Evil Breeding

I hate to admit, that he’d dug his teeth into someone, probably the maid, Jocelyn. There was something elusively female about the scream.
    Mr. Motherway rose from his chair by the fireplace. “My wife,” he explained. “Christina is dying at home,” he added with dignity. “Everything possible is done for her here. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll see that Jocelyn is with her. Jocelyn has orders to stay within close hearing distance of Christina, but she does not always follow orders.” Glued to Mr. Motherway’s left side, the shepherd followed him from the room. The dog hadn’t shown any reaction to the startling cry. He must have been used to it. To some extent, I was, too. My Rowdy is a certified therapy dog. We visit a nursing home. A few of the very old and ailing people there cried out now and then in a way that had initially alarmed me; I thought I was hearing shrieks of pain. Some may have been. Others were not. One day I took Rowdy to the bedside of an ancient, frail woman named Betty whose mind wandered. On some days, she loved to see Rowdy. I’d guide her thin hand through the safety bars that surrounded her bed, and she’d rest her palm on top of his big head and finger his soft ears. Occasionally he’d gently lick her fingers in what I took to be a canine effort to heal a wound. One day when Betty’s mind was somewhere else, I tried to rouse her by following our usual routine. I guided her hand to Rowdy, who must have sensed that she was failing and decided to help. The second his damp tongue touched her skin, she broke into wails of terror. Someone should never have done something, she screamed. Never on earth! Never on earth! She cried out to God to save her. Hauling Rowdy with me, I ran for a nurse. What Betty suffered now was an attack of ancient psychic pain revived by her illness and dementia. I felt terrible about having unintentionally aroused some mental monster.
    Having apparently restored his dying wife to comfort, Mr. Motherway returned. Over coffee supplied by the still-silent Jocelyn, we had a long talk about Morris and Essex. Mr. Motherway had actually been there in 1935 when Johnny Aarfiot, the famous Norwegian breeder, judged Norwegian elkhounds. In 1935, Mrs. Dodge brought from England Mrs. Cecil Barber, who judged Scottish terriers, and Mme Jeanne Harper Trois-Fontaines, who judged Great Pyrenees. In 1937, Forstmeister Marquandt, president of the Dachshunde Club of Germany, drew a big entry: nearly three hundred dogs.
    Mr. Motherway also wandered into tales of his youth. In the thirties, he’d led student tours of Europe. He’d been teaching art history at the prep school from which he was now retired, and in the summers he and a band of students would wander in France, Italy, Spain, and Germany. It was hard to connect the freewheeling character he’d evidently been with the staid, upright gentleman I saw now. In the summer after his sophomore year in college, he informed me, he’d gone to Montana with a party of friends. “On a dare,” he confided, “I entered a rodeo. Had no idea what I was doing. I ended up on a wild steer, and darned if I didn’t ride it to the finish!”
    “That’s amazing,” I said.
    “Won my spurs in range fashion!Foolhardy. I was lucky to get off without breaking my neck.”
    “But you’re glad now you did it?”
    He beamed. “Shall we meet again? Somewhere, I’ve got a few pictures from the old days that might interest you. I’ll dig them up.”
    “That would be great.” I also had some questions I hadn’t been able to fit into my allotted time. “How would next Friday be? At ten or so?”
    “Ten,” he said firmly. I should have realized that he wasn’t an or-so type.
    Before I left, he offered me a tour of his kennels. I accepted. I expected him to show me around himself, but he departed in search of someone called Peter, to whom he was evidently delegating the task. This time, the black shepherd stayed by the hearth when his master left. I hadn’t seen Mr. Motherway give any signal to the dog. He certainly hadn’t issued a spoken command. The dog apparently did what he felt like doing, and since he mostly just put himself on long down-stays, there was no reason for anyone to object.
    Jocelyn appeared carrying an empty tray that she rested on a side table. I picked up my cup and saucer and started toward the tray, but she rapidly took the china from me. Mr. Motherway’s cup and saucer lay on what I think is called a