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| PRELUDE:
Ask Me Again "Tell me again why I should do this." "Because it's time you return to the ring," Brian said. "You've been away too long, Vivian. The breed needs you." "Bullshit!" I said. "The question, after all these years, is, 'Do I need the breed?' " "Come on, Vivian. I'll go with you." We were walking the dogs around the model boat pond on the western edge of Golden Gate Park. I had Michael, my rescued golden retriever, and Brian had my collie puppy, Lulu. On this overcast April day in San Francisco, the sky was mostly dark with lighter patches of gray and skinny streaks of blue. The moist, foggy air was heavy with the smell of peeling eucalyptus trees. We stopped and watched an old man carrying, as if it were his precious child, a one-meter wooden sailboat he had probably built himself. He knelt at the edge of the pond and gently placed it in the water. Brian said, "You must admit it, Vivian, Lulu looks great." "That's true, but do I have to take her to a dog show to prove it?" Lulu, at five months, was enjoying what we breeders call "puppy bloom." He gave me a beguiling look. I love Brian so I listened as he tried to persuade me to do something I instinctively knew I did not want to do. "It's not just a dog show, Vivian. How often does a Collie Club of America National Specialty come to San Francisco?" He had me there. People had begun to gather at the edge of the pond. Another man, carrying a similar craft, broke through the little crowd and carefully lowered his boat into the water. Both men spent several minutes making adjustments to the remote-control boxes attached to their belts. A long antenna protruded from each box and wobbled, like an airy fishing pole, over the water's edge. "I want you to do it," Brian said. "It will be good for you to see old friends." "And old enemies?" He smiled and we resumed our walk. Brian was not going to let it go, but he was right about Lulu. She is beautiful. And she was my first collie since Thane, my great and famous dog and Lulu's double grandfather, had died more than ten years ago. Lulu is a striking blue merle with a white shawl collar, rich tan points and a joyous outlook on life. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes sparkle with delight at the wonders of the world, and everything is wonderful to Lulu. We turned a corner and I saw, walking toward us from the opposite direction, a pair of young men wearing ill-fitted coats and carrying, over their shoulders, black bible packs. I prayed that Brian would not get involved with them. He tends to tell religious salesmen he's a Jewish Buddhist, which momentarily throws them off balance, but from which they quickly recover and, even though unprepared for it, go on the attack. Brian enjoys these exercises. I do not. As they neared us, they stopped, and one of the men asked if he could pet Lulu. Brian smiled. I waited. They exchanged a few words about the pretty puppy and we went our separate ways. I was grateful Brian had chosen not to engage. We found an empty bench in the shade of a redwood tree, sat down, and watched the boat race. Brian made space for Michael, who likes to sit between us and follow the conversation. The men maneuvered their boats to the starting buoys. Brian watched the race and I watched Brian. I love to look at him. He pleases my eye the way a beautiful dog or painting or building does. I love his cafe au lait skin and silky black hair, his expressive dark eyes and brilliant smile. His face, which he decries for what he calls "chipmunk cheeks" (though I hardly see them), ends in a strong chin with just the hint of a cleft. Lest I sound as if I am objectifying this man, reducing him to nothing more than an object of wonder, know that he is my best friend, my boon companion - for twenty years my California brother. I marvel at his brilliance, his insights, his prodigious talent. I know him. I respect him. I treasure him. The product of an outcross, Brian Santiago is blessed - as we dog people say - with all of the qualities of the lines and none of the faults. At least not on the outside. He turned to me and said, "Won't it be fun to see the old crowd?" "But there are so many new people in the breed." "And the same old stand bys. Everyone will be there. Liz Baldwin and Zeke Sommers, Priscilla Elder and Jenny Marino. Your peers, Vivian." "Some of whom I could live without." Brian was pushing, but everything he'd said was true. These were the people I'd grown up with in the breed. More than that, we'd been friends, extended family. Liz Baldwin and I had once been as close as sisters, she in southern California, I in New York. For years we'd shared a mutual interest in her dog, Peaches, sired by my dog, Thane, and handled to his championship by Brian Santiago, the same Brian Santiago who sat next to me on a bench in Golden Gate Park all these years later, a smile on his handsome face, moving in for the kill. He took my hand in his, gazed at me from delicious chocolate brown eyes, and smiled beseechingly. "Come on, Vivian, let me show you off. You're gorgeous. How many of them do you think will look better in their forties than they did ten years ago?" "That did it!" I said. "I give up! You win!" He laughed. But in my mind I wondered why I should engage in competition once again and suffer the misinformation, machinations, and manipulations that accompany it. And I did not even imagine the fourth M, murder. Before the show week was over, there would be two deaths. "What about time off?" I asked. "I have vacation time coming. I'll take five days and have both weekends." Brian plays principal flute with the Santa Rosa Symphony Orchestra. "You've a month to arrange your schedule, Vivian." Comfortably victorious, he lit the second of three cigarettes he allows himself each day. He leaned back, spread his arms across the back of the wooden bench, put his hand on my head, and ruffled my hair. "Well, Lambchop," he said, "where shall we go for lunch?" |