Hot Dog (5 page)

“His loss doesn't bode well for Eve and Tar,” I mentioned. All three of the Poodles we'd brought to the show were quite closely related. “If she didn't like Zeke . . .”

“Oh, pish,” Aunt Peg said under her breath. “I doubt if Rachel even formed a coherent opinion of the dog. She barely touched either one of them, did you notice?”

Now that she mentioned it, I had.

“You can't judge Poodles properly if you're going to be intimidated by hair,” Aunt Peg said firmly. “What's underneath is far more important than the artful presentation on top. If Rachel had come to me, it's the first thing I would have told her.”

“Hear, hear!” Terry Denunzio slipped an arm around Aunt Peg's shoulder and insinuated himself into our small group.

Terry was assistant to Crawford Langley, one of the Northeast's busiest and most successful professional handlers. He was impossibly handsome and totally gay and he reveled in both attributes. He was also charming, funny, and a genius when it came to hair.

“You weren't supposed to be listening to that,” Aunt Peg said disapprovingly.

“Why not? You were right.”

“Of course I was right.” Peg refused to be appeased. “I was also whispering. Didn't your mother teach you that it's not polite to eavesdrop?”

“Good heavens, no. My mother's a politician.”

“She is?” That was news to me.

“Hey, everybody's got to do something.” Terry leaned down and kissed Eve's nose, careful not to touch the lacquered hair around her face and neck. “How's my pretty girl?”

“Not above listening to flattery apparently.” The puppy's tail was wagging up over her back. “Where's Crawford?” I asked. “How come he doesn't have any Standards today?”

“We just brought Minis and Toys. Crawford couldn't see the point of trying to show anything bigger in a ring the size of a hatbox.”

The excuse made sense, but I wasn't buying it. Not entirely anyway. Professional handlers make their money showing dogs. Good venues, bad venues, they're paid to cope. It's amateurs like me who usually wimp out.

“Besides . . .” Terry cast a meaningful glance in Tar's direction.

Now we were getting to the heart of the matter. Sam's dog had recently returned to specials competition after a long layoff and he was ready to win. Fortunately, the judges had been agreeing. In the last month, he'd been Best of Variety every time he was shown and had placed in a number of groups.

“Don't tell me Crawford's running scared?” I teased.

A handler's specials dog is his showcase. If they think they're going to get beaten, they stay home. Of course the whole point was never to admit to such insecurities.

On the other hand, one of the things I liked best about Terry was his big mouth.

“Excuse me.” Aunt Peg poked me in the shoulder. Hard. “Not that I don't find all this chatter entertaining, but are you even marginally aware that Reserve Winners just finished and your class is next?”

I spun around and had a look. Of course, Aunt Peg was right. Back when I was showing Faith in the Puppy Class, I used to stand at ringside and agonize over each passing minute as my nerves grew taut and butterflies danced in my stomach.

Aunt Peg's annoyance notwithstanding, I had to say this was a better system. I took a few seconds to flip my comb through Eve's neck hair, smooth her ears, and ball my skinny little show lead up in my fist. Then I chucked her under the chin and we went sailing into the ring.

Time to have some fun.

I
t would be nice to think that I accomplished a great feat in winning my Puppy Class after Aunt Peg hadn't managed to win hers, but since Eve was the only puppy bitch entered, my success was pretty much assured. Like her littermate, Eve was under the impression that the show ring had been created expressly for her enjoyment. Though she did, for the most part, keep all four feet on the ground, my Poodle was hard put to contain her enthusiasm for the task at hand.

Those familiar with obedience trials, where dog and handler work as a stolid team and compliance must be immediate and absolute, have been known to say that breed competition is a frivolous exercise, lacking in training and discipline. Nothing could be farther from the truth. By nine months of age, Eve had learned to stand quietly while being examined by a stranger, to keep her attention riveted on me and my cues despite any number of outside distractions, and to trot at my side on a loose leash with her head and tail held high.

What she hadn't yet learned to do was control her natural exuberance. All of which would stand her in good stead as her career proceeded.

Good judges tend to allow youngsters some leeway when it comes to their behavior in the ring. They know that a puppy who shows like a seasoned campaigner often matures into an adult that competes with all the flair of an automaton. Eve took that leeway and ran with it. So no one was more surprised than I when the puppy cavorted all the way to the Winners Bitch award.

“Congratulations!” Aunt Peg crowed, clapping me on the back as I emerged from the ring, clutching my purple ribbon and wearing what I imagine was a somewhat shocked expression.

“How did that happen?” I asked.

“You brought the best bitch on the day, and wonder of wonders, Rachel found you.” What Aunt Peg politely didn't mention was that there'd only been two other bitches in the entry, neither one a potential star.

“Eve's first point.” I was still somewhat dazed. “From the Puppy Class.”

It seemed all the more impressive since I hadn't managed that feat with Faith.

“You'll have to have a picture,” Peg pronounced. “But first, back you go for Best of Variety.”

Sam had already walked Tar into the ring and was setting him up on the mat. The only champion Standard Poodle entered, his was the place of honor at the head of the line. The Winners Dog stood second, and Eve and I brought up the rear.

The judging was over quickly. Faced with a specials dog who looked the part; a sound, if somewhat unexciting Winners Dog; and a puppy who used the BOV class as an opportunity to flip around on the end of her lead like a recently hooked fish, Rachel Lyons wasted no time in giving Tar the top award. Eve, by virtue of being the only bitch in the ring, was Best of Opposite Sex. That meant I now had two nice ribbons to get my picture taken with.

Tar, who had just qualified for the Non-Sporting group, would have his picture taken later. Sam and Aunt Peg headed back to the setup, but I lingered at ringside with Eve until Mrs. Lyons took her next photo break. By then, an assortment of Bichons, Lhasas, and Shibas had shown up for the same reason. Finally, our turn came to pose.

Now that the competition was over, conversation between exhibitor and judge was permitted. As I handed the ribbons back to the judge, who would hold them in the photo, I thanked her for the win.

“She's an adorable puppy,” she replied. “I'm sure you'll do very well with her.” As I reached down to set Eve's legs, Mrs. Lyons added, “I see you travel with quite an entourage.”

“Excuse me?” I straightened, wondering if I'd heard her correctly. Was she making an oblique reference to my connection with Aunt Peg?

The judge nodded toward the other end of the ring. In the rush of showing, and then winning, I'd forgotten all about Jill and Rich. There they were, my own personal camera crew. Legs pressed against the barrier that was meant to keep spectators out, Rich was taping and Jill was speaking into her microphone. Catching my eye, Rich flashed me a thumbs up.

Quickly I looked away. “I'm sorry. They seem to think they're doing a story about me. I hope they didn't get in your way.”

“Not at all,” Mrs. Lyons said happily. “Are you somebody famous?”

“No.”

I was tempted to add that, on the contrary, Jill and Rich were somebody desperate, but the photographer chose that moment to toss his squeaky toy, and instead I braced to hold the puppy in place as the flash popped. I couldn't help but notice that the judge's smile was directed just as much toward Rich as it was toward the still photographer.

Photo session finished, I hustled Eve back to the setup. “Guess what?” I said in annoyance as the puppy hopped back up on her table.

Aunt Peg, who already had Zeke half undone, removed a comb from her mouth and asked, “What?”

“I just found out why Mrs. Lyons put Eve up.”

“Why?” Sam was sitting on top of Tar's crate, sipping a soda. Since his Poodle had more showing left to do, he'd merely gathered the dog's long, silky ear hair into rubber bands, then left him, snoozing contentedly, on his table.

“Because she saw Jill and Rich taping from ringside and thought I was somebody famous.”

“
You?”
Aunt Peg laughed out loud.

“Yes, me,” I grumbled, affronted by her reaction all the same.

“A point's a point,” Sam said philosophically. “Take them any way you can get them. There will be plenty you deserve that you don't win.”

As any dog show exhibitor will be happy to tell you, Sam was right about that.

“When's your group?” I asked.

He reached over and consulted the schedule. “Third after Sporting and Terrier. They're about to start any minute.”

I went to work getting Eve taken apart. Her topknot had to come down and be brushed out, then replaced with the looser pony tails she wore at home. Her ears needed to be wrapped, and her neck hair sprayed with conditioner to dilute the stickiness of the hair spray that had been holding it in place. That done, I offered her a bowl of cool water, then ran her outside for a quick exercise in the parking lot.

By the time I got back, Sam and Tar were heading up to the ring. I stowed the puppy in her crate next to Zeke's and joined Aunt Peg, who was about to follow. It was hard to ignore the fact that Jill and Rich were still trailing along behind.

“Tar looks good,” I said as we found our places at ringside.

Group dogs line up in size order, and Sam had taken the position at the head of the line. A liver spotted Dalmatian was behind him, followed by a red Chow. The black Standard Poodle stood on tight, high feet. His neck arched as he surveyed the competition disdainfully.

“So does Sam,” Aunt Peg mentioned.

I knew she was dying for me to respond. So help me, I couldn't think of a thing to say. In the ring, the handlers stood up and the dogs began the first go-round.

“I gather you haven't forgiven him yet.”

“Would you?” I asked pointedly. I'd expected a quick answer and was surprised when she hesitated. Sam had never been able to do anything wrong in Aunt Peg's eyes.

“I don't know,” she said finally. “But then again, the whole point is that you're not me. You're a kinder person than I am, you always have been. Somehow I expected this would all blow over when Sam came to his senses and returned.”

Me? Kind? Only in the comparison, I thought. Next to Aunt Peg, a grizzly bear had softer moments.

“One piece of advice,” said Peg. “I know you don't want it, but you're getting it anyway. Someday the two of you are going to get back together. I know it, you know it, and Sam knows it too. Don't make him wait too long.”

 

 

There's nothing longer than the drive home from a dog show where you've lost. The aura of accomplishment that follows winning, however, makes the miles seem to fly by. Even though it was only one point, Eve was now officially started toward her championship.

Not only that, but I had progressed from being a novice exhibitor, who could—on a lucky day—put points on a beautiful bitch that someone else had bred and coached her to show, to being a fledgling breeder who was capable of presenting her own stock creditably enough to get noticed from the Puppy Class. It felt like quite a coup.

Tar had put the finishing touch on our good day by taking third in the Non-Sporting group. The win was duly recorded from ringside by Rich. I'd fully expected Jill Prescott to lose interest as the dog show day wore on. Instead, she and her cameraman had stuck it out until the very end. Indeed, several times during the trip home I found myself examining the cars behind me in the rearview mirror, checking to make sure I wasn't being followed. There's nothing like a little paranoia to keep you on your toes.

Dusk had already fallen by the time we came to our exit on the Merritt Parkway. Eve was asleep beside me, her body curled comfortably in the bucket seat, her black nose resting on her dainty, shaved front paws. She smelled like hair spray, and conditioner, and very clean dog, an aroma I found as comforting as those nostalgic scents from my youth. As I turned into our neighborhood, Eve lifted her head and blinked her eyes.

“Perfect timing,” I told her, reaching over to ruffle through the puppy's thick neck hair. “We're almost home.”

I'd figured I'd call Bob when we got in to make arrangements to pick up Davey and Faith. But as we pulled onto our road, my foot eased up off the gas pedal in surprise. Our house, which should have been dark and still, was instead lit up like a neon billboard. Inside and outside, every single light had been turned on. From the end of the street, our small Cape stood out like a beacon.

Frowning, I let the Volvo coast down the block and into the driveway. What the heck was going on? Had Bob and Davey decided to meet us here? If so, where was Bob's car? Eve stood up on the seat beside me and began to bark. The noise bounced around the enclosed car, assaulting my ears.

“Shhh.” I reached over and cupped a hand around the puppy's muzzle. “Faith can't hear you yet. You'll have to wait until you get inside to brag about your day.”

Because an appearance by Bob and Davey was the only way to explain what I was seeing, I fully expected our arrival to bring Faith racing to the front window of the house. It didn't.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” I muttered, gathering up some of our stuff. When I opened the car door, Eve leapt over me and ran to the steps. I followed more slowly. Standing back, I stared, perplexed, at the brightly lit house.

If no one was home, who had turned on all the lights? I was certain I hadn't left things this way. Though we'd started out early that morning, the sun had already been up. Maybe I'd left on one light in the kitchen, but nothing like this. Aside from the fact that it was overkill, this festival of light had to be costing me a small fortune.

I joined Eve at the top of the steps, pulled open the storm door, fitted my key to the lock. And froze.

Maybe it was power of suggestion: Jill and Rich shadowing me all day until I'd begun to feel a little hunted. Or maybe it was the fact that I do seem to stumble over more than my share of mysteries. Or maybe I was just growing a little more cautious in my old age.

I pulled the key out of the door and turned the knob. It was locked, just as I'd left it. Dumping my stuff on the stoop, I hopped down the steps and walked around the back of the house. The gate leading into the fenced yard was latched and closed. The back door was securely locked, too.

Eve, who was happy inside or out as long as she was home and with me, took the opportunity to sniff out a few likely spots and pee. Feeling baffled and more than a little foolish, I surveyed the house from the rear, just as I'd done in front. Everything looked okay.

Aside from the lights, all was just as it had been that morning when we'd set out. I unlocked the back door and let the puppy bound ahead of me into the kitchen. If there were any intruders, Eve wasn't too concerned about their presence. She ran directly to the pantry where I keep the dog biscuits, her tail wagging expectantly.

I stopped just inside the back door and began flipping off switches. Almost immediately, the phone began to ring. Nerves stretched tight, I jumped at the sound and spun around. For no discernible reason, my heart was racing. Breath shuddered in my lungs.

In the time it took me to recover, the machine picked up. I stood very still and listened. My message played, followed by a beep.

“Mel?” said a familiar voice. “It's Bob. We were just checking to see if you were back yet—”

Of course it was Bob. Who else would it be? Feeling like an idiot, I dashed across the kitchen and snatched up the phone.

“Bob? I'm here.”

“Is everything okay?” he said after a pause. “You sound a little strange.”

“Just out of breath. I ran to get the phone.” It was as good an excuse as any. I pressed the receiver to my ear and began to walk through the house, turning off lights as I went. “Did you and Davey stop over here today by any chance?”

“At your house? No, why?”

“All my lights are on. Every one. I'm sure I didn't leave the place like this.”

Bob thought for a minute. “You probably left when it was still dark and didn't realize—”

“I didn't.”

“Maybe you had a short, or a power failure, or a power surge.” Bob's knowledge of electricity was about as nonexistent as my own.

“I guess . . .”

“Everything else all right?”

“Fine.” I was upstairs now, checking room by room. Everything, even my unmade bed, looked just as I'd left it. Shoulders finally beginning to relax, I headed back downstairs. “Eve won her first point. How are you guys doing?”