The Dogfather

leaped right on top of Kimi and now had her pinned. Kimi’s head was tucked down in what I felt sure was an effort to protect whatever edible treasure had impelled her to jump into the limo in the first place. How did I know it was edible? Because I know my Kimi. Her determination to maintain possession of her booty impeded her ability to rid herself of Rowdy, whose jaws were locked on the skin at the back of her neck. Both dogs issued deep, throaty growls. In the rare battles that occur between Rowdy and Kimi, hideous rumbling and yelping are actually a good sign. With luck, the dogs pierce the air instead of rending each other’s flesh.
    I sprang to the rear seat, kneeled, and bellowed orders. “Rowdy, enough! Leave it!” Wrapping my left hand around his rolled-leather collar, I shoved the fingers of my right hand into that spot between the molars and the temporomandibular joint. “Let go!” Switching to a happy tone of voice, I caroled, “Rowdy, watch me right now!”
    Ten zillion hours of obedience training, and I’m always stunned when the dog obeys. I could feel Rowdy’s head turn slightly. As his jaws loosened their grip, I yanked him off Kimi and then dragged him across the luxurious carpet and up onto the opposite seat, where I planted him between the surprised Neanderthal and the amazed vampire. Rowdy weighed only a bit over eighty-five pounds, but his thick double coat combined with his weighty manner created the illusion of tremendous size. Even so, had the rear-facing seat been one of those flimsy folddown affairs, it would’ve collapsed under Rowdy and the two men. Fortunately, it was a full bench seat. Not that getting abducted in any limousine is exactly fortunate, but better in a luxury limo than in some cut-rate job, I guess.
    Addressing the vampire, I said, “You! Grab the dog’s collar and hang on to it. His name is Rowdy. He’s a good dog. He won’t bite you. Grab his collar!”
    Rowdy really is a good dog. He’s anything but a sore loser, and he loves meeting new people. Finding himself ensconced between our captors, Rowdy was bright-eyed and waggle-tailed. The men, in contrast, looked stupefied. The damned vampire still hadn’t obeyed my order.
    “Take his collar,” I repeated. As a dog trainer, I believe in giving a command only once, but what choice did I have?
    This time, he complied.
    Ever mindful of the power of positive reinforcement, I said, “Good! Very good. Now just hang on to him.”
    Then I turned my attention to Kimi, who still lay outstretched on the rear seat. As I’d suspected, she was gnawing on something. Grasped between her massive front paws was a damp and flattened white carton, the kind used for take-out food. Although Kimi will eat absolutely anything, she shares my fondness for Italian food, especially pizza. The leather seat was smeared with creamy glop that could’ve been mozzarella, but it was also dusted with white powder. Pizza is harmless. But white powder? Heroin? Cocaine?
    “What is my dog eating?” I demanded. “What is this damned powder?”
    The men opposite me exchanged glances over Rowdy’s bulk.
    “Joey,” said the vampire, “you left ’em there? Moron.”
    Instead of waiting the millennia it might’ve taken this remnant of the Ice Age to evolve toward articulate speech, I rummaged in my pockets and found a morsel of homemade liver brownie. “Kimi, trade!” I said brightly. Snatching the soggy carton from her mouth, I kept my part of the bargain by popping in the treat. “Good girl.”
    Revealed in the soft lights of the limo, Kimi’s slimy loot proved to be more or less what I’d surmised, a medium-size piece of thin cardboard, gray on one side, white on the other. Squished and chewed, it was nonetheless recognizable as a pastry box. The white powder, then, thank dog spelled backward, was nothing more harmful than confectioner’s sugar.
    “Doughnuts?” I asked.
    Stupid me.
    To my amazement, it was the Neanderthal, Joey, who replied. “Cannoli.”
    “Cheese cannoli,” I said.
    He nodded.
    Ricotta cream piped into delectable pasty shells. Well, no wonder Kimi’d leaped. As I’ve mentioned, she loves Italian food.
    Idly smoothing out the dog-moist box, I noticed that the white side bore a name hand-printed in broad felt-tipped black marker. Reading the name, I understood everything.
    The name was Guarini.
    Struggling to believe that Kimi had really done what she’d just done, I said, one ghastly word at a time,