A Pedigree to Die For (14 page)
“That's all right.” Her tone softened. “I was concerned I'd just written something scathing about your dog.” The woman reopened the catalogue and went back to scrutinizing the Poodles in the ring.
“Do you have a dog here today?” I asked.
“Yes, this one.” She pointed down the page to her entry. I peered over and read that her name was Mrs. Anna Barnes, her Poodle was a champion entered for Best Of Variety, and the agent listed was Crawford Langley. “Sammy will be along in a minute, as soon as Randy goes Winners Bitch with that blue. I just hope she doesn't beat him in the specials class.”
I looked up. The Open Bitch class was in progress and Randall Tarnower was indeed showing the blue bitch I'd seen a few weeks earlier. But she hadn't even won her class yet. I wondered how Anna Barnes could be so sure she was going to take the points.
When I asked, she seemed to think the answer was perfectly obvious. “This judge should adore that bitch. He's a silver nut and always has been. You don't see many silver Standard Poodles, and even fewer blues. Not only that, but she's a good one besides. Randy told me earlier she's been undefeated since he got her.”
As we watched, the blue did indeed take the points. Anna Barnes nodded with satisfaction. “Now just don't beat Sammy,” she muttered under her breath as the champions filed in.
“Sammy's your dog?”
Anna nodded again. She pointed toward the front of the line, where Crawford Langley was easy to pick out. As always, he looked to be in total command of the ring. She watched with great care as her own dog was examined by the judge, then continued our conversation.
“You said that you were here to look for a dog. Did you mean a puppy?”
“No, a stud dog. I have a bitch I'd like to breed and I'm looking for a suitable mate.”
Her eyes never leaving the ring, Anna said, “Tell me something about the bitch.”
Dutifully I recited all the facts Aunt Peg had drilled into me. With each retelling, the bitch was beginning to seem more real. I could almost believe there was a black Standard Poodle at home, waiting for me to get back and let her out.
“Actually, I have a dog at home you might be interested in.” The judge was now taking another look at the blue bitch. Anna fidgeted in her chair. “His name is Champion Troughbridge Beauty. He's a homebred of mine, but don't think I'm just spouting off when I say there's a lot to like about him, because there is. He's got size, substance, brains, and he can move.”
“I'd love to see him.” I flipped to the Poodle page of my catalogue and circled her name and address. “Is this where you can be reached?”
Anna nodded. “Try me in the early morning. That's the best time to find me at home.”
The judge sent the Poodles around the ring one last time. Anna's champion was still in front and when the judge pointed, he won the variety. Randall's blue bitch was Best Of Opposite Sex.
“Thank you Lord,” Anna muttered.
Because of Anna, I'd been caught up in the drama in the ring. Belatedly I realized I hadn't heard anything from Davey in a long time. A quick turn to the left revealed the reason why. The chair beside me was empty. Davey was nowhere in sight.
Fifteen
A lesser woman might have panicked, but I knew my son too well for that. All right, so my stomach did tumble a notch. Then I told myself how much Davey loved to play hide-and-seek. It was probably a game. Please God, I prayed. Let it be a game.
“Davey?” I called as loudly as I dared. “Davey, honey, where are you?”
He didn't answer, but I knew that was part of the game, too. I stood up to get a better view of the surroundings.
“Have you lost something?” asked Anna.
“I've lost someone. My son.” I continued to scan the area. “He was sitting right there just a minute ago, but he seems to have left while we were talking.”
Anna Barnes was smiling. It seemed like an unusual response to me. Maybe she wasn't a mother.
“Is he wearing red sneakers and blue shorts?”
“Yes. Do you see him?”
She pointed across the ring. “I can see him right now. He's in there.”
When I looked where she was pointing, I saw him immediately. Somehow he had managed to crawl through the slats and into the ring. Now he was ensconced in what I'm sure he thought was the perfect hiding placeâunderâneath the steward's table.
When I was standing up, he was invisible. Sitting down, he was hard to miss. Laughter eddied around the gallery as Davey waved to the ringside, enjoying the sensation he was creating.
Mortified, I hurried around to the spot where the long table abutted the side of the ring. I knelt down and poked my head underneath. “Davey!” I whispered. “You come out of there this instant!”
“You found me.” Clearly he was disappointed. “I was playing hide-and-seek.”
“Well the game's over. Come on out.”
“Don't want to come out. I like it here.”
I couldn't reach him from where I was, and he knew it. Nor, according to ring etiquette, was I allowed to go in after him. Momentarily stymied, I rocked back on my heels and found myself looking up into the face of the curious steward who obviously thought she was watching me talk to her table.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Er . . . my son seems to be under your table.”
One eyebrow ascended. The woman leaned over and peered under her end of the table. “So he is. Please remove him at once.”
“I'd love to. But he doesn't want to come and I can't reach him.”
The steward gave me the sort of scathing look that dog people, whose pets are perfectly trained, reserve for parents whose children are less so. She reached under the table, grasped Davey firmly by the arm, and pulled him to his feet. “Out of my ring, young man,” she ordered. “We are judging dogs here, not children.”
Davey took one look at her stern expression and scampered for the exit. I jumped to my feet and did the same. Knocking no more than one or two people aside, I managed to reach the gate the same time he did, and grabbed him as he shot through.
Ignoring the laughter around us, I took his arm and marched him away. We were out of the tent and past the rings before I even paused. “David Edward John Travis, I have never been so embarrassed. What did you think you were doing?”
“Playing hide-and-seek,” Davey said with perfect four-year-old logic. “Pretty good place, huh?”
We might have debated the merits of that if a shrill cry hadn't stopped us where we stood. A line of protesters had massed in front of the grooming tent. They were carrying signs and chanting something about freeing all dogs from slavery. The cry seemed to have come from an irate woman who'd crossed their path. She cradled a tiny white Maltese protectively next to her chest.
If it hadn't been for Davey, I would have moved in closer. Instead I remained where I was and tried to hear what was being said as the woman with the Maltese confronted one of the protesters and received an angry reply.
Since the Poodles had just finished being judged and were on their way back to the exhibitors' tent, inevitably they got caught up in the fray. One look and the protesters began to circle. No doubt the carefully coifed, exquisitely groomed Standard Poodles embodied everything they were against.
So far the march had been peaceful, but as soon as the protesters targeted Randy Tarnower, I sensed there was going to be trouble. Rather than backing him up, the other Poodle handlers scattered. It took only a moment for Randy and the blue bitch to be surrounded by the chanting group. When someone reached down to touch the Poodle, Randy exploded.
From where I was standing, I couldn't see exactly what happened. Randy might have thrown a punch, or maybe it was just a shove. In any case, the protester went down, his sign breaking beneath him as he fell. Randy took the opportunity to cut and run. By the time the protester had regained his feet, the handler had disappeared under the tent. The marchers regrouped and continued their demonstration.
“Ashes, ashes,” Davey sang happily. “All fall down.”
We'd seen enough for one day and I took my son home.
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That evening Davey went straight to bed, and by morning, he'd come down with a forty-eight-hour flu that managed to last twice that long. When he was finished with it, I had a turn. In the meantime Aunt Peg had gone off on something called the New England Circuit, which I gathered was a midsummer opportunity to hold shows for an entire week straight.
I wasn't expecting her back until after the weekend, but she showed up Sunday morning. Davey was settled down in front of the T.V. with Big Bird for company, and I was just sitting down to my second cup of coffee when she appeared at the back door.
“You look awful,” she said. “Whatever's the matter with you, I hope it's not contagious.”
“Flu, and I'm recuperating, so you can stop holding your breath.” I got up to heat some water for tea. “Where were you when I needed a nurse?”
“Off at the shows, and happy to be there.”
Par for the course. I waited at the stove as the kettle steamed, then whistled. “How did you do?”
“I finally finished that little bitch I've been showing. It's about time.”
“Is that why you came home early?”
Aunt Peg accepted her cup, frowned at the tea bag, and reached for the sugar. “Oh no, I wasn't planning on staying until the end anyway. I wasn't even entered today. For Harvey Winesap? I wouldn't dream of showing to him.”
“Why not?”
“The man is a Bulldog specialist and he's got no eye at all for a Poodle. There's no use in taking your dog to a show if you don't respect the judge's opinion.”
I came over and joined her at the table. “What does their opinion have to do with anything? I thought the judges were supposed to be comparing each dog to a standard of perfection for the breed.”
“They are.” Aunt Peg paused to stir her tea. “But each judge interprets the standard in his or her own way. Not only that, but each feels that different things are important. Some judges demand sound movement. Others go crazy for style.”
“I was told that the judge at Farmington loved silvers.”
Aunt Peg nodded. “On top of everything else, personal preference plays a part. Judges are supposed to be color blind, but of course they aren't. There are a dozen different angles you have to think of in deciding whether or not a particular judge might like your dog. And then there are those judges who just don't have any idea what they're doing. Like Harvey Winesap. The man hasn't a clue about Poodles.”
“Does that happen a lot?”
“More often than it should. Unfortunately the system is heavily weighted in favor of judges who are approved to do lots of breeds. So even though judges always start with a breed they're an expert in, very soon most are looking to branch out.
“Poodles are very popular because although the three varieties work from a single standard, they are judged in two different groups. Standard and Miniature Poodles are in the Non-Sporting group, while the Toy Poodles are part of the Toy group. For the judges it's kind of a two-for-one deal.”
“But they must know something,” I argued. “Otherwise what happens when they get an assignment and it's time to judge the dogs?”
Aunt Peg chuckled. “There are lots of different ways to cope with that problem. Sometimes they go with the most famous handler or the one with the biggest string. They hope that will make them look like they know what they're doing. The ringside is usually fooled, and the handlers are grateful. But the breeders and the owner-exhibitors see what's happening. Then they make sure not to enter under that judge again.”
I sipped my coffee and thought about what she had said. “A few weeks ago, I sat next to a woman who was talking about politics at dog shows and judges being paid off. Does that stuff really go on?”
“Sometimes,” Aunt Peg allowed, “although not nearly so much as some people would have you believe. Dog shows are just like any other sport. Some people are there for the fun of it, and others are there only to win. There will always be those who try to give themselves an extra edge, legal or not.
“Now enough of that depressing subject. Get on with it and tell me who you saw in Farmington.”
Aunt Peg leaned forward on the edge of her seat. I thought that meant I had her undivided attention, but it turned out she was reaching for a bagel from the basket on the counter. I set her up with a plate, a knife, and some cream cheese, and we were finally ready to begin.
“Do you know a man named Jack Berglund?”
Aunt Peg looked up. “I most certainly do.”
“Apparently he has a new stud dog he's just crazy about. He seemed to think he'd be perfect for my bitch . . .” One look at the expression on her face and my voice trailed away. “What?”
“Perhaps I should have prepared you. Especially after last week.”
“Prepared me for what?”
“Jack Berglund isn't just a Poodle breeder. He was also a business associate of your father's.”
I pictured the charming, sophisticated man I'd met the week before. That image jibed perfectly with the memories I had of my father. I could well imagine the two of them doing business together, regardless of what Rose had said.
Aunt Peg must have followed the direction of my thoughts, for she began to shake her head. “That shouldn't make you less wary of Jack Berglund, but rather more so. I never dabbled much in the money end of things, but I know Max didn't trust him. Something to do with junk bonds, I believe, and perhaps a hint of a suspicion that he'd led your father down the garden pathâ”
I'd heard quite enough about my father's shortcomings already. As far as I was concerned, the subject didn't need reopening now. “Tell me about Jack's Poodles,” I broke in.
My lack of manners was enough to bring her up short. Aunt Peg stopped and considered for a moment, then evidently decided to humor me.
“Jack's kennel name is Shalimar, and he's been breeding for years. I believe he has a pretty large operation up in northwestern Connecticut. There's no reason to think his new stud dog might not be worth a look.”
“Good.” I filed that information away for future reference and deliberately changed the subject. “I also met a woman named Anna Barnes. She recommended a dog of hers named Champion Troughbridge Beauty. Like half the other people who've described their Poodles to me, he sounded almost too good to be true. Do you know the dog?”
“Yes, I know Beauty.” Aunt Peg smiled. “And I don't think we have to worry about him or dear Anna. The dog is every bit as good as she says he is. All of her Poodles are. Anna's getting older now and doesn't show nearly as much as she used to. That's probably why you didn't run into her sooner. Nevertheless, she has no need for Beau. Beauty is every bit as good as Poodle, and he's already proven his worth as a stud.
“If anything,” Aunt Peg concluded, “I ought to be stealing from Anna, not the other way around.”
Shot down again. By now I should have been getting used to it. “How about a handler named Barry Turk? What do you know about him?”
Aunt Peg thought for a moment. “I've been looking at this in terms of a breeder wanting Beau,” she said finally. “To tell you the truth, I haven't given the professional handlers much thought. Although of course, they do often act as agents for their clients' dogs.”
“From what I could see, Barry Turk's operation didn't look anything like Crawford Langley's, or even Randy Tarnower's. Where does he fit in?”
“Somewhere lower down the scale, I'd say. Crawford's been doing it for years and has all the right connections. Randy's made his name on raw talent. Either of those two, even with a bad dog on the end of a lead, is a threat. And when they actually have something really good to show, all you can do is try and stay out of the way.”
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