All Shots

dog because of a divorce or separation, I was under orders to get a signed release of ownership from the dog’s actual owner or owners and never to take one partner’s word for it that the other partner also wanted to be rid of the dog. Without calling Betty, I hurriedly decided that in the absence of anyone with a clear legal claim to the blue malamute, she temporarily belonged to me. I didn’t even bother to ask the Yappels to sign any kind of release form. For one thing, Donald Yappel, being an Irish terrier, would’ve given me a spirited argument about any such request. For another, both Donald and Donna were still convinced that the dog they’d found had been mine to begin with.
    I could hardly blame them. When I fastened the leash I’d brought with me to her collar, I examined her tags. One was exactly what Donna Yappel had described, an ID tag that bore my name and phone number. It also gave my address. Unlike the ID tags on my own dogs, it did not have my cell number. As Donna hadn’t mentioned, it was the sort of engraved tag that you can have made by machine while you wait at kennel-supply shops, and it looked brand-new. The other tag, in contrast, showed heavy wear. It was a rabies tag issued by Steve’s clinic, certainly a rabies tag issued to some other dog. If anyone at the clinic had seen a malamute, and especially a blue malamute, Steve would have known and would definitely have told me. I was headed for the clinic, anyway. When I got there, I’d examine the tag and have someone look up its number.
    One other thing that I noticed immediately: the rolled leather collar. Malamute breeders whose dogs live mainly in kennels sometimes leave their dogs without collars unless the dogs are going somewhere, in part to avoid freak accidents in which dogs strangle and in part to avoid leaving collar marks in the dogs’ coats. Flat buckle collars, in particular, mash down the coat and can even damage it. Consequently, many of us—and I use us in the obnoxious sense, meaning those of us in the knowledgeable elite—use rolled leather collars. To the best of my recollection, I’d never seen one on a rescue malamute surrendered by an owner or turned over by a shelter. Still, every pet shop and kennel-supply store in the country sold rolled leather collars. I reminded myself not to make more of the collar than it might actually mean.
    “Let’s go, young lady,” I said. “Ride in the car, Miss Blue?” I was following one of Betty Burley’s rules, and a good one: there are no nameless dogs. If you don’t know the dog’s name, make one up.
    To my embarrassment, the combination of the name and Miss Blue’s eagerness to go with me reinforced the Yappels’ conviction that she belonged to me. In my defense, I informed them that she was a female rather than the male they’d taken her to be, but my assertion only made matters worse by seeming to prove that I had intimate knowledge of a dog I was trying to disown. The Yappels’ opinion of me didn’t matter. I gave up, thanked them, and led Miss Blue to Steve’s van.
    “The same thing happens to my Kimi all the time,” j told Miss Blue as I opened the side door of the van. “She rolls over on her back, and half the world looks at her and still thinks that since she’s big and strong, she has to be a boy. Don’t let it bother you.”
    Steve’s van held five big crates, one for each of our dogs. We shifted crates around from Steve’s van to my Blazer to the house fairly often. At the moment, the one just behind the driver’s seat was a big Central Metal wire crate. Since it occupied what Rowdy considered to be the prime location in the van, it was his favorite. If he played Monopoly, he’d go for Boardwalk and Park Place. If I played with him, I’d probably let him win. Or watch him trounce me? Yes, who says that I don’t already? He usually rides where he wants to ride. Anyway, some dogs have a strong preference either for a wire crate or for an opaque, airline-approved crate of the Vari Kennel type. If Miss Blue proved reluctant to enter Rowdy’s crate, I’d try one of the Vari Kennels. If she balked at both, I’d rethink my plans. I hate driving with a dog loose in a vehicle. If there’s an accident, the dog can be thrown against the windshield. If you and the dog are really unlucky, he can collide with you. A great many pets, however, are used to riding loose and are reluctant to enter a crate. The lure of food tossed into the depths