The Dogfather

anonymous-iooking car, my panicked response. I considered the possibility of concocting a story for Guarini, but decided that it was more dangerous to lie to him than it was to tell the truth. Frey was due to arrive for a training session at any moment. What if his owner delivered the little elk-hound in person? If he did, I’d let Guarini take the initiative. If he asked about the men, I’d tell him who they were and what they’d wanted. If Guarini believed me, I might even plead for protection for my dogs.
    Guarini himself didn’t bring Frey to me, but the puppy’s arrival broke the usual pattern. Instead of being chauffeured in the Zap-driven limousine, Frey was escorted by Favuzza as well as by Zap in the silver Suburban that had served as Joey Cortiniglia’s first hearse. I’d seen the big car off and on since then and had assumed that it belonged to Guarini or to one of his enterprises and was a company car. Yes, as in “bad company.” I was taking out the trash when the Suburban drove up with Zap at the wheel and Al Favuzza in the passenger seat. The exterior of the car was clean, but the dashboard was littered with fast-food wrappers, and the backseat was piled with debris. On top of a jacket I recognized as Al Favuzza’s, a tabloid newspaper proclaimed that Hitler’s nose had been cloned and had sprouted a moustache. In his crate in the rear, Frey was barking loudly.
    Zap, who must’ve noticed that my eyes were on the junk in the car, said, “All this shit’s Al’s.”
    Favuzza told him to shut up. To me, Favuzza said, “I heard you had visitors.”
    “Unwelcome visitors,” I said.
    “Mr. G. says if they give you a hard time, you let him know.”
    “Thank you,” I said. Then I got Frey, and the thugs drove off.
    The training session with Frey went well. Not to brag or anything, but Guarini had reason to be grateful to me. In general, I’m a good dog trainer. With a gun to my head, I’m brilliant, and Frey was a bright, alert, hardworking little guy. When the puppy boys, Frey and Sammy, had their outside play time, I was careful not to give them the opportunity to practice aggressive behavior. But I didn’t have to intervene once. “I am very proud of both of you,” I told the puppies. And meant it.
    When Zap arrived to pick up Frey, the little elkhound was zonked out on a blanket in a corner of the kitchen, and Sammy was prancing around with his tail in the air, the devil in his eyes, and Rowdy’s favorite fleece chewman in his mouth. He greeted Zap by depositing the toy at his feet. The welcome was pure Rowdy.
    Zap, damn him, destroyed my delight by demanding, “How much you want for this one?”
    Red hair runs in my family. Leah has it. The color skipped me, but I got the temper. It snapped. “Stop it! Sammy is not for sale. Rowdy and Kimi are not for sale. Mr. Wookie was not for sale. Stop trying to buy people’s dogs! It’s... it’s...” I groped for the right word and, ridiculously, sputtered, “It’s inappropriate!"
    “This one ain't yours.”
    “Sammy belongs to a friend of mine, and he’s Rowdy’s son, and that makes him close enough to being mine. If you want a dog, go to a breeder or a shelter, but stop trying to buy dogs that already belong to other people!”
    Zap remained impassive. He took Frey and left. At a guess, once outside my door, he muttered obscene retorts, but I didn’t hear them and didn’t care.
    After checking on Kevin’s condition—still serious—I devoted the afternoon to earning a living. My unpaid puppy training for Guarini had cut into my writing time, so I resisted the lure of beautiful spring weather and shut myself in my study with no company except the computer and Tracker the cat. Allowing myself only short breaks to refill my coffee cup and take Sammy out, I finished a column for Dog’s Life. For that same esteemed publication, I also wrote a new-product review of (incredibly) dog litter. Whenever I imagine that all this dog lunacy has gone as far as it possibly can, it exceeds the limits of my imagination. Cat litter for dogs. Dear God! Not for malamutes, I should add. Not yet. Not that I know of, anyway.
    Starting at about five-thirty, I fed all three dogs, took Sammy out briefly, puttered around, made myself a salad, ate it, and decided to take Rowdy and Kimi for a walk. By most people’s standards, they hadn’t been neglected lately, but Rowdy and Kimi weren’t most people, and they were used to a lot of attention.