The Wicked Flea

performed nimbly on them, so he was not the cause of my bad mood. Or maybe I should say that Eddie wasn’t the direct cause. What got to me was that Erna, who was tiny and wiry, kept chirping about how much Eddie loved the music he’d chosen for his routine and how excited he got about performing and on and on until I couldn’t help asking myself, If this dog can love and dance and have fun for God’s sake on three legs, why can’t I manage to shuffle along a little more happily without Steve Delaney? To make matters worse, as if comparing Steve to an amputated Dalmatian leg weren’t bad enough, I immediately realized that he was the only man on earth who wouldn’t feel even mildly insulted by the analogy. So then I started thinking about that feminist slogan. You know the one? A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle. And what I started thinking was—need I remind you that I train dogs?—that a clever animal trainer would have no difficulty in teaching a fish to ride a specially constructed underwater bicycle. Fin-propelled pedals. Bubble steering. And after the fish had gotten really good at riding the bicycle? And you went and took the bicycle away? Well, you’d end up with a fish who missed the bicycle, which is to say, one very sad fish.
    “Holly, are you all right?” Erna asked gently. “I heard about your accident. Is there anything I can do?”
    With that, she began rummaging in a capacious tote bag and was soon offering me antidotes for anything that might ail me. Beware of accepting medical help from dog people, including me. Half the time, we’ll dose you with ordinary over-the-human-pharmacy-counter medications that are good for both dogs and people, but we’re equally likely to offer the veterinary salve that worked wonders on Fido’s sore ear or the painkillers Lady didn’t use up after she was spayed. In this case, Erna produced a vial of dried vegetation that looked like marijuana, but was, she insisted, a potent herbal remedy that cured Eddie of his periodic bouts of stage fright. I was supposed to put the stuff under my tongue and hold it there for as long as I could without swallowing. I was on the verge of asking how she got Eddie to comply with those instructions when all of a sudden, I saw myself as if from afar, and everything hit me as simply too crazy, the tiny woman who danced with the three-legged dog, the prospect of doping myself with dog medicine, the training possibilities of fish and bicycles, and I rapidly excused myself and fled. According to the Bible, it’s the wicked who flee— when no man pursueth.
    When I got home, Kimi and Rowdy were so thrilled to see me that they dashed around, bounced in the air, and sang loud peals of woo-woo-woo. As Kimi had so forcefully demonstrated at S & I’s, malamutes exhibit what is known as “genetic hunger,” meaning that they enjoy a genetically programmed conviction that they are in ever-present danger of starving to death. In the breed’s Arctic homeland, the danger was real. In my well-stocked Cambridge kitchen, Rowdy and Kimi eat as if it still were. For that reason, I cannot just feed my dogs in a normal sort of way by dumping kibble into dishes and putting them on the floor, and I wouldn’t dream of just leaving food out. Even with peaceable breeds, free feeding is usually a bad idea. Dogs with constant access to a full bowl often get fat. Some, in contrast, turn into picky eaters. Worse, free-fed dogs have a tendency to become aggressive, in part because they are spared frequent reminders of their dependence on human beings for life’s essentials. Well, enough preaching. My dogs eat twice a day, the second meal being dinner, served at approximately five o’clock, and since the time was now five-fifteen, Rowdy and Kimi were performing their own version of freestyle to their own music. To prevent them from getting into a snarling, bloody fight, I have to separate them. I’d just finished hitching Kimi to the hall door at one end of the kitchen and Rowdy to the living room door at the other end when the phone rang.
    I grabbed it. “Hello?” Or that’s what I presume I said. The dogs’ shrieking made it impossible to hear anything. I should’ve let the machine pick up, but I’m active in malamute rescue, and I’m always afraid of missing a life-or-death call. Most people will leave a message, call back, or visit our web site (www. malamuterescue.org), but every once in a while, the call is from a