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velvet augmented with heavy gold braid and thick tassels. Elaborately upholstered in a bewildering variety of red brocades and crimson patterns, dozens of Victorian love seats, fat couches, and old-fashioned overstuffed armchairs battled for floor space against the armies of highly polished mahogany coffee tables, teak magazine racks, wrought iron plant stands, French provincial end tables, and standing lamps about which the less said, the better. Small area rugs with the bright, happy designs of Poland were scattered here and there on the richly textured bright maroon wall-to-wall carpet. The intricately carved green marble mantle of the fireplace supported an ormolu clock, two oversize modernistic jade green vases, a small collection of expensive-looking crystal owls, and a pair of china shepherdesses with candles sticking out of their heads.
    Just as Enid Sievers invited me to have a seat, my legs seemed to go out from under me. When I’d caught my breath, I found myself in the soft depths of one of the love seats. Fringed pillows nudged at me like friendly lap dogs. The end table to my left held a large brass lamp, a foot-wide porcelain ashtray, a set of cork-and-plastic coasters, and two glass candy dishes piled with paper-wrapped caramels.
    Enid Sievers took a seat on an equally pillow-laden couch opposite me. Between us lay a pie-crust-edged coffee table crowded with glass objects and candy.
    “Edgar was an optometrist,” Enid Sievers explained brightly. She sat stiffly upright, her ankles crossed, her knees locked tightly together. “It taught him the value of seeing. He always said that we should use what God had given us.”
    “That seems like a good idea,” I said stupidly or maybe even stuporously. The house was sickeningly hot and had a stale reek of perfumed soap and microwaved food additives. Where was the dog?
    Enid Sievers leaned forward, picked up a candy dish, and graciously proffered it. “Would you like a caramel?”
    “No, thanks,” I said. “Uh, you, uh, called about your dog?”
    “Missy is an Alaskan malamute.” She sounded as if she were reciting something she’d memorized. “She is a registered purebred dog. Are you sure you won’t have a caramel?” She pursed her lips and stared at me.
    I cleared my throat. “No, thanks,” I repeated, pulling myself out of the depths of the love seat. “About Missy?”
    Enid Sievers met my gaze. “This isn’t easy for me,” she said. “She was Edgar’s dog, really.” Her eyes were nearly tearful.
    I helped her out. “But she’s the wrong dog for you.”
    Her face brightened. “That’s it,” she said. “That’s just it. She’s the wrong dog for me.” Enid Sievers and her jam-packed room cried out for a Pekingese, a Pomeranian, a Maltese, a toy poodle, a Shih Tzu, any of dozens of tiny breeds. “Would you rather have a chocolate? And I have some very nice pralines that my sister just sent me from Florida.” She half rose in apparent search of them.
    “No,” I said firmly. “No thanks. Do you think I could take a look at Missy?”
    “Well, of course,” Enid Sievers answered, reseating herself opposite me, “I feel terrible about this, you know, but when Mrs. Burley heard about Missy, she was so thrilled! And I realized, well, Missy will really have a better life there. So it’s really better for everyone.”
    “We’ll find a good home for her,” I said.
    Enid Sievers’s eyes focused on some apparition behind my head, but her correction was almost sharp-“Oh, you don’t need to find a home for her. Mrs. Burley is very anxious to have her.” Now she surveyed me as if in search of signs of mental deficiency. “Mrs. Burley raises Alaskan malamutes, you know,” she informed me. “And Missy is an outstanding specimen of the breed. Edgar always said so, and he was very knowledgeable.”
    “I’m sure he was. Do you think I could take a look at her?” Show me the dog!
    “Well, of course,” she said, but retained her