The Wicked Flea

of these horrific symbols of phallic aggression! Pt. strongly resists interpretation as such—exhibits NO capacity for insight! Proposed bringing the brutes w/ her to my office to prove how “gentle” they are. I put a quick stop to that bid at acting out!
     

Chapter 23
     
    Subj: Re: Your Rowdy
    From: [email protected]
    To: [email protected]
    ----------------------------
     
     
    Hi Cindy,
     
    I'm relieved to report that Janet approves. (Janet does not co-own Rowdy, but she's very possessive about him—and about every other dog she's ever bred.) I sent her Emma's pedigree and photos. As I think I told you. Rowdy was bred twice to her Vanessa, but Vanessa resorbed 3 both litters. After that, Vanessa got pyo 4 and had to be spayed. Anyway, I can never predict how Janet is going to react to anything, but she is actually enthusiastic. We had only one slight misunderstanding. I told Janet that you were looking for a perfect tail set, and she initially decided that you were casting aspersions on her lines, but when I managed to get a word in,
    I straightened her out by saying that Rowdy's perfect tail set was one of the reasons you WANTED to use him.
     
    Janet saw your Howie when he took a four-point major 5 under C. J. Pastern. Janet says that he was stark naked—Howie, not Pastern! Maybe I'd better start that one again. Janet says that Howie was totally out of coat and none the worse for it, and that C. J. commented on Howie's excellent structure and movement.
     
    I cannot begin to tell you how much I'd love a Rowdy-Emma puppy, but it's impossible for me to have a third dog here. I guess I'd better just take the stud fee. I'll send you a copy of my contract.
     
    Holly
     

Chapter 24
     
    As you may have forgotten, but as Wilson certainly had not, the estimable Mrs. Nigel Waggenhoffer was a friend of my late mother’s. At the risk of engaging in the ceaseless, shameless, repetitive bragging to which dog people are prone, let me simply report that my mother was well known and highly regarded in the dog fancy by virtue of her achievements as a breeder and exhibitor of numerous golden retrievers still remembered for their many successes in the conformation and obedience rings, as well as for their outstanding temperaments. Dedicated show person that she was, my mother, Marissa, belonged to various allbreed kennel clubs, golden retriever clubs, and obedience clubs, as well as to the Dog Writers Association of America and other dog organizations. In brief, Marissa was a power in purebred pooches, as is her friend Mrs. Waggenhoffer, a fellow breeder of goldens and the president of the club giving the show I was attending this Saturday, which, I remind you, was the show at which Wilson had entered his Pembroke Welsh corgi bitch, Llio. Although the Micmac Kennel Club was quite prestigious—you may recall that I belonged and Wilson didn’t—the club’s late autumn show was always held in what I deemed a somewhat unpleasant trade center in an industrially blighted community about an hour’s drive from Cambridge. The trade center, which happened to be owned by a nephew of Mrs. Waggenhoffer’s, was too old and shabby to attract important computer conferences, software job fairs, and executive training seminars featuring the kinds of motivational speakers who’d overcome challenges such as the loss of all four limbs and had gone on to win gold medals in Olympic events and, as if the medals weren’t enough, had then gotten stinking rich making inspirational speeches and selling motivation-rousing tapes and CDs: How I Did the Impossible and You Can, Too! I buy these tapes. I need them. If you showed Alaskan malamutes in advanced obedience, you’d be in the same pitiable position I am, willing to spend any amount for the motivation instilled by anyone who promises you that optimism is everything and reality counts for nought.
    Anyway, the Micmac show was strictly conformation, breed only, no obedience, and as I’ve already mentioned, the malamute judge was Sam Usher, who, I might add, had obviously lost the contents of his cranium, including the optic nerve and the power of rational thought, and had nonetheless gone on to get himself licensed to evaluate dogs when he should have pursued a career making motivational speeches. As I pulled the Bronco into the parking lot of the trade center at ten o’clock on Saturday morning and cruised around in search of an empty spot, I saw only one malamute-familiar