The Dogfather

sure they’d have done voluntarily if they’d been asked. But you can hardly walk up to a couple and say, “We’re having an awkward time and need a subject of conversation, and I was wondering whether you’d mind if we talked about you.”
    I, of course, was determined to discuss everything about Rita, Artie, and their relationship except the crucial matter of where it was heading, but Steve, as usual, eventually got to the point by asking, “Where do you think things are going with them?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “What does Rita say?”
    “She says she doesn’t know.” After she’d said that, she’d go on to ask me where I thought things were going with Steve and me, and she’d press me about where I wanted things to go, but since I was having trouble talking easily with Steve about such emotionally neutral topics as risotto, I didn’t feel ready to wonder aloud what we wanted from each other and whether it was even a good idea for us to be sitting here together ordering creme brulee. When the dessert arrived, it felt luxuriously sensuous on my tongue. I interpreted the sensation as a good omen, but kept the prognostication to myself.
    When we left the restaurant, light rain was falling. Steve took my hand, and with arms swinging, we almost danced along Concord Avenue, around the corner to Appleton Street, and up my driveway.
    “You feel like a walk?” he asked.
    “Yes. Sammy and Kimi?”
    Kimi, not Rowdy, got to go on the walk with Sammy because of the weather. To an extraordinary degree, Rowdy possessed an Arctic dog’s primitive and powerful defense against dying of hypothermia: He absolutely hated getting wet. Kimi didn’t loathe rain with Rowdy’s passionate intensity. According to Steve, little Sammy had not inherited his father’s determination never to set paw outdoors on damp ground. While I changed into jeans, a sweatshirt, and rain gear, Steve got Sammy from his crate and set off for the corner of Concord Avenue and Walden Street, where we’d arranged to meet. Contrary to popular myth, adult dogs do not necessarily extend tolerance to puppies; on the contrary, in some cases, the adults maim or kill the puppies. Although Kimi already knew Sammy in the scent sense, since he’d been running all over the house, Steve and I had decided to abide by the policy of introducing Kimi and Sammy face-to-face on neutral territory, not in Kimi’s own house or yard.
    Kimi and I followed Steve and Sammy’s route along Concord Avenue. Ignoring the traffic, Kimi did her bit for female liberation by repeatedly lifting her leg and kicking her heels in the air. From a half a block away, I saw Steve bending over Sammy, who was in that adorable stand-and-lean stance that male puppies use before hormones impel them to start imitating tough-minded female malamutes. As Kimi and I drew near, I could hear Steve murmuring the inevitable, “Good dog. Good puppy! Good boy.” My eyes were on Kimi. Resisting the urge to tighten her leash, I concentrated on observing her response to Sammy. Misted by the rain, his fluffy puppy coat stood out as if he’d just been groomed. Catching sight of him, Kimi briefly halted. Her hackles stayed down, her ears perked up, and her face took on a wondrous expression of amazement, as if she were a disbeliever in magic who’d suddenly seen a unicorn. As if this angelic behavior were exactly what I’d expected, I said, “Good girl, Kimi. Sammy sure is cute, isn’t he?”
    The temptation, of course, was to let Kimi and Sammy run right up to each other.
    “Give Kimi another minute or two,” Steve said. “Let’s walk. I’ll keep Sammy just out of striking distance.”
    “Kimi’s decided to like Sammy.” Hearing me speak her name, she looked up at me, but rapidly transferred her attention back to Sammy, who was bouncing, pulling, running, halting, turning to look at the passing cars, and practically turning somersaults. Kimi regarded his antics with open curiosity.
    “Okay, let’s give it a try,” Steve told me.
    We decreased the distance between the dogs. Kimi trotted up to Sammy. She towered over him. Seeing just that, Sammy sensibly rolled onto his back on the sidewalk to present his underbelly. Like a dog pediatrician, Kimi gave him a brief but thorough exam. Then I stepped back, called her to me, and doled out a liver treat. “Perfect!” I was talking to Steve as well as to Kimi. Now that I think of it, I guess that in relating this meeting of the dogs, I’m