A Pedigree to Die For (7 page)
The corners of Aunt Peg's mouth twitched. “Surely you didn't think we were going to find the dog by hopping from one family member to another?”
“No, of course not, but . . . To tell the truth, I guess I didn't think about it.”
“Then do it now. Because from now until we figure out where Beau is, that's just about all it's going to beâpigeonholing people you don't know and asking them questions they'd probably just as soon not answer.”
“You make it sound like I'll be out there on my own.”
“You will be.”
That came as a surprise.
“Think about it,” said Peg.
When I did, of course it made perfect sense. “I take it that's why you haven't contacted Driver already?”
Aunt Peg nodded. “If he has got Beau, I'm obviously the last person he's going to talk to.”
“Which puts me second to last.”
“Not if he doesn't know who you are.”
“Don't tell me, let me guess. You have a plan.”
“Of course,” Aunt Peg said blithely. “Somebody has to. ”
I should have known.
Eight
“It's really quite simple,” said Aunt Peg. “Let's begin with the assumption that whoever has Beau is planning to use him at stud. Otherwise, what's the point? He's probably got some bitches of his own to breed Beau to, but sooner or later he's going to have to offer him to the public, or he'll never make any real profit.”
“And all this will be done under another dog's name,” I said, recalling the explanation she'd given to Frank and me earlier.
“Precisely. The easiest way for the thief to attract outside bitches is to show off some top-quality puppies the dog has sired. So as far as he's concerned, the most important thing right now is for Beau to be bred, and bred well. What we're going to do is offer around a bitch so perfect for Beau that the thief will jump at the chance to make the breeding.”
As plans went, it didn't sound so brilliant to me. “I don't get it. Didn't you just tell me that he probably has bitches of his own? Why would one more make any difference?”
“It makes all the difference in the world!” One look at the baffled expression on my face was all it took to have Aunt Peg launching into an explanation. “What you have to understand is that every breeder is always hoping to produce the perfect dogâeven though they know perfectly well that it doesn't exist. Each dog, no matter how good, is going to have some faults.
“The whole idea behind sound breeding is to perpetuate a dog's good points while compensating for his bad ones. This is done by breeding to a bitch who excels in those areas where your dog is weak. Of course, you're never going to get everything right, but you can see how some breedings would nick better than others, can't you?”
Why not? I thought, nodding.
“What the thief desperately needs now is access to bitches who would match with Beau, both physically and genetically in such a way as to have the potential capability of producing superior puppies. And you're going to have one of those.”
I looked at her warily. “Do I have to go out and buy a Poodle?”
“Don't be silly. You don't actually have to have a bitch, you just have to say you do. Once I work up a description and a pedigree, you'll be all set.”
“So what you want me to do is dangle this mythical bitch under a few noses and see who jumps at the bait?”
“Precisely.” Aunt Peg nodded. “There are plenty of shows coming up, more than enough to hope that you'll run into the thief somewhere along the way. And when you do, I'll just bet he won't be able to resist telling you about the super new stud dog he has at home.”
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The following Saturday was the first of the month, which meant that Frank would be by early in the morning to pick Davey up for what my son gleefully referred to as “boys' day out.” Whatever irritating habits my little brother may have had, they were more than compensated for by the way he'd behaved with Davey since my divorce. Unasked, he'd stepped in to provide my son with the male influence and companionship Davey so desperately needed. What had started as a series of casual visits had gradually evolved into a monthly routine that only the most dire of emergencies was allowed to disrupt.
I was never consulted on their plans in advance and often not even privy to what happened during their meetings. Davey's outings with Frank were a special time, and a vacation from his mother's supervision. Once he'd brought home a new catcher's mitt; another time, a skateboard I was certain he was much too young to use safely. He was often disheveled and always tired. As I tucked him into bed, he would murmur about all the “man things” he had seen and done, then fall contentedly asleep. If I hadn't loved Frank already, this alone would have been reason enough.
Early Saturday morning, I delivered Davey to his uncle's care and set out. For once the Volvo was running like the marvel of Swedish technology it was supposed to be. I arrived at the showground in late morning, leaving myself several hours to look around before the start of the Poodle judging at two.
Eyes wide, like a kid at her first circus, I took in the sights. The large field had been broken up into rings of various sizes, all at least partially covered by brightly striped tents. The dogs came in all shapes and sizes as well. Some, like the Golden Retrievers and Collies, I recognized right away. Others didn't look even the slightest bit familiar. Still others were hardly recognizable as dogs at all.
Slowly I browsed from ring to ring, watching the breeds that were being shown. Aunt Peg had explained the judging procedure to me in great detail, but even so it took a while before I was able to sort things out. According to what I'd been told, the whole purpose of the exercise was to win enough points to make one's dog a champion. This was done within each breed by first entering a class: say, Puppy, or Bred-By-Exhibitor, or Open. The classes were divided by sex, and after they'd been judged, the class winners returned to vie for the points and the title of Winners Dog and Winners Bitch. The number of dogs in competition on the day determined the number of points awarded.
These two competed against the finished champions for either Best of Breed; or in the case of breeds like Poodles, Dachshunds, and Fox Terriers, that had more than one variety, Best of Variety. The breed winners went on to fight it out in the groups. Ultimately by day's end the narrowing down process was complete, and one dog was awarded the coveted title of Best in Show.
At the end of the field was the grooming tent, where exhibitors gathered to put the last-minute touches on their entries. As Poodles require a great deal of preparation before being shown, I knew this was where I'd find the breeders and professional handlers I needed to speak to. Still, once I'd slipped beneath the striped expanse, I found myself dawdling once more, fascinated by the nature and scope of the grooming that was going on.
People were working on their dogs in ways that I never would have dreamt of, let alone considered doing. I spent five minutes watching a woman work a whole cookie tin full of white powder into the coat of a little terrier. She kept shaking it in and brushing it out, and the dog got whiter and whiter with each application. A majestic sable Collie stood patiently on top of its crate while the handler dampened its coat then back-brushed it, smoothing the hair in the opposite direction from which it lay naturally. There were two English setters wearing wet towels draped over their backs, and an Afghan with a snood wrapped tightly around its neck. A tiny Yorkshire Terrier appeared to be completely done up in hair curlers, but when I asked, they turned out to be plastic wraps, put in to keep the long silky coat from dragging on the ground.
The Poodles, when I finally reached them, weren't faring much better. Someâthe lucky ones, I quickly decidedâwere merely being brushed. Others were having the long hair in their topknots doused with hair spray, then combed into an upright position with the same sort of ardor that produced beehive hairdos in the fifties. Still others were being shapedâhandlers hovering over them with scissors, nicking off the tiniest bits of hair in an attempt to make the pompons that already appeared impossibly round even rounder.
If I'd have been doing such things to a dog, I don't think I'd have been able to keep a straight face. But not only were these people not laughing, they looked deadly serious about the whole affair. One or two were talking as they worked, but for the most part, there was silence, punctuated only by the loud, annoying whine of a generator which powered a blow dryer that stood almost as tall as my shoulders.
Aunt Peg had set up her table off to one side. She glanced up at my arrival, then pointedly looked away. During the week, she'd worked up a pedigree and description for my mythical Poodle bitch and presented both to me with a flourish. She'd done all she could, her look seemed to say. Now it was up to me.
Maybe it was sexist on my part, but somehow I'd just assumed that it was a man who had fought with Uncle Max and left with his dog. Now, however, looking around the tent, I was surprised to see that with the exception of the large setups belonging to the professional handlers and manned by their armies of assistants, the majority of the Poodle exhibitors seemed to be women.
In front of me, a tiny woman was completely engrossed in her preparations of a large white male. She had to stand on tiptoe to reach his head as he stood atop his grooming table, but it didn't seem to cramp her style any. She fussed over her entry like a second grader's mother at the school play. The Poodle, for his part, suffered her attentions nobly. I passed her by for the moment as her dog was white, but made a mental note to ask Aunt Peg later whether all breeders had only one color, as she did, or whether there were some who kept a mixture.
Several tables down, a black bitch reclined gracefully, her grooming obviously finished. A rather large woman with carefully coiffed blond hair was leaning back against the edge of the table, munching on a sugar-coated pastry. Her shelf of a bosom collected crumbs as she ate, a habitual occurrence, I decided when she reached up and flicked them away without so much as a glance.
Between bites, I made my approach. “Excuse me. Do you have a minute?”
“Just about,” she said. “I haven't picked up my number yet. What can I do for you?”
I watched as she broke the last bit of pastry in two pieces, ate one herself and fed the other to the Poodle. Carefully she cupped her hands under the dog's chin so that no sugar would spill into the gorgeous mane of hair.
“I'm looking for some advice actually. I have a Standard Poodle bitch that I'd like to breed, and I'm looking for a stud dog for her.”
The woman leaned down and rummaged through a well-stocked cooler, coming up seconds later with a cold can of soda. “I'm afraid I can't help you there. I don't keep a stud dog. I've got five bitches, you know what I mean? You might want to try Louise.” She pointed toward the little woman with the big white dog.
“I was hoping to find a black. That's what color my bitch is.”
“Then you're looking for Margaret Turnbull,” the woman said firmly. “She's got the best blacks in the area. That's her there, the tall lady. Give her a try. I'll bet she's got a dog for you.”
My first dead end. “Thanks,” I said, ambling away. “I'll ask her.”
The next person I spoke with asked about my bitch's pedigree. Dutifully I recited as many ancestors as I could remember. It was, I thought, a stellar performance, and the woman seemed suitably impressed. The bubble burst a moment later, however, when once again I was directed to Aunt Peg.
Suddenly things weren't looking as simple as I'd thought they'd be. Finally, two tries later, my luck began to change. A slim man, sporting a black goatee as beautifully groomed as the coat of his Poodle, glanced up from his scissoring and said, “Why don't you talk to Crawford Langley? I hear he's got a new stud he's been raving about.”
“Who's Crawford Langley?”
The man stared as though he couldn't believe I wouldn't know, but I let the question stand and finally he explained, “Langley's a handler. Just about the best in Poodles. He's got a stud dog for everybody.”
That sounded promising. What could be easier than to add one more stud dog to a kennel that was already full of them? “Where would I find Mr. Langley?”
“You won't be able to talk to him now. He's much too busy. Those are his assistants down there.” He pointed toward one of the large setups I'd noticed earlier where two young men with a row of Poodles and tables spread out between them seemed to have taken the assembly line approach to grooming. “They stay here and do all the work, then Langley takes the dogs into the ring. Come back when the judging is over. I'm sure he'll be around then.”
I was debating where to try next when I felt the unmistakable tug of somebody's gaze upon me. Aunt Peg, I guessed, probably monitoring my progress and far from satisfied with the way things were going.
I spun around, fully intending to give her the glare she deserved, only to find myself looking into a pair of the bluest eyes I'd ever seen. I had to blink twice before the rest of the picture came into focus, but it was well worth the wait. Along with the eyes came rugged features, sandy blond hair, and a body that belonged on a Hollywood billboard. My stomach didn't exactly plummet, but I have to admit it did drop a notch or two.
Sam Driver. It had to be.
Perhaps because Aunt Peg had described him in movie star terms, I'd pictured him that wayâpretty, but two-dimensional, like a slick magazine cover with a story that could be flipped through at will. In my mind, I'd relegated him to the ranks of the bit players, someone who'd be no problem at all to get around.
But while the looks were certainly there, she'd somehow completely neglected to mention the piercing quality of those slate blue eyes. In the space of a single glance, I felt as though I'd been weighed, measured, and dispensed with accordingly. It was not a comfortable feeling.
Pasting a smile on my face, I started in Driver's direction. I thought he'd go back to his grooming while I approached, but he didn't. Instead, he simply stood there, waiting. Under other circumstances, I'd have been flattered. Now, I couldn't help but wonder at his interest.
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