Brute Strength (3 page)

So, Sammy was sniffing a utility pole, and I was making up my mind about selecting or rejecting a hotel-sized brick Victorian when a woman's voice hailed me. ‘You! With the malamute! Wait up!'

Caught! Spotted by the owner of the brick house just as I was about to accept it as a gift! Embarrassment practically sent me flying into the air. Sammy, however, rapidly returned me to earth by transferring his attention from the fascinating odors at the base of the utility pole to the tantalizing sight of a somewhat overweight black-and-white female malamute approaching from the direction of Brattle Street. At the human end of the leash was a fit-looking fiftyish woman who broke into a run and called out, ‘Another malamute! Wait!'

Being half malamute myself, I disobeyed the order. Instead of standing still, I headed toward her and asked, ‘How is yours with other dogs?'

‘Fine with males. Yours?' The woman had shoulder-length brown hair attractively shot with gray. She wore running shoes, tan cords, and a black sweatshirt with red letters across the front that spelled out
Dog is my co-pilot
. I owned the T-shirt version, which I'd ordered from
Bark
, a publication accurately self-described as ‘the modern dog culture magazine.' Because I was afraid that the co-pilot slogan would give offense, I was selective about where I wore the T-shirt. The precaution was ridiculous in the sense that anyone offended by the sentiment would be even more offended by
me
, unless, of course, I took the time to explain the genuineness of my reverence for all creatures great, hairy, and woofy, but the time required would've been days or possibly even weeks, and besides, the average person who hates your T-shirt isn't going to be interested in listening anyway. There's a lot of religious intolerance in this world, isn't there?

Sammy answered the woman's question about how he was with other dogs by giving a preparatory head-to-tail wiggle before puffing himself up and issuing a prolonged series of
woo-woo-woo-woo-woo
s. In response, the object of his affection wagged her plump hind end and threw Sammy a lusty come-hither look.

‘OK if we walk with you?' the woman asked. ‘Or do you live . . .?' She gestured to the brick house.

‘I was afraid it was yours,' I blurted out, ‘and that I'd been caught gaping. Or maybe it is yours?'

‘Ours isn't anything so grand,' she said.

‘Neither is ours,' I said. ‘We're at the wrong end of Appleton.'

‘So are we. As of last week.'

‘The humble end. Not that I'm complaining,' I said. ‘Welcome to the neighborhood. Sammy and I are heading toward the river. Or maybe Brattle Street. If you—'

‘Oh, I love Brattle Street,' she exclaimed. ‘I've been walking Ulla there and pretending I've won a contest and get to pick any house I want. I'm Vanessa Jones, by the way.'

‘Holly Winter. And this is Sammy.'

By then we were moving at malamute speed with the dogs side by side in front of us. Everything was still damp from the rain, and the dogs were investigating the scent that clung to the moisture on the grass and shrubs we passed. Vanessa and I also explored shared interests. When I mentioned
Bark
, she complimented me on a short essay I'd published there and went on to say that she read my column in
Dog's Life
magazine.

‘I knew you lived in Cambridge,' she said. ‘I was hoping to meet you. You don't mind?'

‘Why would I mind?' I didn't. On the contrary, I had the happy sense of encountering a kindred spirit. Before long, Vanessa and I had established that she lived only a half block from me. I'd known that the house had sold, but I'd been out of town on the day she and her family had moved in. She'd already met the McNamaras, who were her next-door neighbors. They had a charming puli named Persimmon. I knew them from Appleton Street and also from the Cambridge Dog Training Club. Vanessa had spent most of her life in Vermont, but her husband, Jim, had died of a heart attack during the winter, and she'd wanted to be near her son, Hatch, who was a resident in internal medicine at Brigham and Women's Hospital, as was Hatch's fiancée, Fiona. Vanessa's father, Tom, and her daughter, Avery, lived with her.

‘We'll have to see how that works out,' she said. ‘My father's been with me since my mother died, but in Vermont, he had his own little apartment. And then there's Avery. Oh, my. I sometimes think that life would be easier if my relatives would all turn into dogs, preferably malamutes. Speaking of which, it's as if these two have been friends for years.'

After that, we talked malamutes and malamute rescue. Vanessa had always had dogs, but Ulla was her first malamute. ‘She's sort of a rescue dog,' Vanessa said. ‘I got her when her original owner died.'

‘Do you know anything about her background?' I asked.

‘Everything! Ulla's owner, Olympia, lived near us. Ulla was bred by a woman named Pippy Neff.'

I limited myself to saying, ‘Pippy.' Then I added, ‘I thought Ulla had a familiar look.'

Vanessa laughed. ‘Aren't you the soul of tact!'

‘Rarely,' I said.

For the remainder of what turned into a long walk up and down the side streets off Brattle, we continued to talk about Alaskan malamutes and then drifted to our shared admiration for Jane Austen. In retrospect, I realize that we could hardly have chanced on a more jarring juxtaposition of topics: the most prominent feature of the malamute character, the wild streak, is singularly absent from the civilized society of Jane Austen's novels. As we were returning home by retracing our route down Appleton Street, we ran into my cousin Leah and Kimi, who were finishing their run. The humidity had turned Leah's ponytail into red-gold corkscrew curls. Loose tendrils framed her face. Her cobalt spandex clung so tightly to her curves that she was safe running on her own only because she was accompanied by a big dog. When she stopped to say hello, Kimi came to a neat sit at her left side. Ulla had the good manners not to stare at Kimi; the two glanced at each other, and that was that.

Meanwhile, I introduced Vanessa and Leah. ‘Leah is a senior,' I said without specifying where. Just as traditional Jews avoid speaking God's name, so do Cambridge types refrain from uttering the word
Harvard
aloud. Not that I'm a pure type. I'm just struggling to adapt. ‘Leah is going to Tufts Veterinary School in the fall. Leah, Vanessa and her family have just moved to our block of Appleton Street.'

For all Leah's considerable academic accomplishments, she has remained as friendly as ever. Her tendency toward high-handedness is also undiminished. After she and Vanessa had exchanged chit-chat and had admired each other's dogs, Leah invited Vanessa and her family to have dinner with us the next evening. ‘Holly's father and stepmother will be there,' Leah said. ‘You can meet the family.'

‘What a lovely invitation,' said Vanessa. ‘But I'm afraid that I'm committed to making dinner for my own family. My father, my daughter, my son, and his fiancée, Fiona. You don't want the whole crew.'

‘Oh, yes we do!' insisted Leah, who knew how unpredictable my father was.

Still, I seconded the invitation. Vanessa accepted but insisted on contributing a salad and dessert. For all I knew, my father, Buck, might act charming. He and my stepmother, Gabrielle, would be stopping on their way home to Maine from Connecticut, where they were attending the memorial service of an ancient personage in the world of golden retrievers, a woman who had been a friend of my late mother's and whom Buck was scheduled to eulogize. It was possible that whereas other people attending the service would be left with sad thoughts of loss and finality, Buck would emerge energized and cheered, especially because he'd have had a starring role. He tends to be at his most obnoxious when he's happy. Gabrielle, I reminded myself, was reliably delightful. Fool that I am, I looked forward to the dinner.

FOUR

M
y father's favorite food is aged venison. By ‘aged' he means so rotten that cooking it pollutes the house for a week. He also likes game birds peppered with lead, but he'll settle for non-toxic shot. Fortunately, he and Gabrielle often arrive from Maine with lobster and clams. This time, they were returning from Connecticut, so Steve and I were providing the food, which would have to suit Vanessa's family and Leah as well. Around here, it's become increasingly impossible to plan a meal because almost everyone has a major food restriction. At the moment, Leah was a pesco-ovo-lacto vegetarian: fish, eggs, and milk, but no meat. Some member of Vanessa's family was bound to be lactose intolerant or allergic to shellfish or committed to consuming no white foods or nothing but local produce. It often seems as if the only universally acceptable menu would consist of one course after another of distilled water, but there are probably people who'd object on grounds of health, ethics, or politics. Thank God for the Arctic heritage of Alaskan malamutes. If the entire US population shared the malamute's genetically programmed determination to ward off starvation, it would be a lot easier than it is now to have friends in to dinner. You'd just throw any kind of old garbage at your guests, and they'd gulp it down and love you forever.

In the hope of pleasing everyone, I had bought a leg of lamb and had made a trip to Watertown for Armenian goodies, including hummus, taramasalata, and lamejuns – Armenian pizzas – with and without meat. At about six o'clock on Sunday evening, Leah had just put a big rectangular spinach and cheese pie – spanakopita – into the oven and was cleaning up her work area. It was typical of her to invite dinner guests and then redeem herself by laboring over a work-intensive dish.

‘Now Leah, remember,' I said. ‘Do not mention Steve's fishing trip to my father!'

Steve mimicked me in a voice two octaves higher than his normal bass: ‘Do not mention Steve's fishing trip!'

In pure-bred dogdom, when your dog has a big win, or even a small one, or earns a title or otherwise accomplishes something, you're expected to brag. Otherwise, people feel that you're disrespecting your dog by failing to show proper pride in his achievements. In that spirit, let me say that although Steve hasn't had a win or earned a title beyond his DVM, his existence merits a boast. He is tall, lean, and muscular, with curly brown hair and eyes that change from green to blue and back again. Also, he's a great vet. As if all that weren't enough, he goes out of his way not to create housework and sometimes even helps with it. At the moment, he was unloading the dishwasher.

‘They're here,' I said. ‘So if you don't want Buck joining you or feeling left out, don't mention it yourself. Don't mention Grant's Camps. Don't even mention the Rangeley area.'

My father's moose-like bellow from the back hallway heralded his arrival. Although I've seen moose hundreds of times, they are always bigger than I expect, and thus it is with Buck, who didn't just enter the kitchen but expanded as if to fill it and squeeze the rest of us out. ‘Where are your dogs?' Buck demanded. He knows perfectly well that malamutes steal food. He then compensated a little by getting India and Lady to offer their paws. Even Steve admits that Buck has a gift with dogs.

‘Crated,' I said. Then I hugged Gabrielle. She usually rebounds quickly from the trying experience of being incarcerated in a vehicle with my father, but her recuperative powers evidently weren't yet asserting themselves. She is a remarkably pretty woman, plumper than she would like to be, but in my father's eyes, deliciously voluptuous. The incredible bone structure of her face usually diverts attention from the damage the sun has done to her skin, but she now looked pale and tired, and the ash blonde of her hair cast grayish shadows on her eyes. For once, she wasn't carrying her bichon, the fluffy little white Molly, who scampered across the floor to greet India and Lady.

‘Are you OK?' I whispered to Gabrielle.

‘Later,' she murmured. Her rich, throaty voice sounds beautiful even when it's barely audible.

Meanwhile, my father was belatedly greeting Leah and Steve, which is to say that he was booming at them. Although he sounded jovial, within minutes he was going to get after Leah for having chosen Tufts over Cornell and Penn, and either before or after that, he'd irritate me by voicing his unsolicited opinion that Sammy was a better show dog than Rowdy. As I was mulling over the question of how Buck would irk Steve, the phone rang. Instead of letting the machine pick up, I took advantage of the welcome interruption. Without bothering to check caller ID, I answered.

‘Is Vinnie there?' a man's voice asked. Or so I thought. Although Buck had lowered his volume, there was still some background noise.

‘Sorry, I'm having trouble hearing you,' I said. ‘Who?'

‘Is Vinnie there?' he repeated.

Vinnie was my last golden retriever. She was the most wonderful competition obedience dog who ever lived, and she was as cooperative, intuitive, and close to flawless in daily life as she was in the ring. If Rowdy hadn't healed the pain of her loss, I'd be crying for her still. But the man obviously wasn't asking to speak to my dead dog.

‘You must have the wrong number,' I said.

‘Holly?' he asked.

‘Yes,' I said.

What followed were torrents of maniacal laughter that alternated with the demand to talk to Vinnie. Suddenly, with no warning, the call became hideously obscene, so graphic and ugly that I spent a few foolish seconds struggling to believe what I was hearing. Then I hung up. Belatedly, I checked caller ID, which uselessly read: Unknown name, Unknown number. In spite of the presence of my protective, reactive father, I might have tried to trace the call and told everyone about it, but the doorbell rang, Vanessa and her family poured in, and the house was filled with happy activity that drove the nasty little incident to the back of my mind.