Ruffly Speaking

need.”
    “Fine,” Rita said. “Fair enough. But how about coming to me directly and—”
    “Because I have already done it! And meanwhile Willie’s gotten steadily worse, and you haven’t made the slightest move to do a thing about it, that’s why, and yesterday, I finally ran out of patience—”
    “And took it upon yourself, knowing full well how I feel about people intruding in my private space and also knowing full well exactly how I feel about imprisoning dogs in cages —”
    “Damn it, Rita, I did not imprison Willie. All I did was crate him temporarily with not just one but two very attractive chew toys so that he’d learn a socially acceptable way to entertain himself when you’re not home.” I broke off. “Speaking of which, since you disapprove so strongly of my vicious methods, and since you’re so busy returning my instruments of torture, where’s the rawhide?”
    Rita shifted her feet and pursed her lips, but she said nothing.
    “You tried to get it away from him, didn’t you?” I said vindictively. “But Willie wouldn’t give it up, would he?” Although I knew I was right, gloating was entirely unnecessary and unsporting, and I am thoroughly ashamed of it. But I was right. If Willie had rejected the rawhide or if she’d simply forgotten it, she wouldn’t have been half so furious at me.
    Instead of yelling, Rita took a deep breath, held it, and exhaled slowly. I had the impression that she wasn’t merely respirating, but was performing some kind of mind-body or, worse yet, mindbody—one word—exercise she’d learned in the eight-session stress-reduction workshop she’d taken the previous winter. Eight sessions. Sound familiar? Basic beginners’ dog training. Eight sessions. World’s most effective stress reduction. And Rita’s silly, pointless breathe-your-way-to-inner-peace beginners’ human soul training had even met on Thursday nights. But not at the armory. Not where my friends and I are training our dogs. Those charlatan gurus are smart enough to shield their clients from a clear view of the genuine secret of cosmic harmony.
    “Rita, look. I probably shouldn’t have used my key,” I conceded, “but what choice did I have? I have tried to talk to you about the barking, and you have not done a damn thing about it, and the reason is, I think, because you don’t get how big the problem is. Look. Willie is suffering from bored dog syndrome. And when you’re home, he isn’t bored, so he doesn’t do it, so you don’t hear how bad it is. But you do know that the Donovans aren’t complainers, and it isn’t too hard to guess that if Willie keeps it up, what they’re going to do is just nicely and politely find another apartment. And what am I sup-posed to do? And what about Kevin? And Mrs. Dennehy? And the other—”
    “All right! Did I say there wasn’t a problem? There’s a problem.”
    "And all I did, Rita, was to do exactly what any other reasonable, contemporary dog trainer would’ve done. Modern methods. No pain, no discomfort, no force. Lock him up in a safe place for a short time, and—”
    “Holly, at the risk of repeating myself, I do not like to see dogs in cages, and, furthermore, this high-handed—”
    “Fine,” I said. “We’ll have it your way, then. You don’t like positive methods? Great. There are plenty of others, and Willie’s your dog.” I switched to my most obsequious salesperson voice. “Now what would you prefer, madam? I don’t happen to have any shock collars in stock right now, but I can certainly order one for you, or... Let’s check what’s on hand. I’ll be right back.”
    I dashed to my study, rummaged around in the boxes Beryl had sent, and hustled back to the kitchen with a dog-silencing device in each hand. In my absence, Rita had taken her usual seat at the table. At first glance, I was tempted to hope that the move signaled the beginning of a return to the comfort of our friendship. Then I realized that I had caught Rita’s habit of overpsychologizing everything. Rita sat down only because her feet hurt. Moral: If you intend to stand your ground, don’t wear high heels.
    “Here,” I announced, raising my left hand, “is your simple old low-tech no-bark, no-bite Velcro-fastened muzzle. Just clamp Willie’s jaws together, slap it on, and there you go! No noise. Or not much, anyway. Of course, he won’t be able to eat or drink anything while he’s got it on, and he’ll probably manage to claw it