The Dogfather

treats for going outside (“Good puppy!”), I didn’t have to step in at all. The mistake Guarini had made in trying to housebreak Frey had been the common one of letting him out. To house-train a puppy, you don’t just let him out. You take him out so you’re right there to reinforce the desired behavior.
    After recess, Sammy had nap time in a pint-size crate, while I worked with Frey on the fundamentals of canine civilization: come, sit, down, stay. Guarini’s pup and I practiced off leash in my kitchen, in my living room, and in my fenced yard; and on leash in my driveway. As I told Frey, he was brilliant, excellent, wonderful; he was my good dog, my good puppy, my good Frey. He learned quickly, and, in so doing, he was rapidly going to break my ties to his master. The puppies then got another run in the yard. When I’d crated the little ones, Rowdy and Kimi got to go outside. After returning the big dogs to their crates, I again worked with Frey, and then he and Sammy tore around. Finally, I leashed Frey, took him into the yard, and in calm, rewarding circumstances, introduced him to startling stimuli: a bicycle and a bicycle horn. Back in the house, Frey met Tracker, my cat.
    Two hours of puppy home-schooling felt like twenty minutes. After Zap had picked up Frey, far from being tired, I was so energized that I whipped off a column for Dog’s Life about the happy privilege of seeing the world through puppy eyes. In the late afternoon, Guarini and I did phone-assisted dog training. I sat at my kitchen table sipping coffee, scratching Rowdy under the chin, and talking to Guarini. The same capo who juggled racketeering, extortion, money laundering, and so forth somehow couldn’t manage Frey, the clicker, the treats, and his cell phone all at once, so he used a speaker phone to listen to me coach him in attention training and in the basic obedience exercises Frey and I had practiced that morning. An advantage of helping an experienced dog person like Guarini was that he understood the importance of keeping the training session short and fun. He had a good voice for dogs, and his praise was genuine. I hoped that the successful day would set a pattern for the next few weeks, by the end of which Guarini would no longer need my help with Frey.
    Feeling optimistic, I checked my e-mail. In addition to the usual zillion messages I always get from Malamute-L, Dogwriters-L, Caninebackpackers, a couple of obedience lists, and the list for members of the Alaskan Malamute Club of America, I had two personal messages. One message was from my friend Mary Wood, who lived in California. Mary’s position in the malamute community—Family Redefined—was similar to mine. Mary had only two dogs, both malamutes, a male and a female. Like Rowdy and Kimi, Mr. Wookie and Miss Pooh were beloved house pets as well as show dogs. Mr. Wookie had rocketed to “mal-fame” at the age of fourteen months by winning Grand Sweepstakes the Alaskan Malamute National Speciality in Louisville, Kentucky. Rocketed? It was his first show. That’s impressive. Now, like Rowdy, he was what’s called a “specials dog”—a dog who has finished his championship and is competing for Best of Breed and stardom in the Working Group. Lots of people who campaign specials use professional handlers, but Mary Wood handled Mr. Wookie herself. Malamute people used to say that if Mary really wanted the dog to go places, she’d have to hire a professional. Mary silenced her critics by owner-handling Mr. Wookie to Best of Breed at the National Specialty and, soon thereafter, at the AKC/Eukanuba Classic. Showing Mr. Wookie was the point of Mary’s e-mail. The two of them were coming to New England.
    Mary gave me their jam-packed itinerary; no one travels all the way from California to enter one show. Their first show in this area was the Saturday after next. As I told Mary in my e-mail reply, Rowdy and Kimi were both entered. As I didn’t tell her, with Mr. Wookie in the ring, Rowdy was going to lose. Rowdy is a good dog and a good show dog, but reality is reality, and the judge, Harry Howland, had had Mr. Wookie in his ring before and loved him every time. So why not leave Rowdy at home? Because the more dogs Mr. Wookie defeated, the higher he’d rise in the rankings, that’s why. Yes, I’m a good sport.
    The second message was from Steve, who invited me to dinner at Aspasia, a divine restaurant on Walden Street only a block from my house. I e-mailed my