Watchdog (23 page)

Like Poodles, Wire Fox Terriers have coats that require a great deal of upkeep and preparation for the ring. And, as is true with any coated breed, a skillful groomer can arrange the hair to create the illusion of correct conformation where it doesn't exist. The judge in the ring has the opportunity to feel the dog with his hands, but spectators must rely on a visual assessment. Watching a dog in action is often the only way from ringside to ferret out structural problems that artful grooming has hidden from view.

The judge lifted her hands and the exhibitors stood. The entire line of dogs circled the ring once, stopping back where they'd begun as the first dog in line was brought to the middle of the expanse for his individual examination.

“Well?” I asked.

“Very nice.” Peg likes to take a cautious approach when offering opinions. “Looks young. Is he?”

I opened the catalogue and had a look. “Sixteen months.”

“He'll be better at two.”

“But will he be as good as Winter?”

“Winter's a season,” Davey said firmly. “Not a dog. Summer's a season, too.”

I squatted down beside him and pointed at the Wire. “See that dog there? His name is Summer. He was named after the season.”

“Actually,” Peg corrected, “unless I miss my guess, he was named after his grandmother. The name's certainly close enough that anyone in the know would instantly make the connection. I'm sure that's what John had in mind.”

I stood back up and let my gaze drift down the line. Two dogs behind Summer was another terrier breed of similar size and shape. To my untrained eye, the major difference between them was their color. While Summer's coat was predominately white with a black saddle and some smaller patches of tan, the other terrier had no white at all. He was a rich reddish tan all over and also sported the same black saddle.

“You're frowning,” said Aunt Peg. “What's the matter?”

“That dog in the middle of the line.” I pointed to the one I was talking about. “What breed is it?”

“Welsh Terrier.”

“He looks a lot like the Fox Terrier, doesn't he?”

“I suppose,” Peg allowed. “Although I'm sure the breeders of each would be happy to tell you all about the differences between the two breeds.”

“The funny thing is ...”

“What?”

“He looks like Asta.”

She turned and stared. “Who does?”

“That Welsh Terrier. I mean, Asta was all woolly and ungroomed. She certainly wasn't trimmed the way these dogs are. And you know perfectly well that the subtle distinctions go right over my head, but colorwise—”

“Colorwise?” Aunt Peg repeated. “Asta didn't have any white on her?”

“She had some. There was a big white patch on her chest, and some on her legs.”

“There you go, then.” She turned her gaze back to the group.

“But seeing the two breeds together, it's hard not to realize how similar they are.”

“Of course there are similarities between a Wire and a Welsh. Anyone can see that.”

Yes, but there was something more. Some tiny bit of knowledge I knew I had but couldn't quite come up with. Someone else had mentioned Welsh Terriers to me recently. Who was it?

As I watched the judge go over the Soft Coated Wheaten, I remembered. “John Monaghan used to dabble in Welsh Terriers years ago.”

“Lots of dog people have more than one breed,” Aunt Peg said distractedly.

She wasn't really listening to me, but I didn't mind. What I was thinking seemed too outlandish to voice out loud anyway. What if Asta's father had been a Welsh Terrier? That would certainly explain why John hadn't wanted her.

I stared off into the distance, letting the idea simmer. It had obvious flaws, among them the fact that John had kept and registered the other puppies from the litter. Those three dogs had provided the basis for everything he'd shown since, including Summer. So there couldn't possibly have been a Welsh Terrier mixed up in that pedigree.

Or could there?

On sunny summer days, dog shows draw lots of spectators. But in late October, with the weather raw and blustery, just about everyone who isn't entered can think of something better to do. By the time the Terrier group went into the ring, the few members of the paying public who'd chosen to brave the elements had probably long since gone home. That meant the people now lining the ring to watch the judging were mostly judges and exhibitors—in other words, a knowledgeable and opinionated group.

Tuning in to the conversations around us, I found we weren't the only ones who were interested in John's new Wire Fox Terrier. When Summer's turn came and the dog was placed on the table to be examined, the ringside abruptly fell silent. Its collective attention focused; the air of anticipation was palpable.

The judge moved her hands quickly over the dog, then waved him to the ground. She was using a down and back pattern to assess movement, and John took Summer the full length of the ring. As soon as the Wire began to move, there was a small scattering of applause. Most of the spectators held back, however, reserving judgment until they'd seen enough to decide for themselves whether or not this would be another great one.

The judge had one last look, then sent the pair to the end of the line. Most handlers would have let their dogs relax at this point as the judge turned her attention elsewhere; but John had a different agenda. Playing to the ringside, he used bait and a squeaky toy to keep Summer stacked and alert. A Border Terrier was on the table, but the majority of the spectators was still riveted on the Wire.

Ten minutes later the judge made her cut, pulling eight terriers, including Summer, out into the middle of the ring. This time when the Wire Fox Terrier was moved, the applause that accompanied him was louder and more enthusiastic. Judges aren't supposed to be influenced by audience opinion, but that's never stopped spectators from trying.

The judge motioned the Bedlington Terrier into the top spot, then placed Summer second, followed by a Skye Terrier and a Cairn. She sent them around one last time, pointing to each with a flourish to indicate her final decision.

“Too bad,” I said. “I thought Summer was going to get it.”

“His turn will come,” said Peg. “That Bedlington's a good one and it's done quite a bit of winning. Summer hasn't even finished his championship yet. Winning Group two from the classes is quite a coup. His owner should be very pleased.”

I turned to check on Davey. The person standing next to us had brought a Newfoundland up to ringside. Davey and the big black dog were curled up together on a blanket on the ground. Considering the chill in the air, both looked amazingly content.

“Ice cream,” said Davey, looking up from his cozy perch.

“What?”

“I want ice cream.”

Just the thought was enough to make me shiver. “No way. It's too cold.”

“Too cold for what?” asked Aunt Peg.

“Ice cream.”

“Says who?”

“Says her.” Davey stood up and pointed. Just in case there was any doubt.

“You've got to be kidding,” I said to my son.

“Why would he be kidding?” asked Peg. “I wouldn't mind having some myself. Do you think the food concession brought any?”

“Why don't you two go see?” I suggested. The judge had handed out the rosettes for the terrier group, and the hounds were coming in to take their place. “I wanted to talk to John anyway. How about if I meet you back at the crates later?”

Hand in hand, the sweet tooth twins marched off in search of ice cream. I turned and headed the other way.

The wind was whipping harder now, blowing dark clouds up from the south. The show ground was emptying rapidly. Under the handlers' tent only a smattering of setups remained. Even the pros were packing up and going home. I decided to see if I could grab John before he left, and worry about talking to Kate on Monday.

Cutting across the open space in the middle of the tent, I saw John and Summer down at the far end. In the next aisle over, the man who'd handled the Cairn had his van backed up to the tent and his crates loaded. As I approached, he was folding up his grooming tables and shoving them in the back of his van.

John saw me coming and waved. He slipped Summer off the tabletop and put the dog inside a wooden crate, which had been stacked on top of another. There was a tackbox beside the crates, and John tossed the big red ribbon inside, followed by the Fox Terrier's lead.

“Congratulations,” I said. “Summer looked great in the ring.”

“I thought so,” John agreed. He continued packing up. “He got his second major today. I wouldn't have minded beating that Bedlington, though.”

“Next time.” I leaned back against the edge of the grooming table. “I was wondering if you'd mind clarifying a few things for me.”

“Depends what they are. I imagine I've said just about all I need to on the topic of Marcus Rattigan.”

“Fine. Let's talk about dogs.”

John shrugged, his shoulders moving slightly beneath his bulky coat. He was folding towels and gathering equipment and didn't bother to look up, but I figured I could take that as acquiescence.

“Ten years ago you owned the top winning dog in the country. Breeding Winter and showing her to that point was a real achievement. When you retired her, I'm sure you were hoping her career as a brood bitch would be every bit as illustrious. Her first litter had four puppies—”

“Three,” John corrected. He straightened and stared at me. “I told you there were three puppies in that litter.”

“Yes, you did. But after I talked to some other people, I began to wonder if you were telling the truth. Gloria Rattigan's neighbor has a bitch he got nine years ago from Marcus. At the time he was told she was Winter's daughter.”

“That's impossible.”

“I don't think so. I know you applied for four blue slips from the AKC when the litter was born. There was another puppy, a bitch, that was never registered.”

“Who told you that?” John demanded.

I ignored the question and kept on talking. We were in a public place. There was nothing he could do but listen. Maybe if I made him mad enough I'd finally begin to get some answers.

“There's something else. That story you told about Marcus asking you to protest his building project. I couldn't really buy that. Once people began to get injured on the premises, Rattigan had to have known he'd be opening himself up to the prospect of massive lawsuits. So I began to wonder what you were really up to. And everything always came back to that single litter of puppies. Winter's litter.”

John was deliberately ignoring me now. He had his back to me and was bending over to fish through the tackbox. I heard the metallic rattle of a choke chain as he rearranged his collars and straightened his leads.

A van door slammed shut behind me. There was a loud belch, followed by a burst of exhaust, as the Cairn handler's truck came to life and lumbered away.

“I figure there are two possible scenarios,” I said. “One, you and Rattigan had a disagreement, maybe over the terms of your lease contract. Whatever it was made him angry enough to steal a puppy from Winter's litter.”

“You don't have any idea what you're talking about,” John snapped. “Why don't you just go away and leave me alone?”

“Then there's another possibility.” I didn't really believe this one. I only thought that if I could get John talking, eventually he might let the truth slip out. “I saw Winter's daughter last week. Her name is Asta and she lives in Greenwich. Today when I was watching the terrier group, I couldn't help but realize how much she looked like another dog in the ring, the Welsh Terrier that was standing two places back.”

Abruptly John stood. His face was flushed, his stance rigid. Inside the crate Summer began to whine softly. The terrier reached out with a front paw and threaded his toes through the metal grill. John didn't spare him a glance.

“You're not a breeder,” he said. “What do you know about anything?”

“I know enough.”

The words held more bravado than I felt but I'd come too far to back down now. I glared at John and he was the one who lowered his gaze first. Then all at once his features seemed to crumble. For a moment I almost thought he might cry.

“Marcus wasn't a breeder, either. That was the problem. I couldn't make him understand that we had to get rid of the puppy. I should have smothered her then and there. It was my mistake to let Marcus have a say. After all he'd done for Winter, I thought I owed him that much. I should have just taken care of things myself.”

“Rattigan wouldn't let you do that, would he?”

John snorted loudly. “Bastard was too softhearted. Probably the only time in his life
that
was true. He said there was no need to kill the poor thing. I'll admit she was cute. Marcus said he'd find her a home. Little mutt. I thought it'd be okay to let him take her.”

Little
mutt?

“Tell me about Asta's sire,” I said, quickly regrouping. “What went wrong?”

“You know that much, I'm sure you can guess the rest. We had a mismate. It's not as uncommon as you might think. But with a bitch of Winter's caliber it was a disaster, especially when we found out later that was the only litter she'd ever have.

“I'd spent years planning how I was going to breed that bitch when the time came. She was so good, I could have taken her any number of ways. Finally I picked just the right dog. He was an excellent Wire—not as good as she was—but then, none of them were.

“We got three good breedings from the dog, and on Winter's sixteenth day in season, I brought her back home and put her back in the kennel. I was so excited, I was ready to set up the whelping box then and there.”

John shook his head and let out a windy sigh. “Two days later one of my Welshes got to her. Damn dog was two pens down. Close enough to smell her, I guess, but not to reach. At least that's what I thought. Son of a bitch must have climbed up and over the chain-link like a rat. By the time I saw them, they were tied good.”

“What did you do?”

“Do? There wasn't a damn thing I could do. By then, the damage was done. I could only hope the breeding didn't take. Good God, it was her eighteenth day! When I found out she was in whelp, you better believe I prayed that all the puppies she was carrying had been sired by the first dog.”

“You mean ... ?” I let my voice trail away.

It hadn't occurred to me earlier but now, suddenly, I remembered a case I'd read about where fraternal twins had been sired by different fathers. If it could happen in humans, why not dogs? When I was watching the group judging, I'd had all the pieces, I just hadn't managed to put them together.

“It's possible for a litter to have two different sires, isn't it?”

“It's not only possible, it's perfectly plausible. The bitch produces a number of eggs and if they mature at different times, I guess it just depends on who's in the vicinity on the day.”

Behind John another exhibitor pulled a car up beside the tent and began to load. I lowered my voice so we wouldn't be overheard. “Did Rattigan know what had happened?”

“He knew. We were friends back then. We co-owned the bitch, I felt I had to tell him. I assured him that the first three breedings had probably knocked her up good, and he didn't seem too worried.

“As soon as the puppies were born, though, I knew we had a problem. The girl stuck out like a sore thumb. Still, she was the only bitch so I had to give her every chance. That's why I sent away for four blue slips, just in case.”

“When did you decide that you couldn't register her?”

“Had to be around seven, eight weeks. I guess I'd really known all along, but that was when I gave up hope. It wasn't just the bitch's color, her head was all wrong, too. The boys' heads were long and narrow; hers was short and wide. It didn't take a genius to see that she'd been sired by the Welsh.”

Judging by the way the exhibitor in the next setup was throwing things into his car, he hadn't had a very good day. Two tricolor Basenjis stood side by side on his backseat and watched the proceedings through the rear window.

“So you had to give up Winter's only girl,” I said. “It was bad, but it wasn't the end of the world. You still had the three boy puppies.”

“I told you you didn't understand.” John scowled at my ignorance. “You've never registered a litter of puppies, have you?”

“No.”

“According to AKC rules as soon as Winter got herself bred to two different dogs on the same heat, the entire litter was ineligible for registration. It says so right on the form. It wasn't just a matter of picking out the bastard puppies. I was supposed to dump the whole lot of them.”

Oh my God, I thought. That was the key, the piece of the puzzle I'd been missing. What Marcus and John had done, and the secret they'd shared, had tainted the entire Wirerock line. John had once said that everything he'd bred in the last decade had come down from Winter. Every puppy he'd sold, every dog he'd shown. Including his new superdog, Summer.

“Twenty-five years in dogs and I'd never broken a rule before,” John said unhappily. “Oh, maybe I'd bent one or two, but nothing like this. But I didn't have any choice. I couldn't let Winter's genetic potential die with her. Legal or not, I
had
to register the litter.”

“I can see that,” I said truthfully. In John's position I wasn't sure I wouldn't have done the same thing. “Once the puppy was out of sight, there wouldn't have been any way for someone to ever guess that there had been a problem.”