Stud Rites

damn sob stories,” I actually overheard him say. ”Don’t know what Sherri Ann thought she was doing giving so much as a plugged nickel to her and her bunch of mongrels.”
    Victor Printz was addressing a distinguished-look-ing gray-haired woman whose face I’d seen in show photos, but whose name I’d forgotten. She nodded to Victor. ”Most of this rescue business is a lot of crap.” Her deep, resonant voice brought her name and identity to me: Harriet Lunt, a member of the board of our national breed club and a lawyer who specialized in matters that concerned dogs. She published articles in the dog magazines about co-ownership agreements, stud dog powers of attorney, contracts between breeders and puppy buyers, and all that sort of thing. ”I, for one,” this cyno-legal eagle continued, ”don’t mind saying that I don’t believe in throwing away good money on trash dogs.”
    In my anger at Harriet Lunt, I forgave Betty Burley everything. Two pieces of paper had disappeared, and Betty had blamed me. So what! After years of fighting the vile opposition of people like this snotty Harriet Lunt, Betty had every reason for her incendiary temper. No matter what, Betty was always on the side of the dogs. Therefore I forgave Betty anything.
    ”I must say, though,” Harriet Lunt observed in a tone of condescending resignation, ”that sometimes at those god-awful rescue parades, the tear-jerking goes on for hours. At least their little performance last night was blessedly short.”
    Looking down at the old Malamute Quarterly s in my hand, I saw that I’d have to buy the top one. I’d torn the front cover. I’d ruined the bottom one, too. My grip had made crease marks, and the sweat from my hands would leave permanent stains. As proof of my honesty, let me report that I immediately paid for all five issues I was clutching.
    Then I swerved around and gave Harriet Lunt the kind of eye-to-eye stare that it’s dangerous to direct to a strange dog. Furthermore, when I spoke, I smiled very broadly, thus baring my teeth. ”Trash dogs, huh?” I said. ”Interesting perspective.” I added, ”My name is Holly Winter. I’m a columnist for Dog’s Life.” That’s true. ”But right now,” I said, meaning as of the last three seconds, ”I’m writing a piece for the Gazette.”
    Pure-bred Dogs/American Kennel Gazette: the official publication of the American Kennel Club, and one with which I have no connection whatsoever except, when I get lucky, as an occasional freelance contributor. ”And I couldn’t help hearing what you said just now,” I chirped, ”and when I did, I said to myself, ’Well, now, Holly, isn’t this someone with a distinctive point of view that AKC will certainly want represented!’ Because, you see,” I confided, ”with AKC so in favor of breed rescue, making the whole thing so politically correct, it’s unusual to hear someone express a divergent opinion.” I showed Victor my fangs. ”And you, too, of course,” I told him. ”So, if the two of you don’t mind, I’d just love to quote you. What did you say your names were?”
    With an indignant toss of her head, Harriet Lunt said that she couldn’t imagine what I thought I’d overheard. ”I, for one, have always been a very, very strong supporter of rescue,” she announced, ”and I know for a fact that Victor has been, too.”
    She gave me her full name and Victor’s. I promised to quote her. Now I have. Victor again broke his lifelong silence to inform me—Holly Winter, the eyes and ears of AKC—that his wife, Sherri Ann Printz, a top breeder, had donated a valuable item to Alaskan Malamute Rescue. Said precious donation to be auctioned off on Saturday night. His wife had made it herself. She’d used the hair of a legendary dog, a malamute, Ch. Northpole’s Comet, R.O.M.
    In her deep courtroom voice, Harriet Lunt added what felt like a contribution to the defense of Sherri Ann Printz. ”Sherri Ann is so proud of her beautiful lamp! Last night, at the end of our Parade of Veterans and Titleholders, she took me by the arm and led me right over to the little rescue booth so I could admire it. She can’t help showing it off to absolutely everyone. It is truly a work of art.”
    I wasn’t thinking about art, though. Or even about the lamp. What kept ringing in my ears and through my mind was Harriet Lunt’s voice. Jeanine has been sure about those cruel people: Men, she’d said damningly. Arlette had corrected her: