All Shots Read Free Page A

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