Bloodlines

genuinely new, at least to me. This editorial slipup was undoubtedly attributable to the Globe’s odd but rather frequent practice of printing obituaries at the end of the Sports section, thus treating demise as the great final score.
    What appeared wasn’t one of those laudatory accounts of Diane Sweet’s fine character and multitudinous contributions to society. Instead of a eulogy, all she got was the shortest paragraph in the cramped list of death notices. Even the usual information about funeral arrangements and memorial donations was missing. The gap seemed to confirm Kevin’s view of John Sweet as a good-for-nothing, the kind of husband who couldn’t even bury his wife without her help. He hadn’t so much as bothered to call her his “beloved” wife. In its entirety, the notice read:
     
SWEET—Suddenly, of Cambridge, February 9, Diane L. (Richards). Wife of John B. Sweet.
Also survived by a sister, Janice Coakley, of Westbrook.
     
    Yes, indeed. Sister. Something clicked. I turned to the classifieds. In spite of Diane Sweet’s murder, Puppy Luv’s ad was running under “Dogs, Cats, and Other Pets,” and so was Your Local Breeder’s. The two ads were in boldface at the tops of adjacent columns. As I remembered, Puppy Luv’s offered “Adorable AKC Pup-Pies! More than twenty breeds to choose from.” Your Local Breeder, though, could supply “any AKC breed on request.” According to Puppy Luv’s copy, “our beautiful, healthy puppies come from local breeders, not from puppy mills.” But Janice Coakley’s ad, it now seemed to me, warned buyers about her sister: “Never buy a dog from a pet shop! Come to us first! Your Local Breeder.”
    More or less the same two ads appeared regularly in the Globe, and I’d glanced at them before, but I’d missed what now felt like the exchange of personal accusations, sibling rivalry rather than business competition. On the basis of the ads alone, Janice Coakley seemed to be winning. The key phrase in the Puppy Luv copy, local breeder, Diane Sweet’s big selling point, was almost a pitch for the competition; and Puppy Luv’s “more than twenty breeds” (however adorable) couldn’t beat Janice Coakley’s offer of “any AKC breed.” Also, of course, Janice Coakley was still alive.
    I made my routine check of the classifieds to see whether anyone was selling a malamute—no one was— and then I walked Rowdy and Kimi around the block, came home, looked up Bill Coakley’s phone number, and once again scanned the dog ads. Three separate ads gave his number, one for Yorkies ( “tiny bundles of love”), one for Poms (“home raised with TLC”), and one for Shih Tzus, poodles, and “Shis-a-poos.” Why puppy buyers will pay purebred prices for crossbred dogs is beyond me. In God’s eyes, every dog is beyond price, of course, but here on earth, these Pom-a-poos, Yorkie-tzus, and all the other accidental-breeding-poos are simply mix-a-Yorks, so do yourself a favor, huh? If you want an all-American, go to your local shelter. Save your money. And a life, too.
    I put down the paper, picked up the phone, and called Bill Coakley, who sounded as hearty as he had yesterday and who once again assured me that he had found Missy a good home and that I “shouldn’t worry none” about her. I concluded that in the sixteen or so hours since I’d seen Coakley, he’d worked exactly as hard on recovering Missy as he had on improving his English grammar. Janice, his ex-wife, had claimed that gill had sold Missy. If so, it seemed to me, he probably knew where she was.
    “This is a serious matter,” I said firmly. “That dog is the property of Malamute Rescue.” Yes, property. A dog who’s safe at home with you may share your life, but a lost or stolen dog damn well better be your property, or he’s apt to become someone else’s. “And,” I added, “it might interest you to know that there is a reward for her return.”
    Ransom? Let’s call it motivation. Oh, and if you don’t do rescue, perhaps you imagine that the source of this proffered reward was the whopping endowment of the Alaskan Malamute Protection League—it has none —or the riches of the Alaskan Malamute Emergency Fund, that is, a bank balance that seldom exceeds a few hundred dollars. Yes, indeed, my empty pockets. By the way, while we’re on this topic, you don’t happen to know Robin Williams, do you? I’m serious. Robin Williams. Popeye? Good Morning, Vietnam ? He used to own a