Paws before dying

don’t bother with grooming tables, tack boxes, hair dryers, extension cords, and the rest. On the other hand, a hot-weather trial—and outdoor obedience rings are always, always located in the sun-blasted dead center of a steamy field—requires dog-cooling equipment that you never see at an indoor show. The ice-filled cooler in the back of the Bronco contained two large spray bottles and two gallons of water. I also packed sunscreen, sandwiches, and iced tea for us, extra water and drinking bowls, dog biscuits, old towels to wet down the dogs, and, for Kimi, a terry-cloth hot-weather garment aptly known as a Wet Blanket.
    As it turned out, she didn’t need it. The trial took place at a park on the far western stretches of the Charles River, before the pollution leaks in, and Leah, barefoot in rolled-up pants, took a lightly and inadequately groomed Kimi for a wade and swim amid the goldens, Labs, Newfies, and Chesapeake Bay retrievers that were dashing in after sticks, thundering out, and joyfully shaking themselves off over the driest and most fastidiously dressed of the spectators. Rowdy condescended to dampen his paws at the edge of the river, stuck his muzzle rapidly in and out, and retreated to the bank. That’s his idea of a swim. When I tried to swaddle him in wet terry, he yelped as if I’d swatted him, but while he was busy eyeing a pretty Afghan hound, I slid a dripping towel under him to soak his belly and thighs.
    Like most of the other handlers, Leah and I had set up in the narrow band of shade cast by the hedge that ran along one side of the field. Tamara Ryan, with only one Westie, and Lisa Donovan, with her English cocker, were on folding chairs on one side of us, which made me a little uneasy. I am not a breedist myself, but mostly because of a rotten-tempered, untrained, pet shop cocker kept tethered outdoors a block from our house, Rowdy detested cockers, and, in spite of all his show experience, I wasn’t sure that he could tell the difference between a cocker and an English cocker. I couldn’t blame him. In the eyes of cocker fanciers, the breeds are highly distinct, but I’m not always sure myself. In any case, either because he’d mastered the subtle distinction or because he was too hot to care, Rowdy was ignoring Davy.
    “So, did you work anything out with Marcia?” Lisa asked, running her spread fingers through the back of her blond Dutch-boy hair to ventilate the nape of her neck.
    “Yeah,” I said. “She’s making a scarf for me. Actually, not for me. A Christmas present for my father.”
    “She does nice work,” Lisa said. “Lovely person.”
    I nodded blankly. Lovely persons do not half electrocute their dogs, but I don’t like to preach.
    “And,” Lisa went on, “she’s one of these people who do everything. Plays the cello, sort of semiprofessional—she’s in some chamber music group—and does aerobic dance, teaches Chinese cooking for Community Schools, does all this PTA stuff. Used to be president, she and her husband, Larry. Now she runs the fair, which is more work than anything else if you ask me. Anyway, she’s one of these people who make you feel totally inadequate, except you’re glad: If she’s doing it, you don’t have to.”
    PTA?
    “Oh,” I said. “She didn’t mention all that. Mostly, we looked at her work and talked about the scarf. But I did meet Zeke, on my way out. He told me he went to Case. Rose was his kindergarten teacher.”
    Tamara joined in. “Rose was everyone’s kindergarten teacher, everyone who went to Case. There’s only one kindergarten. You know she left a scholarship?”
    “Really?” Lisa said.
    “It’s for Newton North graduates who went to Case,” Tamara said. “College scholarship. Didn’t you see? It was in The Tab and The Graphic. ”
    “Jack didn’t mention it,” I said. “I saw him the other day. I guess he started it. It’s funny he didn’t say anything.” Tamara shook her head. “It was Rose. You can contribute— probably he will, obviously—but it was Rose. I mean, they never had any children.” She lowered her voice. “And there was money there. From her parents. She was an only child, and when they died, she got a bundle. And what else did she have to do with it? He doesn’t need it, he’s a broker. The bulk of it must go to him, but he doesn’t need it, so why not?”
    “Where did you hear that?” Lisa said.
    “My sister. Her husband’s a broker. He knows Jack. Everyone knew