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Authors: Laurien Berenson

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BOOK: Best in Show
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Bearing this in mind, PCA's hotel coordinator works year round to ensure that hosting our large contingent of Poodle owners is a pleasant experience for all concerned. Participants are warned not to let their dogs bark excessively. No grooming is permitted in the hotel rooms; instead, the club rents a conference room within the hotel where exhibitors can work on their dogs. Areas where Poodles may be exercised outside are very strictly marked. Pooper-scoopers and garbage cans are lined up in readiness and all owners are expected to pick up after their dogs. Club members patrol all common areas—inside and out—cleaning and straightening as needed to make sure that our week-long stay is a happy one.
Even with all those precautions, I knew that the club had switched host hotels recently. What I didn't know was why. “What did Damien do?”
“What didn't he do? There were complaints from other guests from the moment he arrived. Crates jammed cheek to jowl into his room, dogs barking at all hours of the night. I gather he took it upon himself to dye several Poodles black in his bathtub. At least part of the resulting mess was apparently wiped up with a bedspread.
“But the final straw was when it came time to leave. In order to facilitate loading up, he backed his truck across the hotel lawn and parked it outside the door to his room. As for the door itself, he removed that from its hinges and set it aside. Somehow it was either lost or broken in the process. Who knows, maybe he took it home with him for a souvenir. Somewhat understandably, the hotel asked us not to return. We, in turn, were tempted to ask Damien not to return, but of course we have no control over who makes entries and who doesn't.”
“So here he is again,” I said. “Even a day early, wouldn't you rather have his dogs unloaded here than back at the hotel?”
“If we make an exception for Damien,” Aunt Peg replied, “what will we tell the next person who asks us to do the same? Besides, Damien can't take his dogs back to the hotel. We tipped off the management. Heaven knows where he's staying, but it's not with the rest of the club. We can't afford to let one bad apple ruin things for us again. That's why he was so anxious to bring the dogs in here. He said he had no other place to put them until tomorrow.”
“Why did he come a day early then?”
“Why, indeed? I've long since stopped trying to figure out how his mind works.”
“I guess he'll think of something.”
“Either that, or he'll circle around and try to bully his way inside again later.” Aunt Peg sighed. “Where Damien Bradley is concerned, I'm sorry to say I wouldn't put anything past him.”
4
I
devoted the remainder of the afternoon to watching the agility trial and selling more raffle tickets. At times it seemed as though I could hardly hand them out fast enough. Of course, I reminded myself, it was easy to be successful on day one when everyone had just arrived, was eager to join in the club sponsored activities, and had money to spend. Later in the week, my job was going to become much tougher.
The sisters expressed no such qualms, however, when I turned in my basket late that afternoon. They were delighted with the first day's total, highest in the raffle's history, B.J. announced.
“Wait until the board hears,” she said. “They'll be thrilled.”
“It's a good omen,” Edith Jean added happily. “This is going to be our show.”
As the agility trial drew to a close, the sisters began to pack up for the night. The most valuable items would go back to their hotel room with them. Other things were placed in boxes beneath the table. The remainder would simply stay where they were, covered by a sheet. They assured me that they had the job well in hand, so I retrieved Eve from her crate and she and I headed back to the headquarters hotel.
There, I found nearly as much activity going on as there had been at the show site. Dozens of PCA participants were arriving each hour. Some were entered in the obedience trial on Tuesday. Others were planning to attend the PCA Foundation Seminar to be held the next day at the hotel.
The seminar was a PCA tradition, consisting of a daylong program of panels and symposiums on topics of interest to serious Poodle fanciers. Past programs had discussed such diverse issues as genetic research, strategies for better breeding, and Poodle rescue. The seminar was always widely attended and I had no doubt that its success was at least partly due to the fact that Aunt Peg was the person in charge of selecting the speakers.
Before going up to my room, I took Eve around the back of the hotel to the wide grassy area that had been designated for the club's use. After a day of virtual confinement, I could finally take off the puppy's leash and let her run free. I'd already stuffed several Baggies in my pocket, prepared to clean up, should the need arise.
Some lucky exhibitors had ground-floor rooms that opened out directly onto the exercise area. Many had set up portable pens around the perimeter. Everywhere I looked I saw Poodles playing in the grass: big ones, little ones, Poodles of all ages and colors. The meadow was a Poodle lover's dream come true.
I would have been happy to hang around outside and socialize except that now that I'd been gone for a day I wanted to call and check on Davey. This was the first time in his seven and half years that he and I had been separated for any length of time. Considering that I'd spent the majority of his life acting as a single parent, this unaccustomed freedom took some getting used to.
Oh, let's be honest. I wasn't sure I liked it at all.
When I'd originally made arrangements to come to PCA, I'd planned to bring Davey with me as I had in previous years. The difference this time was that in the interim, Davey's father, Bob, had relocated back to Connecticut. Had moved, in fact, to a house no more than a mile or two from our own.
Both Bob and Davey were enjoying the opportunity to spend time with one another. To my delight, Bob was turning into the father I'd always hoped he would be. Not that there hadn't been some missteps along the way—the purchase of a pony in the spring being notable among them. But Willow had since moved on to greener pastures, while Bob was trying his damnedest to live up to the responsibility he hadn't been sure for years that he wanted.
It had been Bob's idea that Davey and Faith stay with him for the week while I came down to Maryland. He'd started by convincing our son of the wisdom of his plan. I'm not saying that bribery was involved, but let me just mention that Bob's idea of a nutritious dinner runs to chocolate-chip pancakes and French fries. Still, when the two of them approached me as a united front, I'd found it hard to say no.
Which didn't mean I had any intention of allowing the two of them to run wild all week long without someone checking in. Up in my room, I sat down on the bed and dialed the phone. I'd thought calling at dinnertime would be a good idea. Still, the phone rang half a dozen times before Davey picked up.
“Hi, it's Mom,” I said. “How are you doing?”
“Great!” Davey yelped.
There was something in the background. A siren, perhaps? “What's that noise?”
“Dad's smoke alarm. Hold on.”
My son dropped the phone. I spent the thirty seconds he was gone plotting out how long it would take me, if I left right that minute, to get home to Connecticut.
“Okay,” said Davey, coming back on the line. He sounded breathless. “Dad wanted me to be sure and tell you that everything's fine.”
Like P.T. Barnum, Bob believes there's a sucker born every minute. Unfortunately for him, I'm not quite that gullible.
“If everything's fine, why did the smoke alarm go off?”
“We were making s'mores.”
As if that explained everything. I sighed. Prayed for patience. Toyed briefly with the idea of dialing 911.
“Did your father singe his eyebrows again?”
“Not yet.” Davey giggled.
“How about you? Eyebrows intact?”
“Moo-om!”
When did my name become a three octave epithet? That's what I would like to know. Under the circumstances, it was a fair question.
“Does Dad have a fire extinguisher?”
“Yup,” Davey confirmed proudly. “He's using it now. Hey, wait! I want to see! Sorry, Mom, gotta go. Talk to you later. Bye!”
Just like that, he was gone. The child of my heart, the son I adored, the infant I'd nursed through colic and ear infections. Gone fire fighting, three hundred miles away. Isn't that what every mother hopes her little boy will do when she takes that first step and relinquishes a modicum of control?
And I hadn't even had a chance to ask about Faith. I wondered if I should call back.
Before I could decide, there was a knock at the door. “Who is it?” I called.
“Surprise!”
Like I needed another one. But I recognized that voice and was already smiling when I threw open the door. “Bertie! What on earth are you doing here?”
“Come to watch the dog show,” said the redhead. “Isn't that why everyone in this whole freakin' hotel is here? And I do mean, everyone. I've never seen so many Poodles in my life. But what the hell, I'll deal. I'm on vacation.”
“Vacation?” I reached out and pulled her inside. She was, I noted, carrying a tall, dark bottle and two wineglasses. “I didn't think professional handlers got those.”
“Huh,” said Bertie. I took that as agreement. She plunked the bottle down on the nearest table and gave me a hug.
Bertie Kennedy had been a friend for several years; as of the previous Christmas, she was now my sister-in-law. So far, her six-month-old marriage to my younger brother, Frank, was progressing splendidly. Frank had matured, seemingly overnight. Falling in love and making the decision to take a wife had rearranged my brother's priorities and firmed up his sense of responsibility. Speaking as the older sister who'd spent much of her life cleaning up after his scrapes and indiscretions, the metamorphosis was welcome and well overdue.
As for Bertie, she'd changed too. For years, she'd focused on her career, devoting endless amounts of time and energy to the task of making a name for herself in a difficult profession. By the time she met Frank, Bertie had a sizeable string of dogs to handle and a social life that was in shreds. This for a woman who was knockdown, drop-dead gorgeous. It was enough to make you wonder whether the rest of us even stood a chance.
When I first met Bertie, she'd flaunted her looks. She was the kind of woman that men stared at openly, the kind that other women envied even as they tried to dismiss her. Little by little, however, Bertie had lost her taste for being the center of attention.
She still glowed, but the neon sheen was gone and her radiance had dimmed to a fine luster. The hard edges she'd built for defense over the years had softened. She'd finally relaxed, taken a deep breath, and found what she truly wanted in life. And I couldn't have been happier with the way things had turned out.
“Don't tell me you brought wine,” I said.
“Heaven forbid. In my condition? I don't think so.”
Bertie was three and a half months pregnant, though she hadn't begun to show yet. There wasn't even a hint of a ripple in her slender outline. She picked up the bottle and squinted at the label.
“I thought we deserved a toast, so I picked this up. The guy behind the counter at the convenience store promised it was drinkable. It's some sort of sparkling, alcohol-free . . . crap.” Bertie hooted with laughter and she pried off some foil and unscrewed the cap.
“What are we drinking to?” I asked, staring at the fizzy pink liquid that came pouring out of the dark green bottle. It looked like something you might bolt down to calm an upset stomach.
“To vacations, to taking a week off.” Now Bertie was staring, too. “To freedom!”
“Freedom from indigestion looks more like it.” I picked up my glass and took a sniff. The sparkling wine smelled like liquid sugar. Bubbles teased my nose.
“Go on,” Bertie prodded. “How bad can it be? At least you're not in my shoes, throwing up everything you eat just for the hell of it.”
“Still?” I took a cautious sip. The stuff wasn't awful. If you'd never outgrown your taste for Kool-Aid.
“Still.” She chugged down a gulp. “But mostly only in the mornings these days. Hey, for something pink, this isn't bad.”
“I think your hormones must be affecting your taste buds.”
“Whatever.” Bertie poured herself another glass, carried it over and sat down on the bed. Obligingly, Eve moved aside to give her room. “So tell me all about the schedule. This show has more stuff going on than the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. What's up for tomorrow?”
“Two things.” I settled in a chair by the window. “There's an obedience trial—”
Bertie waved a hand, urging me to move on. The dogs she handled showed in the conformation classes. Though obedience attracted just as many die-hard fanatics, it was a different taste entirely.
“Plus the PCA Foundation Seminar.”
“That sounds interesting. Did Peg put the roster together?”
“Of course. Dr. Arthur Law is doing the main program. He's some sort of DNA specialist, talking about gene mapping or genetic diversity or something like that.”
Bertie cocked her head. “You going?”
“Are you kidding? Aunt Peg would kill me if I didn't at least put in an appearance. Although I'm also due to sell raffle tickets over at the arena, and at some point I have to give Eve a bath.”
Bertie didn't show Poodles, but she'd handled enough long-haired dogs in her career to know that bathing a Standard Poodle was an arduous and time-consuming process. Just blowing the puppy's hair dry would take several hours.
“If you're looking to be helpful . . .” I said.
“No way! I'm on vacation, didn't I mention that?”
“You did. You just never quite explained how it came about. Who's taking care of your dogs?”
A not inconsiderable question. One thing about being a professional handler: you had to love your job because you never got time off. Even on those days when everyone was home with no shows to attend, the string still had to be fed, and exercised, and cleaned up after. Those who didn't truly enjoy the sport, and the dogs, simply burned out after a couple of years and went off to find regular means of employment.
Easier
means of employment—like digging ditches or painting bridges.
“Frank's in charge of the kennel.” Bertie grinned. “Can you believe it?”
“Since you asked,” I said truthfully. “No. Whose idea was that?”
“His, which makes it even more amazing. He volunteered, told me I was looking tired. Asked if I felt like I needed some time off.”
“I think impending fatherhood has sent my brother around the bend.”
“Could be, but I wasn't about to argue. Of course, the problem was that we both couldn't go away at the same time. Plus Frank's been pretty busy at the coffeehouse. But then I remembered this was PCA week. I figured I might as well come down and pick up a few pointers. So I hopped in my car and here I am. Frank thought it was a great idea. He's under the impression that you and Peg are going to keep an eye on me.”
My brow lifted. Bertie was one of the most self-sufficient women I'd ever met. “Do you need keeping an eye on?”
“No.” Her hand drifted to her stomach. “But try telling your brother that.”
“I wouldn't dream of it. Actually, I think his concern is rather sweet.”
“For now. Check back with me in six months and see how I feel.”
I thought back to my own pregnancy. “By December, you'll probably want to throttle him and anyone else who looks at you cross-eyed. By the way, are you hungry?”
“Are you kidding?”
That was what I'd figured.
“Let's go find some dinner,” I said. “On the way, I just need to stop by the grooming room for a minute and check out the facilities, so I'll know how to set things up for Eve's bath.”
“Grooming room? What grooming room?” Bertie waited at the door as I explained the situation to Eve, telling the puppy that she'd have to stay and be quiet, and that I'd be back soon. Several minutes later, we walked out into the hallway together.
BOOK: Best in Show
8.54Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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