All Shots

Kevin Dennehys as well as multiple Holly Winters. When it comes to names, Greater Boston is as Irish as Dublin. Consequently, she might decide that my Kevin was some other Kevin Dennehy who lived nowhere near me.
    When I arrived home, it was only seven thirty. Kevin eats early, and I eat anytime, as is indicative of our positions on the town-gown continuum: town has supper at five or five thirty, gown has dinner at seven thirty or eight, and I eat when the people I’m with want to eat or, if I’m alone, whenever it suits me. The dogs are evidently town rather than gown. To maintain flexibility in my own schedule, J avoid feeding them at exactly the same time every day, but they nonetheless remain convinced that five o’clock means food. Consequently, I’d fed them before leaving for the Square.
    When I returned, I put Rowdy and Kimi outside in the yard and gave Sammy and Tracker, my cat, some house time. Neither Rowdy nor Kimi had been raised with cats, and although I’d made some slight progress in teaching them to remain calm in Tracker’s presence, I’d had to accept my limits as a trainer. Rightly is it said that dogs build character! Mala-mutes specialize in instilling in their owners a deep sense of humility. Rowdy and Kimi had learned to exhibit calm behavior when Tracker was on top of the refrigerator or otherwise out of their reach, but it would never be safe to have her loose with either one alone, never mind both. Sammy, however, had known Tracker since he was a little puppy. I wouldn’t have trusted him with her outdoors, but when the two had the run of the house, he largely ignored her. Because of the dogs, Tracker spent most of her life in my study, which had a carpeted cat tree, a window perch, and a variety of cat toys as well as her food and water bowls and her litter box, not to mention my computer, filing cabinet, books, and so forth. When Steve was home, we sometimes banished the dogs from our bedroom and let her sleep with us there. Steve was the only person she trusted. One of her few obvious pleasures was curling up next to him on his pillow. It was never clear to me if she actually enjoyed the freedom to explore the house that I sometimes provided when Rowdy and Kimi were outdoors or in their crates. In fact, she did little actual exploration and sometimes returned to my study on her own. Even so, I felt guilty about sentencing her to solitary confinement in my office and insisted on letting her out now and then, perhaps more for my sake than for hers.
    Rowdy and Kimi’s absence also offered the opportunity to let Sammy play with one of his beloved one-dog-only toys, which is to say, toys that dispensed food. I had phone calls to make, so instead of giving him the noisy Buster Cube, I packed pieces of cheddar into the three openings in a hard black rubber disc that was supposed to look like a spaceship. (The real name of the toy is a Kong X-treme Goodie Ship. No, I do not own stock in Kong or, for that matter, in Dyson or in the company that makes Dr. Noy’s toys, either. I just wish I did.) Sammy watched eagerly as I jammed in the cheese; and when I had him sit in heel position, the tip of his tail flicked back and forth, his body almost vibrated, and his eyes gleamed. Still, when I told him what a good boy he was and presented him with the toy, he refrained from grabbing it and instead took it politely from my hand before dashing around in joy and then settling on the kitchen floor to chew out the bits of cheddar.
    I then settled myself at the kitchen table and called one of my counterparts in Siberian husky rescue. As I expected, she had no news about Strike. She assured me that there had been posts about the lost Siberian on the sled dog lists and breed lists, and she promised to call me if she had any news.
    Almost as soon as I hung up, the phone rang.
    “Holly? Elise. Illinois rescue. I got your e-mail.”
    I thanked her for calling and said, “Actually, I have the dog now. The blue malamute. She was found running loose, so I know a little more about her. She’s young, two or so, and I think she’s a breeder dog. We can’t find a spay scar, but we haven’t done an ultrasound, so we’re guessing. You know what that’s like.”
    “Do I ever. The vet opens her up and finds she’s already been spayed, and you end up paying the whole bill for a spay.”
    So why not do an ultrasound whenever there’s a question? Ultrasound is expensive, and rescue groups need to control