a few extra minutes every day to water the plants instead of letting them wilt.

When I stepped onto the deck and approached the glass doors, it was not, however, with the intention of delivering a lecture about horticultural responsibility. I merely wanted to take a close look at the planter boxes and the benches they supported, an attractive and sturdy set that I thought might stand a chance of surviving the dogs. No lights were on, and no sounds came from the house. Still, the bright blue subcompact was parked in the cutout. To avoid the embarrassment of being caught examining the furnishings on the deck, I made what I intended as the token gesture of rapping my knuckles on one of the glass doors. As I knocked, I looked in. Only a few feet from the glass door, on the tile floor of what proved to be a kitchen, a woman was sprawled facedown. Everywhere around her, in fact, everywhere I could see in the interior of the little house, were piles of broken crockery, cartons that had held milk and orange juice and cereal, emptied bags of flour and sugar, and books and magazines that had been tossed onto the floor. Potted plants had been knocked over. Next to the door was the carcass of a rotisserie chicken. Every cabinet door and every drawer was open, as were the doors of the oven and the refrigerator. Two gigantic fish tanks must have been shoved off their low stands; the glass had been smashed and dead fish lay amid glass shards on the damp tile. The stench of rot and death must have leaked out around the door frame. The spoiled remains of the rotisserie chicken contributed to it, I’m sure, as did the heaps of damp food and the sad little tropical fish, but its principal source must have been the body of the woman and the blood that had pooled, congealed, and dried around her. She wore cropped white jeans now stained red and a bloodied aqua T-shirt that revealed what could only have been gunshot wounds. I froze in place and stared.