Underdog (10 page)
“And did she?”
“Sure. Anyone who wins as much as Jenny does, has enemies.” Angie affected a look of world-weary blase. “It's the nature of the game.”
I remembered the handler I'd met at the funeral. “Like Harry Flynn?”
“He'd be one.”
“There are more?”
“Sure.” Angie's Cocker shook its head violently. She lifted up one long ear and took a careful look inside. “Take Jackie, the girl we had who was helping around the kennel.”
“The one Jenny fired.”
“Right. Now, she was pissed.”
“Why did Jenny let her go?”
“There were a couple of things. Jenny suspected she'd been pilfering stuff around the kennel. Nothing big, nothing you had to take a stand about. But just enough to make you crazy, you know? Then one day Jenny caught her being rough with one of the dogs. She just about hit the roof over that.”
“Were you there?”
“I sure was.” Angie grinned. “Jenny was great, screaming and yelling and chasing Jackie around the place with a broom. Smacked her with it once or twice and said, âThere, how do you like it?' That was Jenny all over. She wasn't about to stand for anyone beating up on one of her dogs.”
I smiled at the image and thought about how much we'd lost. “Where's Jackie now?”
Angie rolled her eyes. “Like I would really know. Rick said a pet grooming salon in New Canaan called and asked for references, so maybe she ended up there.”
“Angie!” Rick was standing just outside the tent, waving a hand frantically. “Isn't that dog ready yet? You were supposed to meet me at ringside.”
“Oops.” Angie snatched up a leash and slipped the looped end over the Cocker's head. “Gotta go.”
“Sure. Sorry if I held you up.”
I watched Angie hurry out of the grooming area, the Cocker tucked securely under her arm. When she reached Rick, the two of them took off toward the rings. The apology was just for show. I wasn't sorry one bit.
Ten
Aunt Peg and Davey returned right after Angie left. Peaches jumped up and danced on her table, wagging her tail in greeting. That meant Faith had to get up too. Of course once she was on her feet she couldn't figure out what all the excitement was about, since her person had been there all along.
Using both hands, I laid her back down, left side up. The left side of the dog is also known as the show side. It's the one that faces that judge during competition and is always brushed last for maximum effect.
Aunt Peg boosted Davey up onto the top of her large metal crate. He was munching on a candy bar and looking very pleased with himself. At nine-thirty in the morning, no less.
“Davey, where did you get that?”
“Aunt Peg bought it for me.”
“Aunt Peg?”
“Hmm?” Her face was buried in her tack box, no doubt because she could guess what I was going to say.
“I thought you were going to get Davey some hot chocolate.”
“I was, but they didn't have any. So we did the next best thing.”
The next best thing
? “A candy bar? At this hour of the morning?”
? “A candy bar? At this hour of the morning?”
“He asked for it,” Aunt Peg said innocently. “He told me he was allowed.”
“Of course he did. He's five years old. You're a grown-up. You should know better.”
“Oh pish. I'm an aunt, not a mother. Mothers have to worry about things like that, aunts don't. That's the beauty of the whole thing.”
Indeed.
I might have harped on the topic a little, not that it would have done any good, but just then Angie came hurrying back to the set-up next door.
“Did you make it to the ring in time?”
“Just barely.” Her cheeks were flushed becomingly and she reached up and tucked a stray strand of hair back behind her ear. “Rick's sent me back to finish getting Charlie ready. The schedule didn't look like it was going to be too bad but now ring eight is running late, which means we're going to have a conflict.”
“With who?” I asked and Aunt Peg chuckled.
“A timing conflict,” she explained. “Two dogs in two different breeds that have to be in two separate rings at the same time. It happens to handlers all the time.”
Angie fished Charlie out of a crate and plopped him up on the table. “Ascob Cockers go in right after blacks. Pointers should have been done half an hour ago, but the judge is slow as molasses.”
Ascob Cockers was Charlie's class. The word was actually a string of initials, a.s.c.o.b., which stood for “Any solid color other than black.” Like Poodles, Cocker Spaniels have three varieties within the breed. Poodles are divided by size; Cockers, by color. Their varieties are black, ascob, and parti-color. Since he was a buff, Charlie was shown in the ascob class.
Rick came running across the field to the tent. He dodged around crates and tables to reach his set-up. The black Cocker was beneath his arm, and there was a red and white Best Of Opposite Sex rosette clutched between his teeth.
“Congratulations,” I said, and Aunt Peg poked me, hard.
“Never congratulate the loser,” she said under her breath.
“But he won Best Op,” I whispered back.
Best of Breed was obviously the optimum award, but what Rick had won wasn't too shabby either. Best of Opposite Sex was exactly what it sounded like. If a dog won Best of Breed, the best bitch became Best Opposite. If a Bitch won the top award, then BOS went to a dog. Only the Best of Breed winner went on to compete in the group.
Rick's ears were better than I thought. “Harry Flynn won,” he said. “All we were was second best.”
“But you still beat all the othersâ”
I hadn't lifted my voice at all, but Aunt Peg poked me again. By the time I got home my ribs were going to be black and blue. I decided to keep quiet for a while. That turned out to be just as well because there was enough commotion going on next door.
Rick had whipped open a crate door and pulled out a large lemon and white Pointer. “Take Charlie up to ringside as soon as he's ready,” he said to Angie. “You're going to have to start him for me. Go to the back of the line and I'll get there as soon as I can.”
“Got it.”
Rick didn't even wait for Angie's reply. Pointer in tow, he was already racing off toward ring eight. Angie quickly finished some last minute grooming, then she, too, took off. If I shifted my position several feet to the right, I could just about see the Cocker ring. I watched Angie pick up her numbered armband from the steward.
“Charlie's the specials dog,” I commented. Finished champions that were being campaigned for additional wins were referred to as specials. For professional handlers, class dogs were bread and butter; specials dogs were a chance for glory. “Why would Rick choose to show the Pointer? Isn't winning with Charlie more important?”
“It certainly is,” Aunt Peg agreed. “But Rick's planning to juggle things so that he can show them both.”
I gazed over toward the Cocker ring. Angie was filing into the ring with the rest of the exhibitors, which meant that the Best of Variety class had been called.
“How's he going to do that? Angie's already taking Charlie in the ring.”
“She's starting the dog, just like Rick told her to. Conflicts like this aren't unusual. The successful handlers bring big strings to each show and they can't be everywhere at once. What they do is have an assistant take the dog into the ring so it won't be marked absent from its class. Then the dog goes to the back of the line, so it's last to be judged. As long as the dog hasn't yet had its individual examination by the judge, a change of handlers is allowed. You'll see. Rick will get done in Pointers and come and take over.”
“Maybe,” I said dubiously. “But Angie and Charlie are at the front of the line, not the back.”
“Let me see.” Aunt Peg moved over and had a look. “You're right. What is that girl thinking now?”
The judge sent the group of Cocker champions around the ring. Ears and legs flying, Charlie led the way. Angie stopped beside the table and lifted the little spaniel up to be examined.
“It's too late now,” Aunt Peg mused aloud as the judge put his hands on the dog. “Even if Rick gets there, they won't let him make the switch.”
Watching this drama unfold was a good deal more entertaining than the brushing I was supposed to be doing. Aunt Peg must have felt the same way because we were both still staring a few minutes later when Rick came dashing up to the gate. The class was still in progress. Obviously assuming Angie had followed his instructions, he argued with the steward for a moment before being turned away. Even from across the field, I could tell by the set of his shoulders that he was angry.
“Why would Angie do something like that?” I asked. “Especially after she told him she understood what he wanted.”
“Oh, she understood, all right. But I'll bet she's hoping to win the class herself. Maybe she wants to prove to Rick that she's just as capable of handling a dog as he is.”
The finer points of presentation often went right over my head. I decided to seek a wiser opinion. “And is she?”
“No. She doesn't have Rick's finesse, or his experience. Not only that, but Harry Flynn's in there and he can handle rings around her, if you'll pardon my pun. Which doesn't necessarily mean that Angie won't win. Charlie's the best dog and he's been on a winning streak. They may pull it out yet.”
As if agreeing with Aunt Peg's assessment, the judge pulled Charlie and Harry Flynn's Cocker out of the line for further work. Still holding the Pointer, Rick moved over to stand next to a tiny older woman who was leaning heavily on a cane and glaring into the ring. She and Rick seemed to be discussing the class in progress and he was shaking his head vehemently.
“Who's that?” I asked, pointing.
“Florence Byrd, Charlie's owner. Come to watch her Cocker win, I'd imagine. And paying top handling rates to make sure it happens. It's got to be damn awkward for Rick to explain why he isn't in the ring on the dog. And if Charlie losesâ”
All hell would break loose, I imagined. I watched that pair, who were at least as interesting as what was happening in the ring, and realized that a third person had joined the group. He was a man in his late thirties, tall and massively built, with short black hair and thick, blunt features. His size alone would have been enough to make him stand out; but unlike the majority of the casually dressed crowd, he was wearing a dark suit, white shirt, and narrow-striped tie.
“Who's the suit?” I asked.
Aunt Peg frowned at having her attention diverted. She was much more intent on the action in the ring. “That's Dirk, Mrs. Byrd's driver. As you can see, she's not in the best of health. He goes everywhere with her.”
“Hey!” cried Davey. “Why is everybody standing over there? I want to see, too!”
I went over and scooped him off the top of the crate then walked back to where Aunt Peg was standing. He was a little heavy to be cradled on my hip but he clung like a monkey as I pointed toward the Cocker ring.
“Big deal,” sniffed Davey, obviously disappointed. “More dogs.”
“More dogs, indeed,” said Aunt Peg. “What did you think we were looking at?”
“Cars?” Davey tried hopefully. They'd been his passion since he was a toddler. On the way out, I'd take him for a stroll through the back parking lot where the motor homes and big rigs were parked. That always made his day.
“Ooh!” Aunt Peg cried suddenly. “I think Angie's pulled it off.”
In the ring, the judge had placed Charlie at the front of the line. Harry Flynn's Cocker was behind him. The judge sent the dogs around one last time, then pointed to Angie's Cocker for Best of Variety. Most of the other exhibitors stopped to congratulate her, but not Harry. He snatched up his dog, strode angrily to the gate, and disappeared into the crowd.
“I guess Flynn thought he should have won,” I said.
“Nobody ever wants to lose. Some people handle it with better grace, that's all.”
“Better grace? Try no grace. He looked livid.”
“Harry Flynn's an excellent dog man. But he hasn't the best manners. You saw that for yourself at the wake. This is the first time that Charlie's been shown since Jenny died. And to find him in the ring with Angie . . . well, let's just say Harry must have assumed he'd be vulnerable.”
“You make it sound like these handlers are after each other's throats.”
“They're pros and they're here to win,” Aunt Peg said simply. “That's what it's all about.”
Davey went back on top of the crate with a book about cars and a box of juice. I'd stood Faith up and was fluffing through her coat with a comb when Angie and Rick arrived back at their set-up. She was grinning like a cat covered with canary feathers. Rick, however, did not look pleased. He put the hapless Pointer in a crate and continued on with a conversation that must have started at ringside.
“I don't want you ever doing anything like that to me again!”
“I don't see what you're so upset about,” Angie replied. “I won, didn't I?”
“That's not the pointâ”
“Pardon me, but I thought it was. Did you see the look on Harry's face? It was priceless.”
Rick's frown softened. “I'll admit that watching Flynn lose had a certain appeal. But I'd intended doing that from inside the ring, not out. Clearly that's where Mrs. Byrd expected me to be, too.”
“Oh, that old biddy.” Angie waved a careless hand through the air. “What does she know, except how to sign checks? She always left all the important decisions about Charlie's career up to Jenny. Now I'd say that means they're up to you. As long as the ribbons are the right color, she doesn't have a thing to complain about.”
Rick spun around and looked behind him. Mrs. Byrd was nowhere in sight. “Damn it, Angel, keep your voice down, would you?”
“Don't worry.” Angie dropped her voice to a whisper, and snickered like a rebellious teenager goading her parents. “I think she's deaf, too.”
Rick sighed. As a mother myself, I knew just how he felt. “She's not deaf,” he said, “and neither is Dirk. So watch your mouth.”
“Dirk. Ugh.” Angie shuddered. “That guy gives me the creeps. He's always hovering in the background somewhere. He reminds me of that butler in the Addams Family. What was his name, Lurch?”
“Angie!”
Rick's frustration was palpable. Eavesdropping shamelessly, I smothered a chuckle.
“He was always watching Jenny, did you ever notice that? It was really weird.”
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