Ruffly Speaking

rapidly.
    As I started to say more, Bernadette cut in. “You don’t understand. You’re worried that, with Ivan, this is some kind of passing fad. What you don’t know is that Ivan doesn’t have passing fads. Ask him to show you his collections.”
    “What does he collect?”
    “Wildflowers.Feathers. Bird feathers. He’s been doing that since he was three. They’re all in scrapbooks, all cataloged. And if you think he’s just looking at the pictures in the dog books—”
    “No—”
    “He’s been reading since he was four. He taught himself.”
    “He’s very gifted. That’s not the issue. One issue... Look, it seems to me that we both need a little time to think this over. I’m going to leave some things for you to read, about malamutes and about adopting adult dogs, okay? For you. Not just for Ivan. And you think about whether this is something you really want to do. And in the meantime, I’m going to ask around about the dogs we have available.” Then I lightened up and said that I hoped we could work something out. I meant it. We desperately need good homes. (Interested? Alaskan Malamute Protection League, P.O. Box 170, Cedar Crest, NM 87008.)
    Bernadette said that she hoped we could work something out, too. After that, she insisted that I have lunch. To my relief, she brought out a big loaf of Italian bread and four kinds of French cheese, and made a salad of the fancy baby greens she’d been washing. When Ivan rejoined us, I tactfully suggested a few breeds other than the malamute that might interest him.
    “But I’m not really interested in keeshonden,” he replied solemnly, with an emphasis on the correct plural. “What I’m interested in is Alaskan malamutes.”
    “Besides, Ivan doesn’t get interested," Bernadette said cheerfully. “What he gets is obsessed."
     

25
     
     On the assumption that the godly, like the dogly, are early risers, I’d been tempted to phone the twice-blessed Stephanie Benson at seven that morning, but I’d waited until nine o’clock, an hour before I’d considered it civil to call Bernadette, especially on a Saturday that was also a holiday, the Fourth of July. When I reached Stephanie, however, she cheerfully assured me that she’d been up for hours and had, in fact, just returned from the Star Market, where she’d impulsively decided to celebrate Ruffly’s symbolic birthday—Independence Day? Did I remember?— and her renewed faith in him by having a little barbecue. Could I come?
    “Steve and I—” I started to say.
    “Oh, Steve’s invited, too. After all, it’s a celebration of Ruffly.” Stephanie sounded so elated that I had to accept.
    My reluctance? I’ll confess to a prejudice against dog parties, which aren’t very popular in New England, but are a growing trend in other parts of the country, especially Halloween costume parties to raise funds for humane societies and breed rescue groups. I don’t object to wearing a costume, but I’m so averse to making my dogs look ridiculous that the one time I simply had to attend one of these affairs, I compromised by going as Sergeant Preston and putting red harnesses on Rowdy and Kimi. Unfortunately, everyone saw through my ruse, and we didn’t get a prize. Also, the dogs hated what was supposed to be the main canine fun event, bobbing for hot dogs. They kept trying to filch splintery chicken bones that could have punctured their intestinal tracts, so I spent most of the so-called party sticking my hand down Rowdy’s and Kimi’s throats to fish for dangerous objects, and ended up eating what I tried to think of as dog-person chicken salad, cold drumsticks coated in fresh saliva.
    But this wasn’t October 31, costumes were out of the question, and Rowdy and Kimi weren’t invited. Besides, Stephanie had a good reason to celebrate. Her account of the gas grill incident agreed with Leah’s. Stephanie hadn’t smelled the gas because the wind was blowing it away from her. It made only a faint hiss that she might well have missed. It was also possible that her aids had cut out, she said; they were still giving her trouble. And Matthew was right: She shouldn’t smoke. Even so, if it hadn’t been for Ruffly? Well, no matter what else was going on with him, he’d demonstrated his complete reliability.
    As I’ve said, from a dog writer’s point of view, the rescue would have been a lot better if Ruffly had dramatically saved Stephanie’s life about two seconds before it was