Paws before dying

defeats in its class and... Well, never mind. Anyway, over the years, in the Delaney System, Rose and Heather looked close enough so that if I’d been as competitive as Heather, I’d have felt relieved to know that statistics for next year would show Panache a comfortable few hundred points ahead of Caprice, if not a lot more.
    I also chanced to notice that the top dog in the Delaney System, O.T.Ch. Shoreland’s Big Harry Deal—a golden, what else?—had 5,042 points, whereas the highest ranked Alaskan malamute, Northeast’s Tahkela Amarok, C.D., had 44. So, 5,042 points? Would I kill for that? Would I kill for 44? Well, no. Malamutes are malamutes, and nobody would kill for 44 points. But poodles aren’t malamutes, and the top poodle had 3,456 points and came in third in the Delaney ratings, and I couldn’t help thinking that although I wouldn’t actually murder someone for 3,456 points and third place, I might be slightly tempted to do some harm. And if I might, what about Heather?
     

Chapter 13

     
    MALAMUTES believe that summer is your fault. On the ninety-plus-degree sidewalk outside the library, Rowdy glared at me and pulled his statue-of-Balto act. I had to make him heel to get him to move at all, but when I released him on my block of Appleton, a few houses from home, he bolted to the back steps, flew up them, and then eyed me impatiently while I unlocked the door. When I did, I knew right away that Leah had gone out: The phone was ringing. Whatever other household tasks people her age may fail to perform, one they never, ever neglect is answering the phone.
    I picked up in the kitchen, held the receiver to my ear, and with my free hand, turned on the cold water tap, filled Rowdy’s bowl, and lowered it to the floor.
    “Holly?” The female voice was familiar.
    I said yes.
    “Lisa Donovan. From dog training? ’Member I said I’d talk to my neighbor? The one that weaves?”
    “Sure.”
    “Well, she’s interested. Her name’s Marcia Brawley.” When she’d spelled it for me and given me a phone number, we spent forty-five minutes talking about dogs and trading information about upcoming shows, obedience judges, and show sites. We weren’t just gossiping. It’s a waste of time and money to enter a dog if the obedience rings are jammed together next to the dumpsters on a broken-asphalt surface and the judge hasn’t read the AKC regulations for ten years because he knows what he likes.
    As soon as I got off the phone with Lisa, I called Marcia Brawley. I’ll admit that by that time, I was hoping she wouldn’t want to talk about dogs, but she did. She was feeling guilty because a border collie needs to work, and she was afraid that hers, Rascal, was becoming neurotic because he lacked a sense of purpose. What did I think about getting him a pair of sheep so he’d have something to herd? And, of course, she could use the wool, speaking of which, was it a scarf I had in mind? And did I want pure malamute wool or sheep blend?
    “Oh, pure,” I said. Just the idea of the blend put me off, mostly, I suppose, because it suggested crossing a malamute and a sheep, in other words, a nightmare: the strongest, stupidest animal on earth, and given the predator-prey conflict inherent in its hybrid genes, one that would probably go for its own throat. “Unless there’s some reason...?”
    “Not really. It’s a matter of what you like. You want to look at some samples? I’ve got a nice Akita wall hanging, but they’re picking it up tonight, so if you want to see it, it’d better be today.”
    The Brawleys’ big mauve Dutch Colonial was on the street across from the park, and the sun-room that ran along one side of the house was Marcia’s studio. A loom about the size of a baby grand piano sat at one end, and except for the two chairs in which we were sitting and the worktable between us, the remaining contents consisted almost exclusively of natural fibers. Underfoot was a rough-woven woolen rug in the colors of Joseph’s coat. Hand-loomed curtains kept out the sun. Neatly arrayed along all nonglass wall surfaces were spools, bobbins, and rolls of yam and thread, most in natural shades of brown, gray, and off-off-white, but a few in loden, berry, and heather.
    I’m so used to Cambridge that I seldom notice the absence of makeup—you’re deported to the suburbs if you’re caught with blue eye shadow—but Marcia Brawley’s invisible lashes were more emphatic than any mascara, and her