Bloodlines

goal. Today she was dolled up for the breed ring in a tentlike red dress with abstract splotches of gray and black. Her head was bullet-shaped, her shoulders were massive, she had thick arms and legs, and around the middle she was just plain fat. Despite her own bulk, she kept her dogs lean and fit, and I’d always thought she was a good handler. She moved lightly and had a knack of getting her dogs to show well even in hot weather and in overheated halls when everyone else’s dogs looked bored and lethargic.
    When Rowdy and I approached, Lois lunged toward us, reached out, grabbed my arm, and said in a deep, scratchy, and rather loud voice, “You know, you’re new in malamutes. This is some kind of mistake.”
    I wasn’t eager to handle the rolls of fat that made natural circle bracelets at her wrist, but I wanted her hands off me. Rowdy sat at my side and took an intelligent interest as I calmly and silently removed Lois’s damp palm from my thin wrist. Rowdy does not like people to grab me.
    “Shit, I’m sorry,” she said. She lowered her voice and scratched the back of her neck. “How many people’ve you told about this?”
    “Just Betty,” I said. “I’m not a blabbermouth. I don’t like gossip. I only told Betty because I didn’t know whether to tell you. I didn’t know if you’d want to know. She said you would.”
    Lois Metzler had short, bristly gray-brown hair. Her pallid February skin was draped across small, blunt features. The pink powder blush on her cheeks, the blue Powder shadow on her eyelids, and the traces of red around her lips had the paradoxical effect of draining her face of all color. For a second, I thought she was going to faint.
    I gestured toward the folding chair by the big crates that held her dogs. “Lois, do you need to sit down?”
    “No!” she said fiercely. She straightened her shoulders and added with a hint of anger, “You know, I
    screen my buyers. This could happen to anyone, absolutely anyone.”
    “I know it could,” I agreed. “That’s the point. It could happen to anyone. I’m not blaming you, and neither is Betty.”
    Like a dog responding to his own name, Betty Burley appeared at Lois’s side. They made a funny-looking pair, Brobdingnagian Lois, Lilliputian Betty, but dogs care nothing for outward appearance. Rowdy barged into the center of our circle and nuzzled at Lois’s hands. She absentmindedly dug a treat out of her pocket and watched Rowdy wolf it down and lick her hand clean. For a few seconds, no one said anything.
    Lois broke the silence. Her voice was hoarse, sad, and belligerent. “Which puppy was it?” Her eyes stayed on Rowdy, almost as though she expected him to answer the question.
    He didn’t, of course. I did. Same thing, more or less. “The dam is named Icekist Sissy.”
    Lois’s eyes were blank. “Doesn’t mean a thing to me.”
    In case you aren’t a specialist in AKC regulations, let me explain that Lois meant Sissy, not Icekist, which was her registered kennel name and couldn’t be used to register a dog from another breeder. Supposedly, puppy buyers aren’t obligated to use the registered kennel name prefix. In practice, though, virtually any reputable breeder will insist that you use it, and most will enter it on the puppy’s registration application, thus leaving you free to choose the rest of the dog’s name. Why? When your pup goes on to take Best in Show at Westminster, the breeder wants—and deserves—the credit, of course.
    “I copied down the whole pedigree,” I said. “I should’ve brought it with me. I meant to. I’m sorry. Call me tonight or whenever. Maybe you can find out where she is.”
    “I screen my buyers,” Lois repeated. “I educate them. They have to visit. Everybody visits at least twice. I don’t ship to people I don’t know.”
    “Stop it!” Betty ordered her.
    “What are you supposed to do?” I added. “Move in with people? Live with them for a month before you’ll sell them a dog?”
    “Maybe,” Lois said. “Maybe that’s what you have to do. That or something else.” Color began to return to her face. “Puppy Luv,” she said bitterly. “God damn. You know something? I’ll find out who did this. And I’ll get my bitch back, too. Count on it.”
    “Good,” I said. “Lois, if there’s anything I can do...”
    “I don’t know,” she said. “I have to think. I have to do some follow-ups. I don’t know yet. But thanks, Holly. I’ll call you.” Then