someone’s yard the next town north, he was licking himself. I took him to the vet, absolutely freaked, sure he was halfwaydead. He had a scratch on his belly. That was it. From being hit by a van. So I’m beginning to think there are only two breeds of dog: dogs, which is the kind he is, rough and tumble, offering a canine’s best; and thingamajigs, which is our other dog. The other dog is a mutt, as well. She’s what they call a “terrier mix.” But, see, that’s what they tell you at the shelter when they don’t know what the dog is. You point and go, “What the heck is that?” The caretakers glance at each other, remember their training, and announce, “That is a terrier mix!” It’s an answer that can get you out of trouble. Next time I call one of my students into my office for an oral exam he’s ripe to fail, I’m going to give him an A if he answers, “Terrier mix.” Next time I’m caught speeding, and the officer asks me, “Do you know why I pulled you over?” I’m going to guess, “Terrier mix?” If you’re ever contemplating a dinner invite, when you ask what’s on the menu and your potential host says, “Terrier mix,” go—just to see what it’s all about. This terrier mix is a real basket case. I love her the way you love a toilet—she’s necessary and smelly. Unlike a toilet, though, she’s deranged. Let’s say you have three kids. One of them is an athlete, another is bookish, and the third is the one you’re watching. You’ve learned fast, there’s something wrong upstairs. You’re not entirely sure she won’t cannibalize the other two. You might just have a citizen on your hands, if you make sure to never leave her alone until she’s twentythree. And her cynicism grows into bitterness that is only relieved— and even then, temporarily—by your affection and confidence in her. That kid is a “terrier mix.” This dog’s name is Amstel. I should have named her “Dirty Martini.” At the groomer’s, she’s a disaster. She doesn’t want to walk through the door. She gets low, collapsing into this splayed half-lie, her legs sliding out in all four directions from under her bulbous body. And my little darling is all body. All trunk. She has a tiny head, about the size of a woman’s fist. Her legs are the length of my middle finger. The other twenty-five pounds are located in her midriff, which is a cylinder of mass like a can filled with mud. So when those legs spread out from under her, they can only spread so far before her chubby belly hits the tile. She lowers her eyes and waits, like a child afraid to confront a closet’s shadows. We pick her up. We hand her over to the young woman behind the
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