motel vending machine as soon as he heard his wife would be judging. He'd had the means ready and was waiting for the perfect occasion: at a show, all eyes are on the dogs, and he knew he could count on his wife to generate plenty of possible motives. Need I mention that dog-show food makes the perfect cover? There was nothing deadly in Mrs. Cormier's coffee, though. At a show, the poisonous taste is, of course, perfectly normal.
Incidentally, the handler of the Terv bitch swore me to secrecy and confided that she'd watched Mr. Cormier switch the sandwiches. That Terv handler feels that her silence is justified. "Lizzie never even ticked that jump," she told me. "She cleared it with two inches to spare."
Murder Well-groomed
The notice that arrived in my mail the day before the Essex County show was addressed to the Cambridge Dog Training Club, c/o Holly Winter. Like the usual fliers for fun matches, Canine Good Citizen tests, tattoo clinics, and perfect-heeling seminars, the circular had a club logo in the upper left corner, but this one didn't show something normal like a freeze-frame of a sleek Dobe clearing the high jump. Also, I'd never heard of a kennel club called the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Yes, as you've probably guessed, I'd received my first premium list for a human being. I read it anyway.
"Re: JOHN RICHARD FARRELL, also known as Morris W. Rinehart, John Visco, John Morris. TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN: The FBI is conducting an investigation to locate John Richard Farrell, who is wanted for Unlawful Interstate Flight to Avoid Prosecution for the crimes of Murder, Conspiracy, and Narcotics Trafficking."
If you're a real dog person, you simply won't believe what came next: "Investigation has determined that Farrell is an avid breeder and owner of Alaskan malamute dogs and may still be involved in that hobby."
Hobby ! I ask you, what is a hobby? Stamp collecting, model airplanes, gourmet cooking, macramé, basket weaving, right? Dogs, my friends, are a passion, an obsession, a compulsion, a mania, or the living, breathing, tail-wagging embodiment of purpose and meaning in this otherwise random universe, but they are certainly not some furry alternative to decoupage. Hobby, indeed. For this we pay taxes?
Worse, the G-men had foolishly sent photos of Farrell, not his dogs. Whereas most people lack distinguishing facial markings like a stunning white blaze on the forehead or a lovely black bar down the nose, each Alaskan malamute is a highly distinct individual. My bitch, Kimi, has a full mask. Rowdy, my male, has an open face, but he's utterly unmistakable, too, not just one more guy like Farrell, who looked like a thousand other men. Nonetheless, I studied the mug shots and the FBI's description: a 50-year-old white male, 5 feet 10 inches, 170 pounds, brown hair and eyes, no scars. A murderer, conspirator, drug trafficker, and, as the notice went on to say, a known user of his own merchandise isn't the kind of person I'd trust with companion guppies, never mind with dogs. If Farrell showed his face in dogdom, I was prepared to spot it instantly.
But when you consider where I encountered Farrell, it's still a miracle that I recognized him. The Essex County show was perfectly probable, but just outside the Novice A ring? Obedience is the last place you'd expect to find a malamute person, and if you count both Farrell and the handler who'd just left the ring, there were five of us.
Pam Ritchie, Tiny DaSilva, and I were sweltering in the mid-July sun that always turns Essex County into a steam bath endurance competition. Tiny, who'd bred the bitch that had just made her obedience debut, was telling lies, and Pam, whose young male had gone Best of Breed early that morning, was agreeing with her.
Tiny had short, blunt-cut white hair obviously lathered in Sho Sno and touched up with a cake of grooming chalk. Although she was small boned and wiry, she had those big malamutes you see in the
Incidentally, the handler of the Terv bitch swore me to secrecy and confided that she'd watched Mr. Cormier switch the sandwiches. That Terv handler feels that her silence is justified. "Lizzie never even ticked that jump," she told me. "She cleared it with two inches to spare."
Murder Well-groomed
The notice that arrived in my mail the day before the Essex County show was addressed to the Cambridge Dog Training Club, c/o Holly Winter. Like the usual fliers for fun matches, Canine Good Citizen tests, tattoo clinics, and perfect-heeling seminars, the circular had a club logo in the upper left corner, but this one didn't show something normal like a freeze-frame of a sleek Dobe clearing the high jump. Also, I'd never heard of a kennel club called the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Yes, as you've probably guessed, I'd received my first premium list for a human being. I read it anyway.
"Re: JOHN RICHARD FARRELL, also known as Morris W. Rinehart, John Visco, John Morris. TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN: The FBI is conducting an investigation to locate John Richard Farrell, who is wanted for Unlawful Interstate Flight to Avoid Prosecution for the crimes of Murder, Conspiracy, and Narcotics Trafficking."
If you're a real dog person, you simply won't believe what came next: "Investigation has determined that Farrell is an avid breeder and owner of Alaskan malamute dogs and may still be involved in that hobby."
Hobby ! I ask you, what is a hobby? Stamp collecting, model airplanes, gourmet cooking, macramé, basket weaving, right? Dogs, my friends, are a passion, an obsession, a compulsion, a mania, or the living, breathing, tail-wagging embodiment of purpose and meaning in this otherwise random universe, but they are certainly not some furry alternative to decoupage. Hobby, indeed. For this we pay taxes?
Worse, the G-men had foolishly sent photos of Farrell, not his dogs. Whereas most people lack distinguishing facial markings like a stunning white blaze on the forehead or a lovely black bar down the nose, each Alaskan malamute is a highly distinct individual. My bitch, Kimi, has a full mask. Rowdy, my male, has an open face, but he's utterly unmistakable, too, not just one more guy like Farrell, who looked like a thousand other men. Nonetheless, I studied the mug shots and the FBI's description: a 50-year-old white male, 5 feet 10 inches, 170 pounds, brown hair and eyes, no scars. A murderer, conspirator, drug trafficker, and, as the notice went on to say, a known user of his own merchandise isn't the kind of person I'd trust with companion guppies, never mind with dogs. If Farrell showed his face in dogdom, I was prepared to spot it instantly.
But when you consider where I encountered Farrell, it's still a miracle that I recognized him. The Essex County show was perfectly probable, but just outside the Novice A ring? Obedience is the last place you'd expect to find a malamute person, and if you count both Farrell and the handler who'd just left the ring, there were five of us.
Pam Ritchie, Tiny DaSilva, and I were sweltering in the mid-July sun that always turns Essex County into a steam bath endurance competition. Tiny, who'd bred the bitch that had just made her obedience debut, was telling lies, and Pam, whose young male had gone Best of Breed early that morning, was agreeing with her.
Tiny had short, blunt-cut white hair obviously lathered in Sho Sno and touched up with a cake of grooming chalk. Although she was small boned and wiry, she had those big malamutes you see in the
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