Bride & Groom

everything about the magic of training with good homemade food. After that, we’ll answer questions, and we’ll both be glad to sign Ask Dr. Mac and 101 Ways to Cook Liver or anything else you want, preferably, but not necessarily, books we’ve written ourselves.”
    As people chuckled, Mac picked up a copy of his book— pardon me, a copy of Ask Dr. Mac —that he’d brought with him. The jacket bore a ring left by a coffee cup, and slips of papers stuck out where he’d marked passages. I felt like a dope standing there with nothing to do, so I took a seat in the first row, directly in front of Steve and Kimi. As Mac began to read a charming and funny account of a Siberian husky whose indulgent owners had allowed him to eat five love seats before they’d called for professional help, a latecomer arrived, a fellow dog writer named Elspeth Jantzen, who took the seat next to mine, elbowed me gently, and whispered, “Sorry I’m late.”
    Elspeth was the reddest person I’ve ever known. She had tomato hair, crimson freckles, and rosy cheeks. Red hair runs in my family, and to a person, every red-headed relative of mine avoids red clothing. My cousin Leah, with her masses of red-gold curls, actually looks good in red, but it is almost impossible to convince her to wear it. Elspeth, however, who looked ghastly in red, favored the color almost to the exclusion of all others. Tonight, she had on a red sweater and red jeans. At thirty-eight, she was a little too old for the jeans. I knew her age because she’d told me. It was sadly typical of her to have given me a piece of personal information in which I had no interest. Indeed, honesty forces me to characterize her as a nice pest. I’d learned to count on Elspeth always to be warm, friendly, and confiding. Just as reliably, she always needed a favor. On Dogwriters-L, the E-mail list for members of our profession, she was forever posting requests for information that she could easily have looked up herself—for example, definitions of veterinary terms and lists of diseases to which certain breeds are prone. She did, however, join other list members in enthusiastically congratulating anyone who’d just published a book, received an award, or put a new title on a dog. In other words, in cyberspace, too, she was a nice pest. Tonight, having seated herself next to me and muttered her apology for arriving late, she dropped her eyes to a manila envelope on her lap, and I absolutely, positively knew that she’d brought a manuscript that she’d ask me to read, edit, or send to my agent or editor. What’s more, I had a vivid premonition that once Elspeth heard of my engagement, she’d try to wangle an invitation to the wedding and, with it, introductions to all the marriageable men who’d be attending.
    At the moment, she had eyes only for Mac, who was reading the happy ending of the story of the delinquent Sibe, whose owners had learned to confine the dog to a crate instead of giving him the freedom to destroy furniture. Behind me, I felt Steve stir and knew that he and I were sharing the thought that a Siberian who’s devouring love seats is a dog who’s begging for exercise; crate training was a short-term measure that ignored the cause of the problem and, in a breed born to run, was doomed to produce some new and different form of misbehavior.
    No one in the small audience voiced the objection. Rather, everyone applauded Mac and then applauded me as Mac introduced me as ‘‘Dog’s Life’s favorite columnist and legendary dog guru, Holly Winter.” As I took my place at the podium, Mac briefly brushed his hand against my arm in a gesture of encouragement and support. For a second, I was glad that it happened to be Kimi’s turn to accompany me and not Rowdy’s. Then my eyes found Steve’s face, where I saw the same watchful expression I’d have seen on Rowdy’s. It was flattering to realize that neither of my big males liked to see another man touch me. Basking in the warmth of Steve and Rowdy’s loyalty, I gave my little talk about training with food. I started with my late mother’s extreme prejudice against "bribing” dogs, as she called it, and touched lightly on what had, in actuality, been my parents’ monumental fights about Buck’s persistence in using food to teach tricks to our dogs. I blathered on for a while and finished by giving a simple recipe for the liver bait that handlers use in the show ring. Secrets of the stars! Steve’s loud