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was there. And sweet? Missy was a born cuddler, much more submissive than either of my dogs. She rubbed herself against me like a cat. When I knelt down, she wrapped her forepaws around my neck and —I swear it’s true—gave me a big hug. She didn’t just rest her paws on me; she squeezed. I loved her on sight and felt a momentary rush of anger at Rowdy and Kimi, who would’ve welcomed her with all the joyous enthusiasm I’d display if Steve announced that, guess what, our life was about to be enriched by the addition of a new woman. Damn them, I thought. And damn the show on Sunday, too. This was one rescue malamute who’d be easy to place in a good home.
    “Well,” I said to Enid Sievers, who hovered timidly in the background, “she’s a sweetheart.” Then, although the floor of the pantry was clean, I asked, “Is she fully housebroken?”
    “Oh, yes,” Enid Sievers said.
    “Any, uh, bad habits? Chewing on things? Anything like that?”
    “Just her toys.” They littered the pantry floor: one large Nylaring, one giant Nylafloss, two plaque attackers in different sizes, three hard plastic balls, a tug-of-War toy, a big red rubber Kong toy, a chew-proof Frisbee, to mention a few. “The lady at Puppy Luv explained to Edgar that toys are very important.” Well, they are, of course. But two or three hundred dollars’ worth? “And,” she added as if transmitting a piece of insider information, “water must always be available, that’s very important for Alaskan malamutes.”
    “Yes,” I said. Missy’s water bowl was full. “Mrs. Sievers, has Missy come in season yet? Has she had her first heat yet?”
    As you’ve probably guessed, Enid Sievers wasn’t exactly a real dog person. Her pale, fine skin turned from ivory to pink to scarlet. I heard her catch her breath. Her voice was faint and controlled. “Not that I’ve noticed,” she said. “But I’m not…”
    I tried to dream up a probe that wouldn’t embarrass this woman. Notice any bloody vaginal discharge ? Any swelling of the vulva? In fact, it seemed to me that there was some. “Um, have there been any, uh, red spots on the floor?”
    She peeped a response: “No!”
    “Okay, well, don’t be surprised if there are. It’s perfectly normal. Look, we’ll be glad to take Missy. She’s lovely.” Missy dropped to the floor, rolled onto her back, and eyed me. I scratched her chest and rubbed her tummy. Enid Sievers probably thought I was mad. “But,” I said, “uh, I can’t take Missy today, and neither can Betty Burley. If it’s okay, I’ll come back for her on Monday, and I’ll drive her out to Betty’s. Is that okay? Can you keep her for the weekend?”
    Enid Sievers said that it was no problem at all. Remember that, would you? Remember that. Then I asked whether she had Missy’s papers.
    “Those are very important documents, you know,” she informed me. “Edgar said that those were valuable documents. Missy’s papers meant a lot to him.” Her tone became reluctant, stubborn. “I don’t think Edgar would like me to part with them.”
    You do any purebred rescue? If so, you’re not surprised, are you? The papers had more sentimental value than the dog did. You’re used to it. I’ve seen people abandon the dog, but insist on keeping the collar and tags. Honest to God. Anyway, if Enid Sievers had been someone other than who she was, I’d have pressed hard for those papers. I’d read about the sale of AKC papers to puppy mills. I’d heard that papers are auctioned off. Blue money, right? AKC papers. But Enid Sievers? Never. If I’d wanted to sell or auction a dog’s papers myself, I wouldn’t have known where to begin. Enid Sievers certainly wouldn’t, either. Besides, I’d be back on Monday. I could try again. In the meantime, I asked to look at the papers. I said that I was curious about where Missy had come from, who her parents were.
    While Enid Sievers was digging the documents out of a drawer somewhere, I sat