Best in Show (14 page)

As they set up to take pictures, the interrupted judging in the Toy ring resumed with the Open Class. At most dog shows, Open is the strongest class. At national specialties, however, there was so much quality to go around that it tended to get spread out. Now I saw that there were fewer entries in Open than there had been in Bubba's class.

Ro-Mac's The Vindicator looked good. I thought so, and so did Leo Mancini. The black puppy was well up to the competition offered by the twelve adult Toys in his class. Vic wasn't as flashy as Bubba, but he didn't have to be. The quality was there in spades. The puppy, quite simply, shone.

The Vindicator prevailed in what looked to the ringside like an easy decision. Harry pocketed the blue ribbon. He took a minute to brush out the puppy's ears and fluff the pompon on his tail. Then he calmly took his place at the head of the Winners' line. One by one, the earlier class winners filed into the ring to join him.

Once again, all activity outside the ring came to a halt. All eyes were drawn to the competition within. The moment of truth had arrived.

“M
ind if I join you?”

I'd been staring so hard at the ring, I hadn't even seen Sam approach. I was, of course, still standing on a chair. For the first time in my life, rather than being eight inches shorter than Sam, I was nearly a foot taller. That didn't last, however, as he was dragging over a chair of his own. When he stepped up next to me, the added height made him tower above the crowd.

“If Aunt Peg sees us, we'll probably catch hell,” I mentioned. My aunt doesn't take anything lightly when it comes to decorum and her favorite dog show.

“She's already seen you.” Sam was grinning. “Hard not to, the way you're sticking up over here.”

He reached over and took my hand. His fingers laced through mine and held on tight. I decided to interpret that to mean that if I had to suffer the consequences of Peg's wrath, Sam would be at my side.

“Who are we rooting for?” he asked as Mr. Mancini sent the line of Toy Poodle class winners around for the first time. Sam had been watching Standards all day with Aunt Peg and was oblivious to the drama unfolding in the Toy ring.

“The silver puppy, second from the end. That's Edith Jean's Bubba. The one I told you about last night.” Over dinner, I'd filled Sam in on everything that had transpired before his arrival.

“The black puppy at the head of the line is gorgeous. The one with Harry Gandolf.”

I nodded, not taking my eyes from the ring. “That's Ro-Mac's The Vindicator, probably Bubba's chief competition, though I didn't get to see the rest of the classes. Harry wants desperately for his puppy to beat Bubba. Earlier I overheard him offering E.J. money to withdraw her dog from competition.”

Sam didn't comment. He'd been involved in the dog show world long enough to know that just about anything was possible. He and I watched as, one by one, the Toy dogs were brought out of the line and moved again. That exercise was performed partly to refresh the judge's memory, partly to honor each one as a class winner, and partly to allow the ringside to show support for their favorites. Each of the Toys was drawing applause from the crowd, but Vic and Bubba were clearly the two favorites.

Harry's puppy, first to go, seemed to feed off the spectators' enthusiasm. The louder the response, the more he began to sparkle. Harry, too, reveled in the audience's attention. As the pair stopped in front of the judge, he pulled a furry stuffed mouse from his pocket and encouraged the little black dog to play.

“That's going to be hard to beat,” Sam said as the puppy gaited to the end of the line accompanied by appreciative applause.

I had to agree, though I wasn't about to abandon hope yet. “Wait until you see Bubba. That puppy shows like a pro. If nothing else, he'll make a tight race of it.”

Four dogs later, it was Bubba's turn. The crowd was waiting for him, hands poised in anticipation. The silver had barely stepped out of line before someone high up in the stands whistled loudly. The shrill sound echoed throughout the arena. A few people laughed at the over-the-top commendation.

In the ring, Roger's head snapped up. He looked around as if seeking the source of the sound. At the same time, Bubba scampered forward several steps, crossing in front of his handler's feet. Distracted, still walking, Roger didn't see him in time. One loafer-clad toe kicked the puppy squarely in the ribs.

The blow was only a glancing one; nevertheless, it lifted the tiny Poodle up off the ground and tossed him nearly a foot. The spectators gasped audibly.

Bubba landed, bounced, seemed to recover. Then he scooted in a small circle at the end of the lead and dropped his tail. A horrified silence fell over the crowd. They clung to the edges of their seats as Roger immediately dropped to his knees beside the Toy puppy.

Dog shows operate on the premise that judges compare every dog before them to a breed standard. These written standards are the bible according to which every purebred dog is measured. Aside from offering a physical description, the standards also attempt the difficult task of defining what the essence of each breed should be. In Poodles, a dog bred primarily to act as a companion, temperament is considered to be paramount.

Poodles are naturally happy dogs. They should be outgoing and friendly, never shy or nervous. Poodles are meant to enjoy being shown, to have fun in the ring with their handlers. It's expected that one of the ways they'll demonstrate that enjoyment is by holding up their tails.

Old-timers have an expression that puts it more succinctly: “No tail, no Poodle,” they say.

So the fact that Bubba had gotten spooked was a big deal. If the puppy was to have any hope of winning, he needed to recover, and quickly. Roger chucked the small dog under the chin. He tickled his back. He took a small red ball out of his pocket and bounced it in front of Bubba's nose.

The puppy's ears pricked. His tail began to wag. Roger handed him the rubber ball, then snatched it back. Legs stiff, Bubba bounced up and down in place. His tail snapped up. He barked twice. The puppy wanted to play.

The crowd laughed in relief. They didn't dare applaud yet. Just in case. Roger stood up and walked the puppy over to the judge. Bubba danced at the end of the slender leash. Mr. Mancini sent him down and back. The puppy strutted his stuff.

“That was close,” I said.

Sam was looking up into the stands. Tiers of mostly empty seats rose above us in all directions. Nearly all the show spectators preferred the close-up view from down on the arena floor. From even the lowest of the permanent seats, a Toy Poodle would look like little more than a moving ball of fluff.

“I wonder who whistled,” Sam said.

Good question. Especially since you don't hear much stuff like that at dog shows—even big ones like PCA. Considering the outcome, I had to wonder whether the whistler had been looking to support Bubba as it had originally seemed. Or had the gesture been intended right from the start to produce an entirely different result?

In the ring, Mr. Mancini gaited his final class winner. He walked slowly up and down the line one last time. Applause swelled and dipped with his progress. The audience wasn't the least bit shy about making their preferences known; and if they could manage to sway the judge's opinion in the process, so much the better.

Leo Mancini, however, looked like a man with firm opinions of his own. He pointed toward Vic and asked to have the puppy put back on the table. As Harry swept the Toy dog up off the ground and moved to comply, the judge called for Bubba. He repeated his request. Both Poodles were to go on the rubber-matted table simultaneously for a side by side examination.

“I wish he'd hurry up,” I said. The suspense was killing me.

Sam, as usual, was more patient. “Give him time. This is the toughest decision he's had all day.”

On the table in the middle of the ring, Vic stood like a rock. Bubba wasn't so happy. Poodles are seldom called upon to share a table and the silver Toy didn't like it. As he had earlier, Roger stepped back and let the puppy show himself. Then it had worked; now I wanted him to stand in close and offer Bubba more support.

After a minute, the judge returned the two Toys to the ground. Now he asked them to move together. Harry's puppy seemed to think that was a fine idea. Bubba, perhaps still flustered by what had occurred earlier, saw four human feet around him when he'd been expecting two, and balked.

It was only a momentary hesitation, and Roger covered it well. Still, I knew if I had noticed, the judge most certainly had.

Bubba trotted out and back. This time his movement was more perfunctory than electrifying. Beside him, Vic was having the time of his life. Roger looked grim, his features set with concentration. Harry was smiling; he knew which way this wind was blowing.

The two puppies stopped and stacked in front of the judge. Mr. Mancini took one last look, then sent them both back to their original positions in line. That put Vic in front, and Bubba back near the end. That didn't bode well.

The judge raised his hands and sent the line around. He let the Toys gait half the length of the ring, then lifted his arm and pointed. The coveted Winners Dog award went to Harry and The Vindicator.

Cheers erupted from around the arena. Harry pumped a fist in the air. Even though I'd been pulling for Bubba, I had to applaud the black puppy's performance. Roger came forward from the back of the line and shook Harry's hand.

“From here, that looked like the right decision,” Sam said.

I thought so too. In the end, Vic had asked for the win and Bubba hadn't. That one small difference had been enough to determine the outcome.

The Toy dog who'd been second to Vic in the Open class came back to the ring to compete for Reserve Winners. No points would accompany this award, but at the national specialty the win would be an honor nonetheless. Indicating once again how close his previous decision had been, Mr. Mancini made short work of this one. He simply motioned Bubba to the head of the line, sent the dogs around and pointed immediately.

Roger scooped up his puppy and carried him over to the marker. He looked well pleased with the result.

“I've got to go,” Sam said, hopping down. “A friend of mine has two Standards in the parade. I told him I'd handle one for him.”

I knew Aunt Peg had Hope entered in the Parade of Champions as well. Now that Bubba was finished showing for the day, I hoped Edith Jean would come back and relieve me so that I could watch from ringside.

“Meet me for dinner later?” asked Sam.

“Of course. I'll find Bertie and see if she wants to join us.”

“And I'll ask Peg.”

As Sam strode away, I saw Edith Jean approaching through the crowd. Every few feet, someone stopped her to offer congratulations. Though she accepted the good wishes graciously, I could tell she was disappointed.

“Too bad,” I said when she reached the table.

Edith Jean looked surprised. “Don't you want to congratulate me like everyone else?”

“Id be happy to, if you looked like you'd be pleased to hear it. If my puppy went Reserve Winners here, I'd be thrilled. But I know you were hoping for something more.”

“What I was hoping,” Edith Jean muttered, “was not to have to watch my handler give the whole shooting match away.”

Oh.

Her hand went to her throat, toying absently with something there. The locket, I realized after a moment. Edith Jean was wearing her sister's locket.

I was about to comment when I saw Roger Carew hurrying toward us. He must have come straight from the ring; the silver Toy puppy was still tucked beneath his arm.

Bubba saw Edith Jean and began to whimper excitedly. His small legs paddled in the air as he wiggled in Roger's arms. The handler paused, looked around to make sure it was safe, then slipped off the puppy's show leash and lowered him to the ground. Barking happily, Bubba raced the last few feet across the turf to his owner.

At the sight of her delighted little dog, Edith Jean's expression brightened. She lifted the puppy up into her arms, murmuring endearments as his small pink tongue covered her face with kisses. The look she sent Roger over Bubba's head, however, wasn't nearly as friendly.

“I'm sorry,” he said quickly. He held out the purple and white rosette and a small pewter bowl, compliments of the trophy committee.

Edith Jean didn't even glance at the loot. “You should be. You could have won that, you know. You had the better dog.”

Having seen the puppies compete, I wasn't so sure of that. I'd rooted for Edith Jean because I liked her. A judge, however, had to cast such preconceived notions aside and act objectively in making the decision. In this judge's place, I might well have done the same thing he had.

“I know,” Roger said to Edith Jean. “And I apologize. So many people came to see him after he won his class. Everyone wanted to have a look, and I knew you'd be pleased by all the attention he was getting. It was my fault for not remembering how young he was. I should have put him in his crate and let him rest. You have every right to be angry with me. He was just too tired to show his best for Winners and I'm the one who's to blame.”

Cuddling her puppy and faced with her handler's sincere remorse, Edith Jean's ire seemed to be fading. She held Bubba to her and sighed. “Who's a good boy?” I heard her whisper. The tiny pomponned tail whipped back and forth like a metronome.

After a minute, Edith Jean looked up. “Reserve is still pretty good,” she said.

“In that company, it's excellent,” I agreed.

“He's got a good shot at Best Puppy,” said Roger.

On Friday, after the Best of Variety class was judged in Toys, the winners of each of the four Puppy classes (two in dogs and two in bitches) would be brought back to be judged for Best Toy Puppy. That puppy would go on to compete with the Best Mini Puppy and Best Standard Puppy for Best Puppy in Show. Vic, though still a puppy himself, was ineligible for the award as he had been shown in the Open class.

“That's true,” said Edith Jean. “Best Puppy in Show is pretty important. Sister probably would have gotten a kick out of that.”

Looking vastly relieved, Roger took Bubba back to the grooming area to undo his tight, stylized, show ring coiffure. Edith Jean took over the running of the raffle table. I headed over to the rings to watch the parade. I knew Aunt Peg would be busy getting Hope ready. With luck, her ringside seat would be free.

As it turned out, Peg's chair was empty. The one beside it, however, where Sam had been sitting earlier, was taken. Rosalind Romanescue was waiting for the start of the parade as well. Today she was wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt, overalls, and sneakers. A chunky turquoise necklace circled her neck. Her attire was somewhat disappointing. Where were the flowing chiffon, wild colors, and gaudy hoop earrings I wanted her to affect?