The Dogfather

bore a gift. There were differences, certainly. For one thing, I’m a woman, and for another, wise was a bit of an exaggeration. If asked, I’d’ve settled for knowledgeable. My gift was a small hunk of roast beef. When it comes to dogs, I really am knowledgeable. Case in point: In a life spent in the company of canines, I had yet to meet a puppy who gave a sweet dog damn about gold, myrrh, or frankincense. Come to think of it, had the infant Jesus been all that crazy about such wildly inappropriate baby presents? Jesus, I’m sure, had been more than capable of remembering that it’s the thought that counts. Steve’s puppy would take beef over intentions any day.
    When I say that Steve and I waited at the baggage claim, I don’t mean that we watched for a puppy-size airline crate to drop down onto a conveyor belt among suitcases twice its size. Rather, we waited nearby until a rolling metal door surged upward to reveal a small shipping crate plastered with Live Animal stickers, This Way Up arrows, a small transparent envelope of airline paperwork, and, sealed under clear tape, a sheet of paper with information about who was sending the puppy to whom and instructions about what to do if the puppy got marooned somewhere.
    Although auras are invisible to me, I nonetheless saw a glow of happiness radiate all around Steve as he took slow, deliberate steps forward, hunkered down, peered thoughtfully through the wire mesh door of the crate, and finally unlatched the little door. After the long hours alone in a crate in the cacophonous belly of an airliner, any small animal could have been excused for shyness, anxiety, or even outright post-traumatic stress. Not this little guy! When Steve eased the wire door open a scant two inches, a black nose thrust its eager way out, and immediately, catching Steve entirely off guard, the rest of the baby malamute followed. With the confidence built over years of handling wiggly little creatures, Steve enveloped Rowdy’s young son in a bear hug and then sank his face into the soft coat on top of the puppy’s head. Caught between an overwhelming urge to get my hands on the puppy and an absolute unwillingness to intrude on the bonding, I compromised by reaching out a hand and resting it on the pup’s back. Under his soft puppy coat were hard bone and muscle that foretold the power he’d pack as an adult. His ribs rose and fell under my hand. Then, as if responding in kind to Steve’s ursine hug, he scrambled up Steve’s chest like a little bear climbing a big tree. When his face reached Steve’s, he nibbled and licked, and his miniature tail whipped back and forth. He had Rowdy’s blocky muzzle and Rowdy’s perfect pigment and Rowdy’s bittersweet-chocolate eyes. When Steve carefully lowered him to the floor, I could see that this miniature Rowdy was going to have his father’s excellent bone as well.
    Admiringly, Steve said, “Even better than your pictures, aren’t you, big boy?”
    “It’s amazing,” I said. “He already looks exactly like—” For once, Steve interrupted. “Cindy didn’t tell you? She told me. Little male version of Emma. Perfect pigment, blocky muzzle, heavy bone. Just like his mother.”
    “May I point out that Rowdy has perfect pigment? Not to mention a blocky muzzle, heavy bone... but, of course, Emma does go back to the same lines Rowdy does, on her mother’s side. That’s one reason Cindy wanted to use him.”
    With a shy smile, Steve said, “The universal affliction.”
    “Are you suggesting that I of all people am kennel blind? Objectively speaking, this puppy is a carbon copy of Rowdy.”
    Sensibly changing the subject, the duplicate little Rowdy began to sniff and circle in the universal manner of puppies who may not yet realize that they need to go out, but who certainly do.
    “Hurry! I’ll get the crate. I’ll meet you just outside the door.” I pointed to a nearby exit.
    With Rowdy’s son safely in his arms, Steve sprinted off. It took me only a moment to shut the door of the crate, which was pint-size by comparison with the ones I used for Rowdy and Kimi, so small that it had a handle on top. Carrying the crate by the handle, I made my way to the exit Steve had taken, but as I was about to go through the door, Zap appeared. This time, he noticed me.
    “Hey,” he said, “you get the message?”
    Having seen all three Godfather movies, I broke into a sweat. I knew everything about Sicilian messages and was acutely