The Barker Street Regulars

malamute, either, but a legend, a champion, a dog I’d admired at shows for years and years. The original Tracker, the famous dog, like my gourmet cat-food star, just so happened to have been big, gray, and gorgeous, and also happened to have been what this cat was not but should have been: an Alaskan malamute. And Paw Print ? Arguably the most famous line in the Sacred Writings: “Mr. Holmes, they were the footprints of a gigantic hound.” So you see? The ad, the cat, the devil, big, gray, and gorgeous. The original Tracker, the show dog, admittedly, had correct malamute eyes, dark, not amber, and his color was dark wolf gray. Even so! My cat: Tracker. I said it aloud. “Tracker.” Then I said, “My cat, Tracker.” Then I tried, “My cat, Kalla’s Paw Print.” I cheated: “My cat, Champion Kaila’s Paw Print.” Modestly, I added, “But she’s called Tracker.”
    So I’d attained my first goal: Tracker had a name. And I’d broken the cycle of negativity. Tracker was a champion. She was a gorgeous gray legend with Holmesian connotations. She was virtually an Alaskan malamute. Fired up by the successful christening, I outlined a systematic-desensitization program designed to convince Tracker that I was a wonderful human being and to remind me that she was all but a champion Alaskan malamute. Then I put the program in operation. I entered my study and calmly took a seat on the floor. Tracker hissed at me. I showed no response. She remained on my mouse pad. I thought loudly and silently, You, there, Tracker! You won three Best of Breeds at specialty shows, you have multiple group wins and placements to your credit, two awards of merit at National Specialities, AND you went Best of Breed twice at Westminster! Tracker was unimpressed with herself. I admired her humility. After five minutes, I quietly left the room. At a later stage, I’d need help in training the dogs. Steve, I was certain, would cooperate by holding Tracker at a safe distance from them, but still in sight. For today, I settled for rewarding calm canine behavior outside the door of my study. I made a start.
    Only when I was congratulating myself on relying on my own rational methods instead of Irene Wheeler’s mind reading did I recall in a sort of verbal rush that it had been Irene Wheeler who had insisted that the cat was frightened, that the cat needed more attention than she was getting, that the dogs were curious about the cat and about my attitude of alarm, and that they were used to being given guidance about the behavior I wanted from them. In other words, in applying my own rational methods as carefully as Holmes applied his, I’d done precisely what Irene Wheeler had suggested. The damn thing was this: The psychic had been absolutely right.
     

Chapter Twenty-two
     
    A GREAT SPIRIT,” PRONOUNCED Irene Wheeler. After examining the photograph, she’d kept her eyes shut for a long time. I’d stared at her lids to see whether she was cheating, but had seen no sign that she was peeking at me to gauge my response. My eyes had been damp. The muscles around my mouth had twitched.
    “Vinnie,” I said, “was perfection itself.”
    Vinnie could answer the telephone. If canine anatomy hadn’t impeded her, she’d have issued a polite hello. She was as reliably and zestfully obedient in daily life as she was in the ring, where, I might add, she earned consistently high scores. Oh, and she loved cats. Introduced to Tracker, Vinnie would have played nursemaid by licking the poor creature’s wound. In our obedience work, I’d slaved to deserve her. Was she flawless? Whenever she encountered a rotten fish on the beach or a decomposing squirrel in the woods, she’d flop down and wiggle in wild delight; her favorite perfume was Eau de Dead Thing. She carried herself with an air of moral superiority; she was an unreformed teacher’s pet. Ours was not a relationship of equals: I was the teacher, and she was the pet. Steve’s skill and my mercy spared her the last agony of cancer. She died in my arms. Now, I made no effort to hide my feelings from Irene Wheeler. If you want proof of cannibalism, the bait to offer is your own flesh.
    Today, Wednesday, Irene Wheeler wore a navy linen suit, a silk blouse, and leather pumps. I hadn’t taken off my anorak, which was cobalt blue, brighter than navy. I reminded myself that according to the L.L. Bean catalog, the anorak’s polyester fleece was twice as warm as natural fibers. It was the