All Shots

of safety sometimes works. And sometimes fails. Miss Blue was easy. She knew what a crate was. As I opened Rowdy’s, I was prepared to offer the enticement of liver treats from my never-empty pockets, but she popped right in and got her treat as a regard, and on the drive to Cambridge, she was quiet and still.
    I went directly to Steve’s clinic. Even though he’s my husband, I probably should have called first, but I won’t use my cell while I’m behind the wheel. I grew up in Maine. That’s probably why I’ll never make it as a Boston driver. I refrain from the popular local custom of reading while driving; I never apply mascara while negotiating a crowded traffic circle; I don’t start manicuring my nails at one traffic light and have the polish on by the time I reach the next; and even when I’m hard up against a deadline, I refuse to keep my notebook computer open on the front passenger seat to allow me to steer with my left hand while typing with my right. I could’ve pulled over to make the call, but people would’ve given me funny looks and maybe even called the police to report me for a grossly deviant violation of the rules of the Greater Boston road. For careful driving around here, you’re likely to lose your license. Anyway, all I intended to do at the clinic was to borrow an exam room and then either requisition kennel space for Miss Blue or crate her upstairs in what used to be Steve’s apartment.
    As it turned out, one of Steve’s colleagues was free. Dr. Zoe Wang-Lopez had worked for him for only about six months, but his entire staff and clientele liked her, and we hoped that she’d stay. Her credentials were great: she’d graduated from Cornell Veterinary School a few years ago and had spent the time after that at Boston’s famous Angell Animal Medical Center. During her time at Angell, Dr. Zoe Wang fell in love, cut off all but a half inch of her hair swore off skirts, hyphenated her name to reflect her life partnership with Angela Lopez, and moved across the Charles River to diversity-friendly Cambridge, a sanctuary city in which Angela, who’d been born in Mexico, wouldn’t have to worry about her immigration status. Zoe’s parents had cut her off almost completely but had been unable to sever the tie between Zoe and her trust fund, so she’d bought a house in East Cambridge, where she and Angela lived with the family they’d created. It consisted of two lively pit bull terriers and a Siamese cat that had bitten five people and, in my opinion, had a taste for human blood.
    So, only about a half hour after I’d left the Yappels’, Miss Blue was standing on the linoleum in one of Steve’s small examining rooms, and Dr. Zoe Wang-Lopez was peering into her ears and speaking to her in soft, serious tones. “Well, you are young. One and a half? Two? Your eyes are clear. You have full dentition. Seventy-nine pounds is four pounds on the plump side. Let’s settle for having you lose three, okay, young lady? Your heart rate says that you’re not feeling stressed. No vet phobia, huh? That’s good news.”
    Zoe was right. The dog I’d christened Miss Blue was gently wagging her tail over her back. Her ears were neither flat nor hyperalert, and her expression was relaxed and happy. Although I remained mystified about her identity, she knew exactly who she was and was obviously content to be herself.
    “Do you have a spay scar?” Zoe asked her. “Not that I can find, but you never know for sure, do you? Not unless... Would you like an ultrasound, young lady?”
    As Zoe Wang-Lopez continued to educate Miss Blue about her state of health and to pose questions that Miss glue couldn’t answer, I made mental notes. Miss Blue’s coat showed clear evidence that, until recently, she’d received regular grooming. Malamutes, of course, have a double coat: a coarse, water-repellant guard coat covers the dense, woolly undercoat. In winter, I dress the same way by wearing a parka or a windbreaker over Polartec or silk longjohns that I routinely remove and wash. Malamute undercoat also renews itself in the sense that the dog sheds and that new hair grows in, but if the old undercoat is not thoroughly removed, it can form a dense layer of dead hair and dirt that looks and sometimes smells like an ugly, stinky old carpet pad. Once that layer gets wet, the dirt and dampness trapped against the dog’s warm skin provide an excellent environment for fungal and bacterial growth and for the