Free Bloodlines by Susan Conant Page A

determined. What had just happened to Rowdy was, of course, an Incident. The officials intended to investigate it.
    If I’d had any hope that they’d succeed in wringing out of Lois a decent description of the dark-haired “liberator,” I’d have stuck around. As it was, I gave a succinct account of my part of the story and offered the only excuse to leave that anyone at the show would’ve understood or accepted, namely, that although Rowdy appeared to be in good spirits, he was more sensitive than he looked and needed to go home. In truth, of course, Rowdy has the unflappable self-confidence of the truly fearless. I’m the one who’s more sensitive than I look.
    Even so, Rowdy did a convincing, if unwitting, job of backing me up. He began by seating himself next to me and staring at my face the way I wish he’d always do in the obedience ring. Then he stood up, shuffled his feet around, and started a soft, high-pitched whine. When that didn’t work, he pranced around and burst forth in an uninterrupted series of sharp yelps and loud woos that drowned out human conversation. This apparent trauma-victim behavior drew the sympathy of the officials, none of them malamute people, and Lois Metzler had the grace not to translate. Shall I? Rowdy unconditionally refuses to use a so-called exercise pen. He was pleading to go outside.
    “I’m sorry,” I shouted over the din, “but I have to get him out of here!”
    Mary Kalinowski and the other officials clucked and nodded, and Rowdy and I beat it to the obedience rings, where I grabbed the gear I’d left there, and, with Rowdy acting as a sort of canine siren to clear our route, we sped out of the building and into the parking lot’s ash gray fog, thick with the musk of auto exhaust from the departing vans, RVs, and big-breed cars like mine, as well as the diesel semis roaring by on 128. About halfway across the lot, thus halfway to the distant parking space where I’d left the Bronco, I spotted Faith Barlow’s van. Did I say that my Bronco might as well have DOG PERSON lettered on the doors? Well, forget that. Faith’s silver van all but did. DOG PERSON actually appeared only on one bumper sticker on the back fender, but painstakingly hand-painted on both of the wide sides of the vehicle were identical teams of gray-and-white malamutes pulling artistically rendered sleds driven by identical parka-clad Eskimos. The rear doors stood ajar, and Faith herself was leaning in and rearranging her crates and equipment. At the sight of Faith, Rowdy gave himself a massive overall shake evidently meant to fluff up his coat. Then he trotted straight up to her, walked himself into a four-square show pose, and raised his beautiful big head and eyes to Faith’s pretty, dimpled face.
    Faith has looked about forty for the ten or twelve years I’ve known her. Her wavy, easy-care hair remains in perpetual transition from blond to white. The mist had given her a mass of ringlets that managed not to look juvenile or silly, probably because she has great skin. Fact: Dog saliva happens to contain a powerful cosmetic ingredient that prevents lines and wrinkles, cures acne, and promotes a healthy, glowing blush. The hitch is that it has to be scoured on three times a day. Anyway, when Faith turned and caught sight of Rowdy, she bent from the waist, and he gave her complexion the full treatment. Am I making this up? No. Honestly. You should see Faith. Ponce De Leon and all those people were wasting their time crossing the Atlantic to muck around in the swamps. The true location of the fountain of youth is a dog’s mouth.
    “You heard what happened?” I asked Faith. “Yeah,” she said. “They catch her?”
    “No, and I don’t think they’re going to. Among other things, Lois doesn’t even seem to remember what she looked like.”
    “Lois is so unobservant,” Faith said scornfully. Breed people are so competitive. When Vince Lombardi said, “Winning isn’t everything. It’s the