Bloodlines

wrapped my hands over the top of the plastic barrier and leaned toward the mal puppy, who sat alertly upright. She was in that unbelievably cute one-ear-up, one-ear-down stage that’s supposed to be temporary but sometimes lasts forever. Walt Disney’s Tramp? But a purebred, AKC-registered Tramp, of course. Just in case the ears didn’t get to me—they did—the little malamute cocked her head and returned my gaze. I couldn’t help bending forward toward her. She didn’t prance or bounce—there wasn’t room, anyway—and she didn’t speak, beg, sit up, or do anything else cute. She didn’t have to. All she had to do was sit there with her head cocked and her eyes locked in mine. Her nose wasn’t running. Her eyes were clear. She was almost irresistible.
    “Her eyes are too light,” I whispered to Steve. She had what are called “wolf eyes,” golden-yellow-amber. According to the breed standard, dark eyes are preferred, the darker, the better, but, according to me, that wolf gold is a knockout color, especially when the dog’s coat is a matching golden sable like this pup’s. “That ear might not come up,” I added, confident that it would. If it didn’t? I knew at least fifty people who’d tape it for me. “Maybe her tail is too short?” I paused and sighed. “Maybe it isn’t. God damn. Look at her. You can see the intelligence. And any stupid person—”
    Steve spoke very quietly. “You see that? Look at those feet.”
    I did. The little malamute’s feet looked fine to me— much too big for the rest of her, of course, but perfectly normal for a puppy of a big breed. “What’s wrong with them?”
    I tore my eyes from the puppy and looked up at Steve. His face was rigid and expressionless, his jaw tight, his eyes angry. I followed his gaze. In the upper of the two cages immediately to the left of the nameless malamute’s, a tiny Boston terrier puppy lay asleep on his side, his legs outstretched as if to display the swollen pink pads and upward curving toes of his misshapen feet.
    I spoke too loudly. “Jesus! What is that?”
    High heels tapped lightly toward us.
    “Later,” Steve murmured.
    “The Boston terrier is a lovely breed,” Diane Sweet said truthfully. She lowered her voice and addressed Steve. “And that’s a very good price.” Her oddly red tongue darted out and in. It reminded me of the swollen pads of the little Boston’s feet. “Valentine’s special,” Diane Sweet added brightly. She pursed her lips and tightened the muscles in her face so that her cheeks stood out. Maybe she was trying to smile. Then she quietly confided: “That’s a five-hundred-dollar puppy you’re seeing there.”
    I’d been concentrating so hard on the little dog’s poor feet that I’d overlooked the paper Valentine heart fastened to his cage. His sale price was two hundred eighty-nine dollars. Diane Sweet was right, though, I reflected. He was worth five hundred: five hundred dollars in vet bills. Otherwise? As a specimen of the breed? Well, maybe you don’t know the breed. The Boston terrier is a small dog, under twenty-five pounds, sometimes even under fifteen pounds, notable for the exceptional liveliness reflected in his intense but gentle eyes and a look of bold, unwavering intelligence—the famous “Boston terrier expression.” A black and white coat is acceptable, but the ideal color is brindle with white markings—white blaze on the head, white muzzle, white down the chest, and white on the feet and up the legs. Have I lost you? Brindle? Black hairs in a light base color, for instance gray, tan, or brown. You’ve probably seen a brindle coat on a boxer? Or maybe on a Great Dane? Well, never mind. This puppy was predominantly | white, a show fault; his body was black, not the ideal 1 brindle; and irregular flesh-colored blotches freckled his black nose. Even with the three of us peering at him and talking, he remained asleep. So what was he worth as a show dog? Nothing. But as a companion? Simply as a dog? Any dog? Like all the others, he was beyond price.
    “I was wondering about this one,” I said, pointing to the malamute.
    Diane Sweet once again did something odd with her mouth and cheeks, and then said in a congratulatory voice, “That’s an excellent choice. This is a very special puppy.” She made her way quickly and smoothly through a swinging door in the barrier, opened the cage, and gathered up the puppy, who wiggled and squirmed. Diane Sweet tilted her