By Susan Conant
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Additional info for Animal Appetite
Instead of going home on foot, I walked to Garden Street and caught the bus, which was almost empty. Seated alone, I removed my gloves and opened the big manila envelope Claudia had given me. I was eager to see Skip. And Jack Winter Andrews, too, of course. The top photo in the pile was what I took to be a college graduation picture. It showed a handsome, affably smiling young man whose character was not written on his face. He bore no resemblance, I might mention, to me or to any of my paternal relatives.
By now, we’d been served salads of radicchio, arugula, and avocado, and I was more interested in enjoying mine and in pumping Professor Foley about Hannah Duston than I was in listening to Claudia, especially if she moved on to unappetizing details, as she promptly did. “There were rats in the building,” she informed me. “Damned Yankee Press,” Professor Foley interjected. “Oh, the guides,” I said. The series was (and still is) popular: The Damned Yankee in Maine and so forth. Claudia ignored our efforts.
Milling around, I eventually located my name card at a place to the right of a handsome elderly man with twinkling blue eyes. He rose, helped me to my seat, and graciously introduced himself as George Foley, a name so legendary in the world of dogs that I did a momentary and, I hope, imperceptible double take. The dog man—the real George Foley, as I at first thought of him—presided over the Foley Dog Show Organization, published Popular Dogs, and was a charter member of the Dog Writers Association of America.