All Shots

backyards. But she had a malamute-savvy owner, one who’d bought a correct collar and who’d known how to groom her. The owner had used a crate. Miss Blue was friendly, and even in the potentially stressful situation of a vet visit, she’d remained happy and relaxed. Someone had spent time with her and had taken her to new places. Someone had made sure that she was wearing identification; someone had wanted to be sure that if Miss Blue got loose and was found, a responsible person would be informed. I, of course, was that responsible person.
     

CHAPTER 20
     
    “Kevin, relax,” I said as he hesitated outside Mr. Bartley’s Burger Cottage, where we’d arranged to meet. “What do you think they’re going to do? Ask for Harvard ID? And not let us in if we don’t have it? It’s your kind of food. And when Jennifer gets back, you’re going to be eating bok choy and tofu again.”
    “I’ve been here before,” Kevin declared.
    “And you loved it.” I amended the statement. “You loved the food.”
    He reluctantly nodded in agreement and held the door open for me. It was early on that same Monday evening. With Steve and Jennifer both out of town, Kevin and I were once again having dinner together. Bartley’s was my choice. I knew that Kevin would object. It’s on Mass. Ave. near the corner of Bow Street, just across from Harvard Yard, and in its own way it’s as Harvardian as University Hall, Widener Library, and the Fogg Art Museum, its own way being noisy, greasy, and crowded. What makes it Harvardian is the clientele, which consists principally, although not exclusively, of students. Alumni and alumnae show up, too, as do members of the faculty and administration eager for real food. No healthy person leaves Bartley’s hungry. That’s one reason it’s my kind of place. The other is that it helps to cure my homesickness for Moody’s Diner on Route 1 in Waldoboro, Maine, which, like Helen’s Restaurant in Machias, serves up traditional Maine fare, the defining ingredient of which is neither lobsters nor blueberries but good old dietary fat. If Maine tourist bureaus were honest about the nature of real Maine food, all of these lobster festivals and blueberry festivals would be subsumed by a single gigantic Annual Maine Grease Festival. I’d attend. It doesn’t yet exist, alas. In the meantime, there’s Bartley’s.
    Bartley’s being the popular place it justifiably is, it was crowded. Even if there’d been no customers, it would’ve been hard for Kevin to make his way to the back because the tables were so close together. Since it took us a while to maneuver through the almost nonexistent aisles, Kevin had a chance to read the offerings chalked on the big blackboard and to observe the platefuls of food the servers were carrying, so by the time we were seated, with Kevin mashed in a corner, he’d quit looking uneasy. The menus presented to us by a hurried, hot-looking waiter listed all sorts of sandwiches named for celebrities and a variety of other items not on the blackboard, but Kevin ordered two burgers with American cheese, a side of french fries, a side of onion rings, and a Coke, and I asked for a mozzarella burger and a ginger ale.
    Looking around and taking note of the multiracial clientele, Kevin said, “Ethnic. Sign of a good restaurant. But geez, some of these kids are wicked thin. Give ’em some time in America, and we’ll build ’em up.” He turned his attention to me. “So what’s going on?”
    “A case of canine identity theft,” I said somewhat melodramatically. “I have the blue malamute. She was found wandering in Lexington. She’s at Steve’s clinic. Kevin, this is the dog in the picture. No question.”
    “Tags?”
    “That’s the strange thing, Kevin. That’s the really peculiar thing. Yes, she has tags. Two. One is a new ID tag with my name, my address, and my phone number. The other is Kimi’s old rabies tag. Kimi had a rabies shot, and when I put the new tag on her collar, I threw out the old one. The new ID tag on the dog must’ve come from a machine at one of the pet-supply places, but Kimi’s rabies tag came from my trash. Just like my bills ¡and bank statements and stuff. Kimi got her rabies shot before Steve left, and that’s when I threw out the old tag. But the point is that that woman wasn’t just preparing to steal my identity. And the other Holly Winter’s, of course. Preparing is the right word, by the way. I checked my credit. It’s