Black Ribbon

kind” disposition and a demeanor both “pacific and dignified.” Also, according to her red-and-white pin, she was called Eva, which seemed like a funny name for a bulldog, and her accent was definitely Long Island with a rock-hard g, whereas a self-respecting bulldog would have uttered nothing less than pure Oxbridge and would have done so in low, self-effacing tones. Bullbaiting was no upper-crust sport, but the breed long ago overcame its rough origins. Eva had obviously not done likewise.
    The embarrassed-looking recipient of Eva’s outburst was a very young woman with short blond curls and careful makeup. She wore a neatly ironed outfit, shorts and a sleeveless top in a shade of bright pink that matched her fingernails. According to the words emblazoned on her pink tote bag, she loved Cairn terriers. Cradled to her breast was what I gathered was supposed to be one, a little gray dog with an almost incredible number of glaring deviations from the standard of the Cairn, terrier: a very narrow skull, a long, heavy muzzle, an undershot bite, big yellow eyes, gigantic ears, a silky coat, and a flesh-colored nose. Other faults were presumably covered by the loving hands and forearms of his owner. According to the woman’s name tag, she was Joy, or so I assumed; the pin on her bright pink blouse read “Joy and Lucky.”
    “Craig and I are just so happy to be in a cabin,” Joy told Eva. “He was afraid we’d get stuck in the bunkhouse.” She nodded toward a large structure visible through a stand of pines and white birches. Despite cedar siding, red trim, and yet more geraniums, the building retained the look of a small sawmill, and the only shore on which it sat belonged to the parking lot. “And then we would’ve had to decide whether to come at all,” said Joy. As Rowdy and I approached, she added in quiet tones of deep shock, “It’s coed, you know! Men and women! And with shared bathrooms.”
    Horrors. I was beginning to suspect that Joy did not belong to the fancy. Our members aren’t necessarily crazy about sharing bathrooms, but we aren’t bothered by human nakedness and other such secular trivia. An Order is, after all, for Higher Things. What worries us is that someone won’t clean the tub after bathing the dog. We ourselves don’t mind showering with fur underfoot, of course; in fact, we’ve learned that a nice, thick abrasive layer of guard coat acts as a natural sole-smoothing callus remover, a sort of woofy loofah; but hotel managers, innkeepers, and the like always object, and we live in perpetual fear that our careless brethren will drive the proprietors thenceforth to ban the Sacred Animal from comfortable lodging establishments near popular show sites.
    As if to confirm my suspicion about her noninitiate status, Joy took a look at Rowdy and cried, “What a beautiful husky!”
    When I first got Rowdy, I welcomed these displays of ignorance as happy opportunities to spread the Good Word.
    ‘Thank you,” I’d say, “but he is an Alaskan malamute.” Then I’d pin the ignoramus in a comer and deliver a two-hour lecture on Otto von Kotzebue, Scotty Allen, Arthur Walden, Short Seeley, the Byrd expeditions, Paul Voelker, the reopening of the stud book, the key differences between the Kotzebue and M’Loot lines, the Husky Pak formula, Sergeant Preston and Yukon King, the breed standard, and the particulars in which Rowdy epitomized the ideal and thus looked nothing whatsoever like a Siberian husky. At that point, my exhausted victim would gasp something like, “Well, like I said, lady, nice dog,” and vanish, never again to admire any dog at all. Bit by bit, however, I began to delete key points of the original malamute vs. Siberian discourse; these days, unless the call of the wild rings in the admirer’s eyes, I sometimes limit myself to an inadequate word of thanks.
    And was about to do just that when Rowdy caught sight of the doughnut in Eva’s left hand, perked up his ears, and wagged his tail. There was nothing aggressive about the posture; Rowdy intended to beg for the doughnut, not to steal it; he falls back on theft only when charm fails. Maybe Eva’s bigboned yellow Lab misread Rowdy, or maybe he was looking for an excuse for a fight. In either case, he growled viciously, and lunged toward Rowdy and me so fast and so unexpectedly that I barely had time to haul Rowdy back and spoil the fun. As apparently unprepared for the Lab’s attack as I’d been, Eva flung the