Bloodlines

softhearted fanatic if you want, but I don’t believe in giving electric shocks to dogs. Anyway, individual collars were out. High tech offered one more option, namely, a little manually-operated box that, like the collars, makes a high-pitched sound inaudible to people but very unpleasant to dogs. There’s even a long-distance model marketed to desperate people whose neighbors’ dogs are driving them crazy but that one, I thought, made a buzz that people could hear. In any case, I didn’t own one of these devices, and, even ignoring the problem of ethics, there was a hitch: As far as I knew, the gadgets didn’t work instantly. According to the ads I’d seen, they were used to train dogs to quit barking, not to provide immediate silence. Even so, if I’d had one handy, I might have packed it.
    As it was, I intended to get in and out fast, and I counted mainly on being mistaken for a natural intruder, a foraging raccoon or a stray dog passing swiftly on its way. My backup plan was based on the inability of the average dog to bark and chew at the same time. I filled a gallon-size plastic bag with the small dog biscuits that I use as training treats, and in a second plastic bag I packed my secret cache of medium-size rawhide bones. Secret? Banned by Steve, who says that rawhide would be safe if Rowdy and Kimi would chew it slowly like normal dogs instead of swallowing it in big chunks that could obstruct their intestinal tracts. But the damned thing is, they love the stuff, thus the secret cache: one rawhide bone for every leg of an obedience title. But do me a favor, huh? Don’t tell Steve, and don’t mention it to anyone else, either. Because of my column and all that, I’m supposed to be a model of responsible ownership. Only my all-forgiving dogs know my deepest sins.
    Anyhow, whether or not I should have packed the rawhide bones, that’s what I did. Then I stowed everything in the backpack, shut it in a closet where the dogs couldn’t raid the goodies, and laid out my clothes: jeans, a black sweater, my old navy parka, a tattered navy poncho, wool socks and gloves, and heavy hiking boots. When Rowdy, Kimi, and I returned from a walk around the block, I took a shower, set the alarm for four A.M., went to bed, and fell asleep. Why not? My conscience was finally starting to feel clear.
     

27
     

     
    I don’t go to funerals anymore. My recent knowledge of them is entirely celluloid. I have the impression that graveside ceremonies are usually held in the rain and often attended by people who can’t carry the tune of “Amazing Grace.” A common convenience at Mafia burials is a large canopy to protect the lace-shrouded widow from the drizzle. At the back of the crowd lurk henchmen whose overdeveloped trapezius muscles strain the shoulder seams of ill-gotten hand-tailored suits. Male mourners exchange whispered plans to avenge the deceased.
    My almost exclusively cinematic experience of funerals has probably misled me. In fact, I know it has. For example, at the real thing, the air reeks of gladioli instead of popcorn, or so I seem to recall. Also, in real life, the sad part doesn’t exactly come as a big surprise, so I’ll bet that no one ever has to make do with greasy paper napkins. The rest I’m not sure about.
    What reminded me of movie funerals and the unanswered question of their correspondence to reality was the canopy of leafless, dripping branches that overhung Old County Lane in Afton at five-thirty on the morning of February fourteenth. Italian women did not sob in the thick undergrowth that lined the road. Hardy pioneers did not grieve for brethren outgunned by Jack Palance. Were canopies strictly Hollywood?
    Oh, yeah. I didn’t go to real puppy mills, either, not as a rule. I’d read about them and heard about them. I’d seen photos and films. I thought I knew. I really believed that the sad part would come as no surprise.
    Back to real life. As I may have mentioned, Old County Lane was little more than its name suggested, a roughly paved country road just about wide enough to accommodate my Bronco. Like every other blacktopped surface in Massachusetts, it was randomly mined with vicious potholes. As I crawled through the darkness at a maximum of maybe ten miles an hour, they eluded my headlights and defeated the Bronco’s suspension system. To the best of my recollection, the Simmses’ place was about a mile after the turnoff onto the lane and about a quarter mile beyond a