The Dogfather

blurted out. “Is that a problem?”
    “I’m not leaving him home.”
    “Is there some reason why you should?”
    There was. Anthony was ferociously guarding his new daytime home against the intruders who persistently tried to enter it. He was also attacking the stock: knocking over potted plants, ripping into ribbons, and puncturing Mylar balloons.
    “For a dog,” I lectured, “having free run of the house or the shop or anyplace else is a great privilege. And it’s a privilege that has to be earned. Anthony has not earned the privilege. And I’m sorry to say that he’s going to have to have the privilege taken away until he does earn it, or you are going to have no customers and nothing to sell them, anyway.”
    “He’s being just awful,” Carla said.
    It’s important to instill hope. “Anthony could be an asset to your business,” I said. “He’s very cute. The problem isn’t Anthony." Naturally I was tempted to say, “It’s you. ” I didn’t. “The problem is Anthony’s behavior. That’s an important distinction. You love Anthony. And what he needs right now is tough love. We can work on his behavior, but it’s going to be hard work, and he’s not going to shape up instantly. Okay? Carla, do you own a crate?”
    “I’m not putting Anthony in a cage!”
    “If you let him keep doing what he’s doing, you’re letting him practice undesirable behavior. All these behaviors are becoming habits, and once a behavior becomes habitual, and it’s locked in, it’s almost impossible to change.” Yes, as in habitual criminal. It seemed to me that I’d do well to say no more.
    “I saw what you did with Anthony. It was a miracle. Could you come over here?” Carla pleaded.
    “Yes. But not now.” I love training dogs, and I love teaching people to train dogs. What Carla wanted wasn’t what I had to offer; as she’d just said, she wanted a miracle and, worse yet, a miracle performed by me. Of course, a miracle was what I wanted, too: I wanted Carla to undergo a personality transplant that would replace her hysteria with someone else’s calm realism. Then I could help her to train her dog.
    “Tomorrow?” she asked.
    “Carla, I just can’t.” I went on to offer an excuse, possibly the only one that Enzio Guarini would fully accept. “Both of my dogs are entered in a show on Saturday. Tomorrow, I absolutely have to bathe and groom them. Your shop isn’t open on Sunday, is it?”
    “No, but—”
    “Monday,” I said. “I’ll be there Monday morning.”
    She gave me directions. I gave her the toll-free number of a mail-order kennel-supply house and issued a dog trainer’s do-it-now command to buy a dog crate.
    Carla promised to order the crate immediately. I had convinced a mafioso’s widow to lock up her dog—or, as Carla phrased it, to put poor, dear, innocent baby Anthony in jail. You see? I really did perform a miracle. Or so I thought at the time.
     

CHAPTER 12
     
    So, here we are—my cousin Leah, my friend Mary Wood, and I—and it’s Saturday at what feels like four o’clock in the morning, but is actually a bit after dawn. Although we’ve been up for hours and are perfectly used to refusing the pleas of beds that beg us to linger, we’re nonetheless a little puffy eyed and a lot overcaffeinated. But who cares about us? We’re mere human beings, and this is dog show! The creatures who matter are Rowdy and Kimi and Mr. Wookie, and they’re bright-eyed and eager and gorgeous. And, well they should be having fun because they’re not the ones lugging grooming tables, tack boxes, and Vari-Kennels out of my disreputable Bronco and Mary’s spiffy rental van, are they? The dogs aren’t swearing. Far from it. Mr. Wookie, in particular, is addressing Mary in what resemble animated English sentences minus only the trivia of identifiable words. I’m the one who’s cursing, and the reason is that I’ve just discovered that the worn spot on the floor behind the driver’s seat of my car has become a hole through which I can see blacktop.
    Mr. Wookie has as much reason to voice joyful self-confidence about his chances in the ring as I do to mutter obscenities about my car. Indeed, I share Mr. Wookie’s expectations. Harry Howland, our judge, has never yet overlooked this stunning seal-and-white boy. “Seal” means a black guard coat over a light undercoat. Mr. Wookie is thus dark and handsome, elegantly reminiscent of a high-society gentleman in a tuxedo. He’s