The Dogfather

sacrifice her dignity by starting a dog fight, even with Kimi, whom India viewed as a threat to civilization as India knew it and liked it. Kimi, in turn, saw India as a complacent reactionary who’d been co-opted by the forces of repression and thus constituted a threat to the ultimate triumph of radical canine feminism. As to Kimi’s views about Lady, Steve’s pointer, Kimi showed a regrettable lack of sisterly feeling. Far from sympathizing with Lady’s fearfulness, Kimi went out of her way to intimidate Lady by grabbing Lady’s toys, barging ahead of her, and slamming into her as if by accident. India, who was nobly protective of Lady, would glare at Kimi, who’d return the silent warning with a snarl. Rowdy respected India and liked Lady, who was frightened of him and stayed out of his way. And Sammy? Two male malamutes might learn to coexist. Or might not. The Kimi-Sammy combo? But why on earth was I working out the possibilities of living with all five dogs when Steve and I, far from being on the verge of combining households, had merely advanced to sharing a table at a restaurant?
    “How is that?” I referred to his main course, a trendy version of beef Wellington.
    “Excellent. Outstanding.” Steve was using his knife and fork with surgical precision. At the dinner table, as at the operating table, he was deft and neat. Around the house, too, Steve had always washed his own dishes. He’d never left piles of damp towels on the floor. He’d prepared and sorted the recyclables correctly. Not that the habit of depositing unrinsed bottles in the wrong bin would’ve made him hopelessly unforgivable; I probably have it in me to care deeply for someone who can’t or won’t follow simple directions. The point about Steve was that he was astoundingly considerate and didn’t expect other people to clean up after him. The mess he’d made by marrying
    Anita? He’d take full responsibility for tidying it up all by himself.
    “How’s yours?” he asked.
    Asparagus risotto. The restaurant, Aspasia, was stylishly New American Mediterranean rather than Italian. In fact it was more Greek than it was Italian. Well, the menu really wasn’t Italian at all. Not in the least. Except for the risotto. The item I’d chosen.
    “Out of this world.” I thought about offering him a taste from my fork, but settled for transferring a portion to his plate.
    We talked about how lucky we were to have such a wonderful restaurant only a block from my house. Good food was Steve’s only extravagance. He still lived in the apartment over his vet clinic and still drove the dog-scented van he’d had for years. Unlike my new acquaintances, he didn’t wear flashy rings, gold chains, or ID bracelets. He’d never worn a wedding ring. The only thing remotely like jewelry he ever wore was a watch, and he wore it strictly to tell time, not to make a statement. Steve’s idea of making a statement was saying outright exactly what he meant. Even my horrible cat loved him.
    I thought about telling him that Tracker missed him, but was afraid that he’d correctly understand that the statement was more about me than about the cat. I also rejected the possibility of asking how his mother was. She wasn’t giving to hissing and scratching in Tracker fashion. Still, the topic of difficult females could all too easily lead to the vile Anita, and I wanted to avoid referring to her at all. Naturally, I had questions about her (“So, is she going to end up in jail?”) and about the end of their marriage (“How’s the divorce progressing?”), but I suppressed them. The category of difficult females probably included me, too. At the moment, my ridiculous case of first-date nerves couldn’t have been easy to take.
    “The risotto is so creamy,” I said. “It’s delicious. I love the way it feels....” I stopped there, without adding, “on my tongue.”
    Happily for my tongue-tied state, Rita and the man in her life, Artie Spicer, entered the restaurant just then. After greeting us, they were shown to a table far enough away from us to allow me to talk about them without being overheard, not that I had anything terrible to report or opine. Still, it would’ve been tactless to let Rita and Artie listen in as I dissected their romance in more or less the same way Steve was dissecting the beef Wellington. Rita was a friend of Steve’s, and he knew Artie, too, so they involuntarily provided us with a topic of common interest, as I felt