The Wicked Flea

Especially with Rowdy and Kimi, I think maybe, uh, the three of us can seem sort of self-sufficient.”
    “I have the perfect man for you,” Ceci announced. “He’s part of the dog group.” In asking an elderly woman about relatively young men, I’d had in mind the brokers at her late husband’s firm, maybe, or men who’d grown up in her lovely neighborhood. “His name is Douglas, and he is a lovely person. He has such a funny dog, a hound mix, heaven knows what, everything, adopted from a shelter, a sweet dog, big, smaller than Quest, of course, but a big dog, Ulysses, and the dog group could use your help. As a matter of fact, I was going to ask for your advice even before this came up, because, you see, it’s really rather awkward, but one of the nicest people there, Sylvia, has a dog that, if the truth be told, does not belong off leash. And I know that look on your face, Holly! No dog belongs off leash, but the dogs at the park stay together in a little group, and they have such fun, and it’s wonderful exercise for them. The only problem, really, is Zsa Zsa, Sylvia’s dog, who has a less than ideal temperament and is making things difficult for all of us.” Temperament is a dog-talk euphemism. A “bad temperament” usually means that the dog bites. Weak versions of the phrase—an “iffy temperament”—usually mean that the dog hasn’t bitten anyone yet.
    Just to be sure, I asked, “Has Zsa Zsa bitten anyone?”
    “Oh, no, no, no, not so far, not exactly, and she’s much worse with other dogs than she is with people, although I must admit that I don’t feel entirely comfortable with her, and she has a really unfortunate way of bothering people who don’t even like dogs, which is most unwelcome because not everyone at the park is happy to have the dogs play there, and the rest of us knock ourselves out, really, to be responsible and not to make matters worse by giving dogs a bad name.”
    “Zsa Zsa jumps on people?” I guessed.
    “And chases after them, especially runners. And people on bicycles. But the worst part is that she picks fights with other dogs, and we don’t know what to do about it without offending Sylvia.”
    “Maybe you can’t. Have you tried talking to Sylvia?”
    Ceci made girlish faces. “Sylvia doesn’t seem to appreciate the extent of the problem, because you won’t believe it, but Zsa Zsa is a golden retriever! Of all breeds! They’re usually angels, but you know that, don’t you? You used to have them.” Did I ever! My native breed. “And Sylvia’s son-in-law,” Ceci continued, “Wilson Goodenough—such a striking name— has tried to talk to her, I’m sure, because Wilson is a perfect paragon of responsible ownership, and Zsa Zsa embarrasses him, and I’m sure that if he could do anything about her, he would. Wilson did persuade Sylvia to stop breeding Zsa Zsa, but that’s as far as he got. But what I’m driving at, Holly, is that we could use your help, and so we’ll go to the park with Quest in a completely natural way.” Ceci smiled impishly. “We won’t say that you’re there to meet Douglas, you see,” Ceci declared. “We’ll say that you’re there about Zsa Zsa. You and Douglas can just bump into each other.”
    “Oh?” I said.
    “That way,” Ceci concluded, “Douglas won’t be scared off.”
     

Chapter 8
     
    I awoke the next morning' at the undogly hour of four and couldn’t get back to sleep. At quarter of five, after a shower, breakfast, coffee, and a hit of E-mail, I should have done some work, but as I’d told Dr. Foote, fatal dog attacks are not a sunrise topic. I had a second project, but Rita and my third-floor tenants had made me promise to conduct the research for it only when they were out of the house. They’d also made me swear to ventilate the building after each experiment. I’d have done that anyway. You can grind chicken livers and mix them with commeal, or douse calves’ liver in garlic powder and sherry, or just nuke a slab of lamb’s liver in the microwave, but no matter what kind of liver you use and how you cook it, it stinks. Dogs disagree. Yes, indeed, as you’ve probably guessed, my new project was a cookbook. The original working title had been A Hundred and One Ways to Cook Liver. It soon became apparent that I’d underestimated the scope of my subject. Two Hundred and One...? Five Hundred and One ...? Or even (gasp!), A Thousand and One Irresistibly Tempting Ways to Cook Liver, Liver,