Read Online Animal Appetite by Susan Conant - Free Book Online Page A

her! Rita, those so-called Indians she killed? Six of them were children. Hannah Duston murdered six children. I am really disgusted.”
    Folding up the Times and rising, Rita said, “Well, if you set out to do research, Holly, you’ve got to be prepared to suspend judgment.”
    “Not,” I insisted, “if your previous research has consisted almost exclusively of documenting the perfection of dogs.”
    As Rita departed, my phone rang, and I dashed inside. I was hoping for a call from a professional portrait photographer named Violet Wish, who had long ago abandoned a successful career immortalizing children. She got fed up with mothers and switched to show dogs instead. With dogs, Violet claimed, she got very few complaints that there was something wrong with the mouth. When I’d dialed Violet’s number, I’d heard only the recording: “Violet Wish Studio! Dogs only! No, repeat, no children! Leave a message!” Before the beep sounded, a pack of little dogs sang out a cheerful chorus of yaps. Violet has papillons. I’d left word for her to call, but on a Saturday afternoon, she and the dogs were probably at a show. There was one in Fitchburg, a conformation show with no obedience. I hadn’t entered. Kimi wasn’t the judge’s type. Rowdy wasn’t, either, and in any case, he was still lame from his pad cut.
    In fact, the caller was a woman who wanted information about adopting a malamute. Alaskan Malamute Res- ‘ cue is my unpaid job. I help to find adopters for homeless dogs. This woman’s wonderful-sounding golden retriever had died recently. After I explained that malamutes are big and powerful, shed plentifully, clown around in the obedience ring, steal food, and exhibit a pronounced wild streak, she asked whether I happened to have the number of Yankee Golden Retriever Rescue. I did. Gee, and I hadn’t even mentioned songbirds.
    For most of the afternoon, in between sprinting to answer the phone, I worked on the unsplit wood I’d hauled home from my father’s. My part of the house, the first floor, is an updated version of Cambridge student housing, but I renovated the second- and third-floor apartments when I bought the building, and Rita and the couple on the third floor expect the outside of the house to look decent. To my prosperous urban tenants, the pile of logs dumped at the far end of the driveway would suggest the imminent arrival of a rusted, doorless refrigerator and a flock of mite-infested geese. Splitting wood, like training dogs, is a meditative activity. On most of the logs, which were already cut to fireplace length, I used a big, sharp metal wedge that I drove in with a short-handled sledgehammer. The small pieces of birch just needed to be split with an ax. From time to time, I’d stop to stack the split wood under the flight of wooden stairs that leads up to the back door. I knew almost nothing about city rats. I hoped that, unlike chipmunks, they weren’t attracted to woodpiles.
    At four-thirty, Violet Wish returned my call. As I’d guessed, she’d been at the show in Fitchburg. One of her papillons had finished his championship. After offering congratulations, I asked Violet whether she remembered a guy named Jack Andrews. “Eighteen years ago, maybe more. He had a golden named Chip. Chipper. You did a portrait of the dog.” Violet’s name stamped on the back of Chipper’s photograph was the reason I’d called her. I’d been surprised. Violet had always specialized in show dogs. I’d wondered how a pet owner like Jack Andrews had known of her existence.
    “Oh, yeah. I sort of remember him. You used to see him at shows with that tall girl. What was her name?”
    “I have no idea. I don’t remember him at all. I didn’t even know he showed.” Showed dogs, naturally. What else?
    “He was a nice guy, but he kind of stayed in the background. I only knew him, really, because I did those Portraits. That was a long time ago. The girl was the one who handled. She finished Chip