The Dogfather

friggin’ vampire.” I later learned that the Boston newspapers referred to Al Favuzza in the same way: Alphonse “The Count" Favuzza, typically preceded by a phrase such as alleged Mob associate.
    Let me not linger over Mob monikers because I’m dying... well, poor choice of expression. Let’s start over. I’m eager to introduce you to Enzio Guarini. A few minutes after Zap the Driver had tried to buy Kimi, and a minute or two after an elephantine man had admitted us to the house, the dogs and I, accompanied by Al and Joey, were waiting for Enzio Guarini in what had obviously been his late wife’s living room. True to stereotype, the room had numerous table lamps in the form of half-naked Greco-Roman goddesses. The rug, in shades of red and blue, depicted fully togaed people loitering in front of a pillared temple. The walls were thick with large oil paintings devoted to two contrasting subjects, first, Italy—canals, gondolas, ruins—and, second, Norway, but only as it pertained to Norwegian elkhounds—a forest scene with a pack of dogs staring at a moose, a sentimental portrait of a rustic cabin near the door of which stood two elkhounds and a man in serious need of a shampoo.
    On the otherwise empty surface of a mile-long desk lay a copy of the latest issue of Dog’s Life magazine folded open to an article I’d written about pet mummification. The illustration caught Al “The Count” Favuzza’s eye just as I’d hoped it would catch every reader’s eye when I’d done it on my computer. It showed a human-shaped Egyptian mummy, wrappings and all, but I’d tinkered with the portrait panel by replacing the drawing of a man’s face with a close-up of Rowdy’s head. Favuzza stared at the illustration, then studied Rowdy, then said, “Hey, that looks just like him.”
    “It is,” I said. “I wrote the article. And I put that picture together on my computer.”
    “Trick photography,” Favuzza said. “This some kind of a joke?”
    “The picture? Yeah, sort of.”
    “Turning your dog into a mummy.”
    “People do it,” I said. “That’s what the article’s about. It’s expensive. But some people can’t stand the idea of burial. Or cremation. So they have their dogs mummified. Or their cats. Or for that matter, themselves. The same company does human mummies. Or it’s going to. The people who’ve signed up are all still alive.”
    “Does it work?”
    “I think so. I mean, the mummies from ancient Egypt are in pretty good shape, and they’re thousands of years old. So if you want your body preserved, or your dog's or your cat’s, then yes, it works. The process is pretty complicated. Preservatives, chemicals, all kinds of stuff. Maybe you should read my article. It’s mostly about dogs, but the principle is exactly the same.”
    As Favuzza and I were holding this grisly discussion, Rowdy and Kimi snuffled around within the limits of their six-foot leashes. Then a door burst open, and in strode Enzio Guarini. For a moment, I mistook the aura he radiated for mere vitality. My wise dogs weren’t fooled. Recognizing raw power for what it was, they fell to the floor at Guarini’s feet. Even now, I must remind myself that if Guarini’s body had been animated by a spirit milder than his, the physical Guarini, so to speak, would’ve been unremarkable: a man of seventy, neither short nor tall, with gray hair and brown eyes, an ordinary man who carried an ebony cane. Considering who Guarini was, it should, I suppose, have been crooked. In fact, it was a straight walking stick with a brass grip.
    Part of Guarini’s considerable charm lay in the warmth of his smile. He beamed at me. Then, with the aid of the cane, he bent to greet Rowdy and Kimi, to whose exposed underbellies he delivered thumps and scratches. As Guarini began to rise, Joey leaned toward him without actually stepping to his aid, probably because Guarini had arrived with yet two more men. These two, a matched pair, were at least six three, with broad shoulders, bullet-shaped heads, and small, dead eyes. The bodyguards, as they obviously were, wore white shirts and mud-colored sport coats. Dog person that he was, Guarini had on a gray sweatshirt embellished with the head of a Norwegian elk-hound, a breed to which I am partial. The elkhound is a moose-hunting breed, not a sled dog. Nonetheless, elk-hounds look quite a bit like small gray malamutes with curly tails.
    Having won me over big by welcoming Rowdy and Kimi, Guarini,