Bloodlines

said. “So just give me her name and—” The ugly cat, a blatantly unneutered tom, chose that moment to plummet from its perch on the crates, traipse across the floor, and head straight for me. Its sudden dive precipitated a renewed outburst of yipping to which Coakley and the cat seemed equally deaf.
    “Handsome bugger, ain’t he?” Coakley remarked genially.
    I tried to feel sorry for the cat. As you probably know, cats require a higher protein diet than dogs do. That’s why dogs love cat food, of course, and why a cat fed on dog food is malnourished. My hunch was that the handsome bugger ate the same food-moth chow the puppies did. Its large belly hung from a swayback. Its ribs showed. The yellow-tinged farinaceous glop that dripped from its eyes looked a whole lot like the stuff on Bill Coakley’s teeth. The poor thing’s ears were ragged, and its head was scarred. Also, it undoubtedly had fleas. Cats are supposed to be standoffish, right? Sure, but there’s something about communicable diseases that makes them super friendly. This one sauntered up and rubbed against my legs. I bent down and stroked its bony spine.
    “Handsome bugger,” Coakley repeated proudly.
    It may have been the cat’s name. I didn’t ask. Instead, I again demanded the name of the woman who’d taken Missy. I don’t know why I bothered. I was far from sure that she existed.
    Coakley picked up the cat, gave me a plaque-ridden grin, shrugged, and said, with what felt like a hint of stubborn defiance, “Got it around here somewhere.”
    That’s when I’d had it. “That dog is the property of Alaskan Malamute Rescue,” I announced. Did I sound ridiculous? Maybe. Maybe not. I’m used to ordering around creatures a whole lot tougher than dirty Bill Coakley. “I want her back, and I want her back fast. You get that dog back, or I’ll have the MSPCA and every other animal welfare organization in Massachusetts in here so fast you won’t know what hit you. Do you understand what I’m telling you? You get that malamute back here, or I close you down.” Then I stomped out.
    I meant to do it anyway, or I meant to try my damnedest. I knew how to start. I knew the people to call. But first, of course, I had to have Missy back. Do you understand? I just had to.
     

14
     

     
    A half hour after stomping out of Coakley’s, I had my feet planted on the concrete aisle that ran down the center of the raw-looking pale beige cinder-block kennel building at Your Local Breeder. I guess I’d expected a magnified version of the dump I’d just left. What I found was a semirural pet shop with large indoor-outdoor runs instead of fiberglass cage banks and, more importantly, with litters of puppies for sale as well as individual pups of different breeds.
    I was studying the four little black cocker spaniels asleep in the run in front of me. New to dogs? The smallest member of the AKC’s sporting group, the cocker spaniel is... But you know what a cocker is. Of course you do. Everyone does. It’s one of the most popular breeds in America, the quintessential show dog and the quintessential pet shop dog, too. The great publicist of the breed, Ch. My Own Brucie, was the only cocker ever to take two consecutive Best in Shows at Westminster—1940 and 1941—but his wins in the ring were the least of his triumphs: The U.S. population went Brucie-mad and cocker-mad. Trendiness is, of course, the doom of a breed. The indiscriminate mass production of cocker spaniels—a Brucie in every home—meant the proliferation of congenital problems: hip dysplasia, von Willebrand’s disease, blood clotting diseases, and, especially, inherited eye diseases like progressive retinal atrophy and so-called juvenile cataracts, which aren’t necessarily juvenile, but are definitely inherited. Dedicated cocker fanciers eventually rescued the breed. Cockers used in breeding are supposed to be tested for cataracts at least once a year, and some, like active stud dogs, twice a year. One of the silky little black cockers I was watching opened his eyes, yawned, and rested his head on his forepaws. His eyes looked fine to me, but that’s the damn thing about inherited cataracts: A veterinary ophthalmologist can diagnose the disease up to two years before it’s visible to the rest of us.
    When I’d marched into the pet supply shop at the front of Your Local Breeder, a bland-looking, sandy-haired young man in a plaid flannel shirt said, “Hi. May I help