Black Ribbon

chairs made of white birch with the peeling bark left on. As Ginny set her glass on our table, she said, “I hardly ever drink martinis, but I am so mad I could spit.” Without so much as a cheers, she took a greedy sip, licked her lips, and forcibly exhaled. “Harry had Saint Bernards. He never put barrels around their necks, naturally, but if he had, this is what would’ve been in them. That’s why my kennels are so big, because a lot of them, Harry built for his dogs.”
    I’d never seen Ginny with any breed but a Lab. After Harry’s death, what had she done with the Saint Bernards that had failed to tote Bombay gin? I didn’t ask. I tasted my Johnnie Walker. One real slug and I’d be asking Ginny how many litters she bred a year and whether she ever permitted visitors to see the kennels where Harry’s Saints had trod.
    Before I had a chance to ask anything, Ginny transferred her glass to her left hand, made a tight little fist with her right, and punched the air. “Eva Spitteler is not allowed to breed that dog without my written permission. It’s right there in my contract.”
    Reputable breeders have what always strikes me as a touching faith in the power of signed contracts to regulate the behavior of puppy buyers. Breeders rewrite those contracts, add new clauses, and explain all the provisions to all their puppy buyers. According o the typical contract, the buyer promises to take great care of the dog, swears to get the breeder’s permission before breeding the dog, or, in the case of pet-quality puppies, promises to have the pup spayed or neutered. If the owner ever decides to get rid of the dog, the animal returns to the breeder. A few breeders add special requirements: The dog lives in the house, and once a week, he has a bath and gets his nails trimmed. The hitch? Envision the diligent breeder who, in the course of her weekly visits to the homes of every puppy she’s ever sold, is shocked to discover that whereas all her other buyers have been following her contract to the letter, young Fido’s owners have reneged on the promise to trim his nails and, indeed, report themselves unable to wield the trimmers themselves and unwilling to pay a groomer to do so. Can you hear it in court? Moral: A contract is no better than the breeder’s ability to monitor and enforce it. So what’s a breeder to do? About nail trimming, nothing. About breeding?
    I spoke hesitantly. “You didn’t think about limited registration?” A limited registration wouldn’t have prevented Bingo from pouncing on bitches, but in making his offspring ineligible for AKC registration, it would sure have neutered Eva’s breeding plans.
    “Well, of course, now I wish I had, but I have... had, I should say... Well, I still have a hard time shaking the idea that when you buy a dog, you buy him. And I know. Limited registration doesn’t change that. But I’ve just never done it that way.” Liquor and anger, which should have aged Ginny, had had the reverse effect: Her eyes were clear, her expression unguarded, her face fresh.
    “Ginny, you ever thought about trying to buy Bingo back?”
    Ginny drained her glass and ordered another martini. “Let me count the ways. I started offering half the purchase price. Then the full purchase price. After this mess at flyball, I even said I’d give her double.”
    “And?”
    “And I will not repeat what she said. Obscenity is one thing that has no place in dogs.” Unspoken words formed on Ginny’s lips. When she spoke again, she said, “You know Holly, that was a lovely, lovely puppy. It makes me sick to see him so fat, and I know he’s not getting any exercise—look at him! And it would be bad enough if she left him home, but every time she takes him anywhere, I feel like crawling into the ground. You know what it’s like! Eva lets him get away with murder, and then all everyone says is, well, he came from my breeding. Have you ever seen one of my dogs act like that?”
    “Never,” I said. “But you’re right. People are going to say that. They always do. Instead of always asking ‘Where did he come from?’ they ought to stop and think about where he went and what’s happened to him. They should, but they hardly ever do.” And that’s the truth. The only people in this country who take even more unfair blame than mothers do are diligent, ethical, hardworking breeders of purebred dogs.
    I was saying as much to Ginny as we left The Pub and entered the main hall,