Creature Discomforts

alternately shaking her prey to make sure it was dead and raising it proudly upward to give everyone the chance to admire her prize. When Kimi is in this victor-with-her-spoils mode, she shows no aggression; if you try to take her trophy, she won’t growl, snarl, or snap. On the contrary, her attitude is maddeningly impersonal: She acts exactly as if the booty has mysteriously enmeshed itself in the gears of a machine that she has no idea how to operate. In theory, Kimi responds to the command Trade, which is an offer to exchange the filched object for a generous helping of roast beef, liver, cheese, or the equivalent. Indeed, she understands the command so perfectly that she ignores it until you open the refrigerator door. Acadia failed to provide even a rusted refrigerator. Except for worthless bits of fossilized cheddar, my pockets were empty.
    While I was busy contemplating and rejecting the image of the cheesy debris as a tasteless symbol of the accusations still being tossed back and forth—valueless, unpersuasive—Rowdy’s allegiance to the aforementioned Code drove him to make the most of my abstraction. Even if I’d been vigilant, he might have struck anyway, Kimi’s braggadocio always provokes him. She really should learn never to lord anything over Rowdy.
    Zoom! Rowdy shot forward and locked his jaws on what proved to be one of the capacious pockets of Malcolm Fairley’s jacket. Sturdy though its fabric was, the jacket had been designed as outerwear for human beings, of course, and not, as the prolonged r-r-r-i-i-i-p-p-p of cloth proclaimed, a tug-of-war toy for Alaskan malamutes.
    Alerted by the rough play of my big dogs and the sound of the pocket being torn off the jacket, everyone finally quit the bickering. Finding themselves the object of universal attention, the dogs showed off. Kimi, in possession of the ruined jacket, gave it another neck-breaking shake of joy. Looking beautiful and absurd, Rowdy stood absolutely still, the tom-off pocket dangling upside down from his mouth. A large white envelope protruded from the pocket.
    Infuriated beyond all reason—I’d have paid for a new jacket, for heaven’s sake—Malcolm Fairley stomped up to Rowdy and, in the incalculably stupid manner of a person who knows nothing about dogs, made a quick, doomed grab for the envelope. In case I haven’t mentioned it lately, I must note that Rowdy is not only gorgeous, but friendly, winsome, and playful. Tactfully disregarding the clumsiness of Fairley’s effort to initiate a game, Rowdy accepted his invitation by executing a charming front-end-down, hind-end-up play bow while simultaneously chomping down even harder than before on the pocket and its contents. What did Fairley expect! If someone tries to snatch something from you, what do you do? Tighten your grip!
    Exhibiting a disgraceful lack of the lighthearted high spirits of even the average dog, not to mention Rowdy, Fairley veered toward me. “I want that back," he demanded childishly, “and I want it back right now! It’s mine! Make him give it to me!”
    I’d have complied. Even with no refrigerator in sight, Rowdy will usually trade.
    But Fairley panicked. Turning back to Rowdy, he made another grab.
    “Stop it!” I told Fairley. “You’re making things worse! Stop it!”
    Paying no attention to me, Fairley darted a hand at Rowdy. This time, he got a grip on the ragged remains of the pocket. The fat white envelope dropped to the ground. The upper lefthand corner was embossed with an airliner-and-suitcase logo and, in big letters, Worldmaster Travel.
    “Going somewhere, Malcolm?” I asked.
    Fairley lunged for the envelope, but Rowdy beat him to it. Instantly discarding the shredded pocket as second best, he went for the first prize and, within seconds, had it in his mouth.
    I transferred both leashes to my left hand. With my right, I proudly reached out and said softly, “Rowdy, trade!”
    As I may have mentioned in passing, this is one hell of a good dog.
    The white envelope was moist and tooth-marked, but the plane ticket, the printout of Fairley’s itinerary, and the colorful travel brochure were undamaged. Of course, I didn’t actually read the ticket, the printout, or the brochure. I didn’t really need to. And I didn’t have time. As the word Guatemala was leaving my lips, Malcolm Fairley, correctly sizing me up as an easier mark than Rowdy, tried to wrest his travel documents from my hand.
    Stupid, stupid! Rowdy is a