Ruffly Speaking

have extended to the Boston Strangler or a repo man come to claim all my possessions. The Alaskan malamute is the heavy-freighting dog of the Inuit people on the shores of the Kotzebue Sound, peaceful wanderers with no need for a watchdog or guard dog. My practiced eye, though, can spot the difference between Rowdy and Kimi’s delight at the arrival of any visitor and the transported rapture they reserve for anyone who has ever treated them to so much as a miniature dog biscuit. After what happened the last time Rita did me the favor of feeding them when I had to be away— chaos but no bites—she’s sworn never to do it again, but Rowdy and Kimi, oblivious to her vow, continue to offer Rita the ecstatic greeting owed to all incarnations of the supreme god in the Malamute pantheon, the many-named deity best known as Harbinger of Eukanuba.
    So I shoved past the dogs, and before I even had the door all the way open, Rita was saying, “Holly, for God’s sake, give me a drink, would you? I can’t believe it. Christ, I’ve just been to the funeral of a total stranger.”
     

2
     
     “On purpose?”
    In a futile effort to prevent the dogs from coating Rita’s navy linen suit with dark guard hairs and pale underfluff, I grabbed their collars and hauled them back.
    “What?”
    “Were you in a funereal mood? Or did you—” Rita’s face broke into a wry grin. “Lease myself out as a hired mourner?”
    As usual, Rita had just had her hair done. The back and sides were short, dark, and straight, but, on top, lightly blond-streaked waves and curls danced around and spilled onto her forehead. Rita is only about my age, not that much over thirty, so the streaking is what she calls a “preemptive defense.”
    “Do you really want a drink?” I asked. “Don’t you have patients to see?”
    “Not until four. I canceled everyone else. But I probably—”
    “Coffee?”
    Rita accepted, and although I volunteered to put the dogs in the yard, she said not to bother. Her suit didn’t matter; she’d change before she went back to work. While I filled the kettle and fussed with French roast and mugs, Rita sat at the table and got treated to one of Rowdy and Kimi’s see-how-adorable-I-am routines. Perfect wedge-shaped ears flattened against their heads, almond eyes open wide to display pupils the color of bitter chocolate, powerful hindquarters planted on the floor, they took up their positions on either side of her. When Rowdy had finished shaking hands, Kimi edged forward, sat up, and rested both of her ever-so-slightly smaller forepaws in Rita’s hands, as if to say, “Well, if you think he’s cute, just take a look at me!” Then Rowdy unintentionally spoiled the performance by fetching his Nylabone, shoving ahead of Kimi, and presenting Rita with an already-tooth-roughened and still-wet end of his beautiful new toy. Although Rowdy has no difficulty in pinning pretend prey between his forepaws, he loves to have a person hold one end of a chew toy while he gnaws the other. Rita knew what he wanted. You’d think that a therapist would learn to keep her feelings off her face, but a flash of repugnance crossed Rita’s. Real dog people, of course, recognize canine saliva for what it is: holy water —clear, clean, and blessed—but I took pity on Rita and put the dogs out.
    When I got back to the kitchen, Rita had filled the mugs and put them on the table. Directly overhead, Willie’s untrimmed nails tapped back and forth on the second floor.
    I took a seat and drank some coffee. Then I pointed my thumb upward. “You want me to try trimming them for you? You hold, I cut?”
    When I pointed upward, Rita probably expected another complaint about Willie’s yapping and another offer to cure him of it. She looked baffled.
    “It’s the old rule. If you can hear them on the floor, they need cutting.”
    Rita’s eyebrows rose. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “Willie’s nails.On your kitchen floor. His nails need cutting.”
    “They can’t be that bad. I don’t hear them.” Rita sipped her^ coffee, licked her lips, and then closed her mouth more firmly than usual.
    Time for a change of subject. “So tell me how you ended up...”
    Her smile reappeared. “My nine o’clock canceled. So I had a free hour, and it was a beautiful day and all that, so I went to the Square and bought the Times, and then I went over to Au Bon Pain and got some coffee and sat at one of the tables