All Shots Read Free Page B

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.

CHAPTER 4

    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