Bride & Groom

the store’s window and on the covers of both his books-—tan and robust, with an expression that remained warm even when he was discussing unhappy veterinary subjects, such as cancer and euthanasia. I knew Mac’s exact age because I’d looked him up on a web site called AnyBirthday.com. Although he could have passed for forty-eight or fifty, he was fifty-eight. His appearance of youth stemmed, in part, from his obvious health and fitness, but also from a genetic quirk that had kept his hair almost completely free of gray. In fact, if it hadn’t been for a little white at his temples and a few strands of white amidst the brown, I’d have suspected him of touching up the color with some product that gave remarkably natural results. His eyes were a clear, almost flat, blue.
    Mac had a gift for making close contact with people. His books were popular not only because he promoted them, but because his readers felt that he was talking directly to them about their dogs. In person, too, he felt like an ally. He made good eye contact and had a habit of reaching out, sometimes with a hand, always with his voice. At the moment, he was en gaged in what seemed to be a serious conversation with a wiry blond woman who was standing next to him with her head lowered. She seemed intent on catching every word he sa id. Considered individually, her features were unattractive. She had small, narrow eyes and a weak chin. Even so, the woman was pretty in an exceptionally lively, wired way. Her short curls seemed to spring energetically from her scalp.
    It was Mac who broke off the tête-à-tête. Rising to his feet, he greeted me with a smile and said, “Holly! Take a seat! You have fans waiting. You know Claire Langceil, don’t you?” He pronounced it Lang-seal. “I’ve just had some terrible news about someone I used to know. I was telling Claire. But take a seat and get to work!”
    My memory of the next half hour is somewhat blurred. I remember signing books while people told me about their dogs and said flattering things about my Dog’s Life column. It took all the concentration I had to pay attention to the people while trying to write legibly and to make sure that I spelled all the human and canine names correctly. Dog writers do not, of course, merely autograph books in the barren fashion of what I should perhaps call mainstream writers: “To Harvey” or “Best wishes.” Rather, a typical dog-book inscription goes something like, “To Linda, Nikki, Tipsy, Bounder, Lulu, and Zippo,” or “To the beautiful Golden Retrievers of Halomyst Kennels,” or “To American/Canadian Ch. Perfectly’s Wediditagain, CD,” or, in the case of my inscriptions, “To Peter, Sasha, Chinook, and Katy—Woo-woo-woo from Rowdy and Kimi.” As an afterthought, I scrawl my own name. Anyway, I spent about thirty minutes in a daze of listening and signing and introducing people to Rowdy and Kimi, who were capably handled, respectively, by Leah and Steve, capability being defined as effectiveness in preventing the dogs from leaping onto the food table, gobbling up every single thing on it, including the paper plates, and then getting into a tussle about the crumbs.
    Once the crowd of strangers thinned, I had time to chat with friends who’d come to congratulate me about the book and, to my embarrassment, to buy it. Kevin Dennehy, who doesn’t own a dog, made me sign five books that he insisted were for fellow cops. Mac and Judith’s daughter, Olivia, had me sign a book. I knew from Mac that Olivia was in her late twenties, but she looked younger—about eighteen. Her light brown hair fell to her shoulders, and her loose chambray dress reminded me of a pinafore. Olivia had Judith’s cheekbones and her air of elegance as well, despite what was unmistakably Mac’s athletic vigor. When she heard that Steve and I were getting married in late September, she asked where, and I had to confess that we had no idea. Olivia had been married for only two months and had apparently had a big wedding. Although I insisted that Steve and I wanted a small wedding, she was horrified to learn that we’d not only failed to select a place to get married and hold a reception, but hadn’t lined up a caterer, a florist, or, worse yet, someone to perform the service.
    As I was explaining that we’d been engaged for only a few weeks and as Olivia was offering to share everything she’d learned about planning a wedding, Judith joined us and went on to