Evil Breeding

Wednesday. I had an appointment with her husband on Friday afternoon. He certainly wouldn’t want to keep it; indeed, he’d probably forgotten it. Even so, soon after reading the death notice, I decided to call Mr. Motherway to cancel our meeting as well as to express my sympathy. Yet I found myself postponing the phone call.
    The reason for my procrastination was clear: I felt as if I should send flowers, but because I was working on the book about the Morris and Essex shows instead of generating income-producing articles, I was even more broke than usual. The kind of cheesy floral arrangement I could afford would be worse than no flowers at all, wouldn’t it? Feeling like a tightwad, I wished that the death notice had requested donations in Mrs. Motherway’s memory be sent to some charity that would inform her husband I had sent a check and would tactfully refrain from specifying that it had been for a measly amount. A phone call followed by a tasteful letter of condolence would be preferable to a shoddy little basket of dyed carnations and cheap ferns, wouldn’t it? Putting off the call, I reminded myself that I had met Mr. Motherway only once, his late wife, never; there was no obligation to send flowers. Still, I felt ashamed of having no choice in the matter.
    Having firmly reminded myself that Mr. Motherway was not going to cross-question me about whether I was sending an expensive wreath of rosebuds, I finally dialed his number. He answered himself. I'd somehow expected to hear Jocelyn’s voice. I began by saying that I was very sorry to hear about his wife. As soon as I spoke, I felt foolish. I hadn’t heard about her death; I'd read about it. The distinction was trivial. My self-consciousness gave it undue importance. Mr. Motherway didn’t embarrass me by asking, for example, who had told me. He just thanked me.
    Talking to the recently bereaved always makes me feel as if every word I utter should sound mournful. “We had an appointment on Friday.” I spoke as if the world were coming to an end on Thursday night.
    “We still do,” Mr. Motherway said matter-of-factly. “Unless it’s inconvenient for you?” He paused. “Car trouble?”
    “No.” I was suddenly more defensive than dolorous. People couldn’t fail to notice that my Bronco was a disaster, but they should have the grace to keep their impressions to themselves. Recapturing my funereal tone, I said, “No, I just didn’t want to intrude.”
    “Not at all!” That’s not exactly what he said. He ran the at all together: a-tall! “Not a-tall!” he repeated. “It would be a pleasure. And I’ve come across a few snapshots that might be of minor interest to you. Nothing of Mrs. Dodge, I’m sorry to say. Still, they are from Morris and Essex, and they’ve revived a few old memories. One is of a dog of my stepfather’s. There’s another with a judge you might have heard of, Forstmeister Marquandt.”
    “I have heard of him! He was from Germany.” Again, I felt foolish. Where else would someone named Forstmeister Marquandt have come from, for heaven’s sake? Italy? Well, Austria, maybe. France. Lots of other countries. Still, I tried to redeem myself. “He was the president of the Dachshunde Club of Germany. That must have been in 1937.”
    Just as Isabella Stewart Gardner had brought European art to America, Mrs. Dodge had imported European dogs and European judges. In those days, it seemed to me, everything foreign had been more alluringly exotic than it was now. The names of some dog breeds had yet to be anglicized. Today’s samoyeds had an extra e at the end: samoyedes. Dachshunds ended in an e, too: dachshunde. It was easy to imagine that those long-ago dogs had recognized themselves as other than ordinary American canines, and had flaunted their foreignness by barking in exotic tongues and gaiting across show rings with a stylishly international flair. In 1937, the Dachshunde Club of America held its national specialty, its annual all-dachshund show, in conjunction with Morris and Essex. The specialty began on the day before Morris and Essex, and continued on the day of the grand show. The dachshund had a bigger entry than any other breed.
    “Marquandt. Delightful fellow,” Mr. Motherway commented.
    I was suitably impressed, which is to say, impressed with myself: Here I was chatting with someone who had not merely watched Forstmeister Marquandt judge dachshunds at Morris and Essex in 1937, but who had found the