Paws before dying

answered.
    “Jack is busy at the moment,” she said. “This is his sister, Dr. Zager. May I help you?”
    “This is Holly Winter,” I said. “Fluoride trays? Malamutes? We talked about brushing their teeth?”
    “Uh, yes. Is there a problem? With—?”
    “No, not at all. Actually, all I need is the number for a guy named Jim O’Brian. He was a student teacher of Rose’s. I met him there at Jack’s. If there’s an address book with phone numbers there, or a Rolodex or something, maybe you could check it for me. I’m trying to place a rescue dog. I thought he might be interested.”
    Charlotte Zager asked the right question. It boosted my confidence in her: “What kind of a dog is it?”
    “A malamute. Spayed female, four years old. Are you—?”
    “I might be.”
    “Do you have any cats?” I always ask that. If the answer’s yes, mine is no. Some malamutes like cats. Some like cats for dinner.
    “Two,” she said. “And Daisy, of course. She’s a springer spaniel.”
    “Then you don’t want this dog.” I felt like St. Michael weighing her soul and finding that the scales tipped in the wrong direction. Heaven’s all right, but it’s not quite appropriate for your situation. “I don’t know her history, but malamutes aren’t usually great with cats.” Or other dogs. It’s true, but I feel guilty if I say it aloud.
    “Oh, well. O’Brian? Here it is. Jim O’Brian.” She gave me a number that started with 332, a Newton number. Then we talked a little. My teeth and my dogs were fine, I said. She said that Jack was, too.
    By the time I hung up, Leah was in her room reading Northanger Abbey aloud to Kimi. I was alone with Rowdy. Alone.
    “Alone,” I said to him. I sank to the floor, downed him, and massaged his big fur-dripping neck. “We are alone! Savor it, buddy. So the story is, now I have his number and an excuse. Well, okay, not an excuse. He really might like her. So I’ve got an excuse to call, right? Hey, Jim, how’d you like to adopt a nice malamute bitch, spayed, four years old, no history of abuse, and speaking of which, when you were student-teaching with Rose and she filed that 51 A, was it the Brawleys or someone else? Natural, right?”
    Jim O’Brian was home when I phoned, and although I led U P to the topic of abuse somewhat more indirectly and discreetly than I’d rehearsed with Rowdy, what I had to say was pretty much the same thing. I reminded him that he’d said he might be interested in a rescue dog. Then I described the dog and made sure he didn’t have any cats. Finally, I took a deep breath and tried to sound casual. “The woman who’s got her doesn’t see any sign of abuse. There’s no guarantee, and sometimes you can’t tell. Maybe it’s like that with children, too. Maybe you can’t always tell.”
    “Not always,” he agreed.
    “Like those people Rose filed the 51A on? Well, something sort of like that can happen with dogs. You’d never suspect the owners, and then suddenly some situation crops up.” Remember, I was trying to sound casual and natural, and in the dog world, that means talking on and on about dogs. “And the dog’s shaking all over. And you have to wonder what happened the last time he was in that situation, you know? In the back of a van, on a boat, whatever. But I guess with children, you’re more apt to see the physical signs, like bruises, like with Zeke Brawley.”
    “Yeah, judging by the parents, you wouldn’t’ve thought, but even when you see the child, you can’t always tell.”
    If I’d used the wrong name, he’d have corrected me. Whew. He’d certainly remember that he’d been indiscreet, but would he be absolutely sure he’d stopped short of using their names? Did it matter? Rose could’ve told me.
    “Well, with this malamute,” I said, “there’s no sign, but you never know for sure. Anyway, I hear she’s a sweetheart. You want to take a look at her?”
    He did. I gave him Tina’s number. Was that ethical? Is it right to place an Alaskan malamute, a member of dogdom’s royalty, a noble creature of shining intelligence, with a mere human blabbermouth? Sure. Jim O’Brian had loose lips, but the dog wouldn’t care.
    I hung up and gently rubbed the left side of my head, which felt hot and almost swollen. To own a malamute, you need muscular arms and a strong will. Insensitive ears help, too—outer, not inner. Malamutes woo-woo, but it’s nothing compared with the way human beings blah-blah