This Dog for Hire

wouldn’t tell me how many litters Magritte had sired or how many stud fees Morgan Gilmore had pocketed. It would only tell me if any of Magritte’s get had been entered in Westminster. It was only the tip of the iceberg, but it was the only thing I could do until I could get into those studbooks on Monday morning.
    Two Magritte daughters had competed two years ago. By the dates of birth, as well as the names of the dams, they were not littermates. Last year, three of Magritte’s get were entered, one of the same bitches from the year before and two dogs, not of the same litter as either the bitch or each other. Apparently the frozen semen business was brisk.
    I thought about the message from Gil on Cliff’s answering machine tape. He said nothing about needing Cliff to sign the entry form. I pulled out an events calendar from my pile of Gazettes , the magazine published by the American Kennel Club, and checked the form. It called for the name of the owner of the dog, printed, and his all-important AKC registration number, so of course Gil had to know that, but it could be signed by either the owner or his duly authorized agent. And Magritte’s duly authorized agent was Gil.
    But what about litter registrations? Those certainly needed the owner’s signature. Then again with thousands and thousands of litters registered every year, who was sitting around double-checking every signature to make sure it was the actual owner of the bitch or dog who had signed each form? Don’t sweat it if you don’t know the answer. It was a rhetorical question.
    I had the feeling that even a false signature on a bank check would go undetected unless the amount was unusually large, in which case the bank might check the signature, or unless the owner of the account realized that a certain check had been written and signed by someone else when he or she got back a month’s worth of canceled checks with the statement. As Joan Rivers would say, grow up. Stealing stud fees was no doubt even easier than collecting the sperm with which to steal them.
    Dashiell was on top of the blankets with his head on my pillow, and being a devout believer in the adage Let sleeping dogs lie, I had no choice but to squeeze down under the covers from the top.
    Clifford had told Dennis that he had discovered something that had to be exposed at all cost. Vt'as the cost losing a top basenji handler? Was it losing someone he thought was a friend worthy of his trust?
    It’s a funny thing, trust. Like Humpty Dumpty, once it’s been broken, you can never put it back together again.

15
    I Have My Standards

    DASHIELL’S WHIMPERING WOKE me. His feet were running in his sleep, his eyelids twitching. As I gently scratched the back of his neck to quiet him, I realized that I had been dreaming, too.
    I was at a large table, a street map of the Village spread out before me, the twisty streets with their unexpected turns, the private mews, the alleys, all there, but without names.
    I was trying to find my way somewhere, but each time I thought I had it, I looked again and found the map oriented a different way. Once again I’d find my starting place, and with my finger I’d trace the streets, trying to make my way to wherever it was I just had to go. And each time I thought I was there, I’d find myself more lost than the time before.
    I got up, padded barefooted down to the kitchen, put up the kettle, and opened the front door for Dashiell. There had been a fresh dusting of snow during the night. The yard was as still as a graveyard, everything silent and white.
    Iwent back to the kitchen and made tea, still trying to shake the disturbing aftereffects of the dream. Dashiell came in, the Times in its cold plastic bag hanging out of his mouth, dropped it on my bare feet, and tossed himself onto the living-room rug with a sigh. I was feeling grumpy, too. I was coming down with a cold. The weather wasn't going to help, frigid winds coming down from Canada, chance of snow late in the day, high of twenty-two.
    I started looking at the paper, just turning pages, barely seeing what was in front of me, until I got to the arts pages. Suddenly, I was on the qui vive.
    There was Magritte, an incredible head shot, wrinkled forehead, manipulative dark eyes, to-die-for black gumdrop nose, head held on that slant dogs have perfected that can melt the hearts of statues. The title was short and to the point: WITNESS TO MURDER.
    “A witness has been found in the murder of New