Ruffly Speaking Read online

  Then I took the dogs for a short walk, answered a phone call from a pleasant-sounding woman interested in adopting a dog from Malamute Rescue, added a couple of paragraphs to an article about rabies, and dialed Winer & Lamb. I didn’t expect Doug Winer to be back in the store on the day of Morris’s funeral, but I didn’t have any idea where Doug lived, and phoning Winer & Lamb seemed like the easiest way to get in touch.

  The guy who answered had that lilting speech pattern that sounds so much like a regional accent that you’d swear that half the gay men in America came from the same hometown. Wherever it is, Morris originated else-where—New Jersey, in fact, as I’ve mentioned—but Doug obviously grew up there, as did several of the waiters at Winer & Lamb.

  “I was a friend of Morris’s,” I explained. “I just heard, and I wanted to talk to Doug.” To my amazement, the guy said that Doug was out back and that he’d get him for me.

  When Doug got on the phone, I told him that I’d just heard about Morris and was very sorry. In case my mannerly mother happened to be wasting her celestial time by listening in, I refrained from mentioning that Doug was working and that Winer &. Lamb was open on the day of Morris Lamb’s funeral. I didn’t make even the most oblique inquiry about the cause of Morris’s death, either. When on earth, my mother, Marissa, directed her attention principally to golden retrievers, and when she wasn’t training, grooming, showing, or tending to dogs, she was weeding her perennial garden, transplanting seedlings, laying tile in the house, or plastering walls. It’s possible that the perfection of heaven has left Marissa with more free time than she used to have. If so, leisure could have turned her maternal and hovery, I guess.

  Doug, though, eventually rewarded my virtue by answering my unasked questions. “You must think it’s terrible for me to be here! We stayed closed until one.” Doug’s voice dropped to a whisper. “But none of them knows a thing about books, except Fyodor, and the silly boy has gone to Barbados! I was petrified someone important would have to pick today to drop in, and this is a dreadful thing to say, but we have been flooded with customers.” I could almost see Doug cup his hand around the phone in case one of the employees read his lips. “Saturday afternoon, you just could not walk through here without stepping on someone’s toes. To get to the register, I literally had to insinuate myself between bodies and slither through! And since we opened today, it’s been almost as bad up here, and the café is worse. They need me here! They just can’t cope. You never realize how many incompetent people there are in the world until you run a business. It’s very disenchanting.”

  “Maybe it’s better for you to keep busy,” I said. Doug evidently didn’t need my support. “What choice do I have?” he exclaimed wildly. “They do terrible things! On Saturday, the afternoon of Morris’s death, I found Victor seating, actually seating, two very desirable clients at a table with soiled linen! It was disgusting—big spots of grease and coffee all over the tablecloth—and I had to step in and say, ‘Pardon me, ladies, but this table is very definitely not ready.’ There’s no excuse for that; you should just see our laundry bills. I sent Victor flying for fresh linens, and that’s absolutely typical.”

  “Doug, every time I’ve ever been there, everything has been perfect.” The tables in the café that occupied the front of the store and, in good weather, spilled onto the sidewalk, had pale-pink tablecloths and napkins— cloth, not paper, and heavily starched. Even at the outdoor tables, the plates and cups were real china, white with a pink rim. Need I add that the silverware, although doubtless not sterling, was not plastic, either? Every table had fresh flowers.

  Doug ignored my praise. “And you never can tell when SHE might appear, and Morris always dealt with HER himself. I couldn’t manage it. Whenever SHE’s here, I’m all nerves.”

  Cambridge is highbrow Hollywood. I was at Winer & Lamb once when it actually happened. This was last winter, so I was indoors. A friend and I were having lunch at the café when Julia Child walked through and up the little half-flight of stairs to the book section. She acted just like a normal person, and the rest of us tried to do the same, but everyone at the tables began discreetly whispering to everyone else so that no one would miss seeing her, and then one of the waiters, maybe the erring Victor, broke the spell by dropping a tray. Crockery smashed on the floor, and coffee splattered all over. I suppose that it was exactly the kind of incident that Doug didn’t want repeated.

  “She probably just wants to wander around and look at the books like everyone else,” I told him. “She isn’t going to need advice. If she finds a book she wants, she’ll just need to pay for it. You can handle that, Doug.”

  “I can’t! The last time she was here, I was so nervous that when she finally left, I was bathed in perspiration.”

  “Did she buy anything?”

  Doug’s sigh whooshed across the phone line. “Irony of ironies. A book on edible flowers.”

  The irony was lost on me. “Uh...?”

  “You didn’t know? Morris poisoned himself with them.”

  “But if they were—”

  Before I had a chance to say edible, Doug went on. “But they weren’t. We think he was creating a mesclun.” Doug must have remembered that I was one of Morris’s dog people, not one of his food people. “Mixed baby greens—”

  “A salad,” I said. “I know.”

  “You know how random Morris was,” Doug said affectionately. “And he hadn’t even read the book, of course—he never did; he created—and he must’ve traipsed around the yard snipping here and there, and then tossed it all with a chèvre vinaigrette.” Doug paused. I had the sense of time passing. “I found him in the bathroom.” As an afterthought, he added, “Naked.”

  “Doug, how awful for you. Was he...?”

  Perhaps because Doug had spent so much time surrounded by recipes, he gave a nauseatingly graphic account of Morris’s death, almost as if I’d requested directions on how to re-create it myself right in my own kitchen—and bathroom, too, I guess—as I assume that you don’t. The gist of Doug’s story was that although Morris lived on Highland, only a few blocks from a fancy greengrocery on Huron, he’d spared himself the walk and the expense, too, I suppose, although Doug didn’t say so. In Cambridge, and probably elsewhere, tiny greens cost more per pound than lobster. Maybe they’re worth it. They taste good, and the ones you buy won’t make you sick. Anyway, when Morris finished harvesting a variety of infant salad greens from the raised bed garden that Doug had built for him, he’d foolishly added the leaves of what turned out to be a lot of poisonous plants.

  Because of dog writing, I know a little about poisonous plants. Grass is harmless, but to be safe, don’t let your dog eat the leaves, stems, or flowers of any houseplants, shrubs, perennials, or annuals. A few—nasturtiums, for instance—are fine, but watch out for an alarming number of harmless-sounding things like azalea, rhododendron, lupine, delphinium, hydrangea, and foxglove. Foxglove? Digitalis. So make Rover stick to his Purina, and if you get in a creative mood and decide to make a really exotic salad, toss a few Pro Plan croutons on your lettuce, and leave the hydrangea—especially the hydrangea—out in the yard where it belongs.

  According to Doug, however, Morris didn’t die of poisoning, at least not directly. As Doug explained in detail I didn’t want to hear, the plants made Morris so sick that he became dehydrated. Sometime on Friday night, he passed out. Then he aspirated his own vomit. Sorry. Compared with Doug’s description, mine is appetizing.

  The part about spicing up the salad sounded like Morris. Also, in spite of the Bedlingtons, Morris wasn’t the kind of owner who reads up on all the latest news about canine diseases and household hazards. Morris ah most certainly knew not to substitute a choke collar for a regular buckle collar, and I’m sure he knew better than to feed chocolate to a dog, but that was probably about it. So Morris was responsible but not supereducated, Harvard or no Harvard. When he studied the dog magazines, I’m sure that he concentrated almost exclusively on show results. And
the aspiration? It happens to dogs all the time. It’s one of the approximately two hundred solid reasons not to debark a dog and one of the main reasons a lot of veterinarians won’t perform the surgery, which leaves a dog vulnerable to—well, to aspiration. So, all in all, Doug’s story was improbable but credible. Even so, I didn’t believe it. As I soon learned, almost no one else did, either. We were dopes, of course. We assumed that since Morris was gay, he must have died of AIDS.

  5

  Sometime around Memorial Day each year, the prestigious Essex County Kennel Club sponsors Boston’s answer to the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show. But I prefer Essex County, and so does every dog there who’s ever endured the heat, crowding, and chaos of Madison Square Gar-den. Essex is Westminster with the calendar turned back a thousand years, a medieval tournament instead of a twentieth-century teleplay, and all the better for it. It’s a gorgeous pageant that really earns the name show. Although the site in the past few years has been a College campus in suburban Boston, when you approach from a distance, you’d swear it’s Camelot. The beauty of the multicolored striped tents and the intense green of the acres of lawn will fool you into expecting a pair of armored knights on horseback to charge up and start jousting, and if the women in pastel dresses turned out to be princesses with cone-shaped hats instead of breed handlers dolled up for the ring, you wouldn’t be surprised at all.

  A thousand years ago, knighthood was strictly limited to males, who rescued—and certainly never vied with—females. Times change. On the morning of Saturday, May 30, a month after Morris Lamb’s death, the champion who bore my colors entered the ring and got trounced by a damsel in no distress, which is to say that Rowdy gallantly joined the round table of Alaskan malamute dogs who’d gone Best of Opposite while the invincible Daphne once again took Best of Breed. Alien? Best of Opposite Sex to Best of Breed. If a bitch—right, a girl —wins BOB, then BOS goes to a dog. Lost? Stick around, anyway. Before long, you’ll be talking about Bred-by dogs and Open bitches as if you were one yourself. In the meantime? Relax. Everyone’s welcome at a dog show.

  Even Daphne.More or less.

  After Rowdy’s defeat, while he rested in his crate in the shadow of Faith Barlow’s Winnebago, I made the rounds of the concession booths (yield: eight sample packets of dog food, two Nylabones, an attention-getting squeaker, a bottle of Mela Miracle pet lusterizer spray, and two welcome-back-to-dog-heaven presents for my cousin Leah, a twenty-one-inch heeling lead and the video version of Bernie Brown’s No-Force Method of Dog Training). Faith Barlow, by the way, handles Rowdy in breed. Why? Faith is a first-rate professional handler. I like my dogs to win. Any more questions?

  When I’d finished stocking up, I headed for the breed rings, which formed two temporary buildings, each consisting of a long, wide, awning-covered central aisle with a row of four or five rings—roped-off rectangles— out in the hot sun on each side. You don’t have to go inside to watch, of course—you can work on your tan while you follow the judging—but I grew up on the coast of Maine, and I’m still not used to the hellish climate this far south of God’s country. Besides, it’s fun inside. The aisle I entered was crammed with cool spectators watching the activity out in the hot rings; exhibitors spraying and brushing last-minute winning glints into the coats of sparkling dogs; and keyed-up, next-in-the-ring amateur handlers nervously shifting their feet and snapping rude accusations at innocent strangers.

  I was meandering down this aisle of paradise—dogs, dogs, and more beautiful dogs, sweet sight, O beautiful vision, do not cease—when I was bashed from the rear by a hugely overweight woman cuddling a Maltese terrier about a tenth the size of one of her breasts. Thus I didn’t exactly run into Doug Winer; I got rammed into the back of his folding chair.

  “I’m sorry!” I said, untangling myself.

  Now, if you’re new to dog shows, I should warn you that when you get shoved into someone and there’s a dog nearby, as there’s inevitably going to be, what you’re apt to hear even before your words of apology leave your mouth is, “Oh, yeah, I’ll bet you’re sorry! Didn’t mean to step on his foot and make him go lame, did you? Number one dog in the Western world until you had to go and...” Stage fright. Ignore it. It’s not dog fanciers at our best. And if you’re already one of us? Well, then, I just have to ask you: Who brings these people up?

  But Doug Winer wasn’t a real show type and didn’t have a dog at his side, anyway. Doug not only accepted my apology, but introduced me to the person seated next to him, namely, his father, an extremely short, stocky, and completely bald man of seventy-five or eighty who bore an uncanny resemblance to the dogs parading around in the ring only a few yards away. Guess? Certainly. Bull terriers. True gentlemen. Mr. Winer, Sr., rose from his folding chair, shook my hand, and—a dog-show first—offered me his seat.

  Doug had dark, curly hair all over his hands, arms, and head, and so ineradicable a growth of beard that hourly razoring would still have left him looking in per-petual need of a shave. His thick build was his father’s, but when Doug stood to greet me, he moved with the agility of an athlete. I seemed to remember that he played tennis. At any rate, he wore white, a polo shirt and pressed pants as spotless as the linen at Winer &. Lamb. Doug gestured to his empty chair and threw me an imploring glance. “Holly can have mine.” Addressing his father and me, he was starting to explain that Bedlingtons were next in this ring.

  Mr. Winer’s face suddenly took on a look of alarm and confusion. “Where’s your mother?” he demanded.

  Children are always getting lost at shows, but our octogenarians don’t have time for mental failure. They’re too busy training and grooming dogs, whelping puppies, and traveling to shows. The only thing elderly dog people ever seem to forget is how old they are. But Doug’s mother? The two big awning-covered breed ring areas looked identical. To Mrs. Winer, maybe the dogs did, too.

  But Doug seemed unperturbed. “Mother had some errands to run,” he told his father matter-of-factly. “She was going to do some shopping. She’s home by now.” He turned to me, leaned close, and quietly confided, “Stealing some time alone.”

  I can take a hint, and I don’t mind doing favors. I gave Mr. Winer a big smile. “I’d love to sit down, if you don’t mind.”

  When Doug had excused himself and promised to be right back, his father practiced the courtly art of helping a lady to her seat. The folding chair and I must both have challenged him, and, of the two, I was probably the greater challenge. I’d ironed my shirt but not my jeans, which were, however, clean. My old Reeboks weren’t. I usually smell like training treats and dog shampoo. Mr. Winer’s courtesy deserved Joy—the perfume, naturally, not the dog chow, which, as far as I know, at least, is made by a totally different company, but, in its own way, is very good nonetheless.

  “Is this your first dog show, Mr. Winer?” It was as close as I could come to asking the gentleman about himself.

  He nodded.

  “And Doug is showing one of Morris Lamb’s dogs?” I was genuinely curious. Doug used to accompany Morris to shows, but I’d always had the impression that he was there for Morris, not the dogs.

  “They’ve moved in with us.” Mr. Winer sounded surprised, as if the two Bedlingtons had shown up at his door only seconds earlier. “Nelson and...” He groped.

  I pretended to search my own memory. “Jennie, isn’t it?”

  “Jennie,” Mr. Winer confirmed.

  “They’re living with you? With you and, uh, Mrs. Winer?”

  I almost expected Mr. Winer to ask who was, but he didn’t. All he did was nod again.

  “Doug can’t have dogs?” I waited a second and rephrased the question. “His landlord doesn’t allow dogs?”

  Mr. Winer looked really bewildered now.

  “Oh.” I’d finally caught on. “Doug lives at home? With you?”

  “Brookline,” Mr. Winer answered. “Francis Street.” Unasked, he went on to give me first the address, and then precise directions for driving there and advice
about where to park. The recitation of the familiar details seemed to comfort and reassure him. His voice lingered fondly at every turn and stoplight.

  When he’d finished, I said that the area, Longwood, was lovely—it is—but Mr. Winer wasn’t paying attention. He twisted restlessly around and looked here and there until he caught sight of Doug, who was five or six yards behind us listening to an impeccably groomed young woman with the brisk, confident air of a professional handler. Her blue-flowered dress matched the thin blue show lead in her hand. At the dog’s end of the lead pranced Ch. Marigleam’s Canadian Lovesong (Nelson to his friends), who paused midfrolic to lick the pretty woman’s hand, then Doug’s.

  Want some free advice? If so, ask a real dog person. You can’t shut us up. Here it is: With some breeds, amateurs do fine in conformation, but if you want to show your terrier, hire the best professional handler you can afford, because if you go out there and stumble around yourself, no judge will so much as look at your dog. Too bad, but that’s the truth. Morris Lamb knew it. So, evidently, did Doug Winer.

  I glanced at Doug’s father, who was beaming so jovially that his entire hairless head practically glowed. He turned toward me, winked, took another look at his son and the pretty handler, and in proud paternal tones murmured, “Doug has his eye on that one! Just you watch!”

  Any object of Doug’s amorous regard would so absolutely, totally, definitely, and unconditionally have been male that I found it almost impossible to imagine how anyone could suppose otherwise. But Mr. Winer wasn’t just anyone.