All Shots

uneasy at bedtime. To reassure myself, I checked the locks on all the doors and windows in the house, and I reminded myself that Kevin lived right next door. Then I loaded my Smith & Wesson and put it in the drawer of my nightstand. Why? Three reasons: Rowdy, Kimi, and Sammy. The woman who’d been stealing my name for herself had been stealing Kimi’s identity for a malamute. I wouldn’t have slept without the knowledge that I could protect my dogs.
     

CHAPTER 23
     
    The other Holly Winter is a more private person than I am. Because of my volunteer work for malamute rescue, my name, address, and phone number are all over the World Wide Web, and when I call people, my name and number show up on caller ID. Why block my identity? When I call someone, the first words out my mouth when someone answers are going to be, “This is Holly Winter,” so if caller ID has already transmitted the information, what do I care? And if someone sees my name on caller ID and decides not to answer? So what! In almost all circumstances, I’d rather get an answering machine or voice mail than force myself on someone who doesn’t want to talk to me or who just feels like being left alone.
    The other Holly Winter, however, has arranged never to have anyone’s caller ID display her name and number. Our preferences in this regard reflect deep character differences that are, I believe, intimately tied to our radically divergent perspectives on Life Itself. Capitalized. What I mean by “Life Itself,” capitalized, is... take a guess. Also take the matter of caller ID and Life Itself—or my very own Lives Themselves, so to speak, although not necessarily on the phone. Anyway, if the doggy equivalent of a phone company were to ask Lady, India, Rowdy, Kimi, and Sammy whether they wanted to hide or announce their identities when they were trying to reach people, the dogs would unanimously and vigorously veto the option of ID blocking. Once having agreed about the desirability of revealing their identities, they’d disagree about whether radical changes would be required in existing displays of caller ID. Lady, our timid pointer, would be content with the status quo: her name in plain, unassuming little letters. India, our proud shepherd, would push for the tasteful yet dignified: a gold-framed screen and elaborate Gothic script. The malamutes, however, would insist on neon signs the size of billboards that would flash their identities while simultaneously setting off simulated bursts of fireworks and deafening emissions of loud, brassy music. I can hear it now. Sammy would go for marching-band renditions of John Philip Sousa; Kimi would insist on references to glory, laud, honor, conquering heroes, and the trampling out of vineyards; and Rowdy, my Rowdy, would settle for nothing less than “Hail to the Chief.”
    Have I digressed? Anyway, on that same Monday evening, Holly Winter uses her caller-ID-blocked phone to dial a number in California. She gets an answering machine, hangs up, and tries another number, this one in Oregon. A human being answers but has nothing to say that interests Holly Winter. She tries several other numbers from her long list. Her quest is fruitless. So far. She will pursue her inquiries tomorrow.
     

CHAPTER 24
     
    It may seem as if I never work. Not so! I spent Tuesday morning finishing a profile of a breed so obscure that I’d never heard of it until Bonnie, my editor at Dog’s Life, gave me the assignment. In Bonnie’s view, since the other dog magazines were publishing articles about popular breeds like the Labrador retriever and the cocker spaniel, we should go after readers by filling the niche left open by the competition. Yes, stupid idea. If your magazine has a photo of a Lab on the cover and an accompanying article inside, the issue is going to attract Lab devotees, of whom there are zillions. But why try to increase readership by attracting all six people in the country who have what even I, a born dog lover, felt to be the misfortune to spend their lives with the Breed Not to Be Named? In appearance, the BNTBN, as I shall tactfully call it, reminded me of the famous reference in Sherlock Holmes to the giant rat of Sumatra: BNTBNs had snoutlike muzzles, small, beady eyes, and furtive expressions. The desired coat was short and brownish gray, the tail long and nearly hairless. Worse, instead of having originally served humankind by performing some appealing task such as herding sheep, pulling