Buried to the Brim

by Jenn McKinlay

  My stomach twisted and I felt a coating of sweat cover my palms. I did not want to screw this up. How was I supposed to be good to go in a matter of hours?

  “Don’t worry, love,” Harry said. “You’ve got this.”

  * * *

  * * *

  It turned out, I did not “got this.” We practiced in a nearby park, so Freddy could get used to me giving him commands. The commands were simple, “over,” “through,” “under” and so forth, but not knowing the course, I had no idea if I was going to give the right command on the right apparatus.

  “This isn’t going to work,” I cried. “Unless I can see the course ahead of time and memorize what command to give when.”

  “That won’t happen,” Aunt Betty said. “In fact, I am quite certain Liza will make sure you go first in your division just to make it as difficult as possible for you.”

  I groaned. I turned to Harry and said, “Help.”

  He gave me a tender smile and then he cupped my face and said, “You can do this, Ginger, I know you can.”

  As one, we trooped back to the hall in Finchley Park. When we arrived, the crowd, there to observe the event, had filled the fold-out bleachers that lined the perimeter of the large room. Viv looked for seats, while Aunt Betty and Harry walked me to the corridor that led to the competitors’ waiting area.

  “We can’t go into the waiting area with you,” Harry said. “It’s reserved for the dogs and their handlers only.”

  “Oh, okay,” I said. My nerves ratcheted up to the breaking point. I wasn’t a shy person, not even a little, but I really didn’t like the idea that Freddy’s success or failure was dependent upon me when I had no idea what I was doing. Plus, there was still the possibility that whoever had threatened to poison Freddy was lurking in the shadows. If anything happened to him, it would be all my fault. Panic made my brain go fuzzy and suddenly I couldn’t remember even the simplest of commands. How did I tell him to jump or leap or crawl? Oh, man, it was all gone!

  My terror must have been on my face, because Aunt Betty reached over and squeezed my hand. “Just let Freddy lead the way. He knows what to do.” Then she bent down and cupped Freddy’s face. He stared into her eyes and Betty said something to him that I couldn’t hear but I could see Freddy’s ears move and his tail wag. It must have been quite the motivational speech.

  “We’ll see you after the competition,” Aunt Betty said to me. She glanced down at Freddy. “Make us proud.”

  Freddy barked as if promising to do so. Weirdly, this made me feel a smidgeon more confident.

  Harry kissed the top of my head, “Go get ’em, Ginger.”

  “Right,” I said.

  I straightened my shoulders and pulled the double doors open. I gave my people one brave smile before we stepped inside. The door swung shut behind me and I took a moment to get my bearings.

  A PAWS representative checked my credentials and Freddy’s at the door. With a nod and a smile of encouragement, she checked her clipboard and said, “Scarlett Parker and Freddy. You’re just in time. You’re first in the second round of agility tests, which will start”—she paused to check the time on her cell phone—“in thirty minutes. Please wait with the others and we’ll call you when it’s your turn.”

  Oh, jeez. It took everything I had not to turn around and run out the door. Locking my knees, I moved forward. I walked down the dark hallway to a large open room at the end of the building. It seemed to me that all of the other dog handlers appeared perfectly at ease, while I was scanning the area for a wastebasket so I could throw up. While I stepped cautiously inside with utter trepidation, Freddy, on the other hand, began to prance as if he fed off the energy of the room.

  I took a moment to get the feel of the place. There was definitely a manic energy pulsing. Dogs were being brushed, clipped and perfumed as if they weren’t supposed to go and race madly around a bunch of equipment. I felt as if I were walking into a children’s beauty pageant. I glanced down at Freddy. He was good-looking, cute as a button, in fact, but could he beat the dogs around us?

  There was a white standard poodle with the traditional showy cut that looked as if the only thing missing was a crown perched on its pompadour. It even lifted its snout in disdain as Freddy and I walked by. Then there was a German pointer. He was a beauty, no question, but he was also chasing his own tail in a tight circle and when he stopped he staggered, so not the sharpest tack in the box. Lastly, there was a very handsome Weimaraner. The eyes on this one were intelligent and soulful. I had the sudden urge to hug him, which I was sure would be frowned upon.

  Did my short-legged, friendly companion stand a chance at beating any of these dogs? I was abruptly hit with the fear that his feelings might be hurt. Did dogs understand when they didn’t win? Then, of course, the anxiety rolled right into frustration, as it does. I was going to kill Viv for getting me into this.

  “Scarlett!”

  I spun around, hoping that I was about to be spared this public humiliation. Was Aunt Betty going to be allowed back into the competition? Was my moment over before it began, please God? My heart soared with hope and then plummeted when I saw Andre coming at me with his camera.

  “Oh, it’s you,” I said.

  Andre paused. “As greetings go, I have to say that is lacking in, well, everything.”

  “Sorry.” I bit my lip. “I’m delighted to see you, really, I was just hoping you were someone offering me an escape route.”

  He glanced at my badge. “You’ve taken Aunt Betty’s place? Why?”

  “The chairwoman, Liza Stanhope, made a fuss and was refusing to let Aunt Betty compete. This was Viv’s doing,” I said. “In fact, I was just plotting her early demise.”

  A small smile tipped the corners of his lips. He glanced around the room. “It is a bit intense, isn’t it? I don’t know that I would have taken the job if I’d known it was going to involve so much fur and drool.” With a tragic expression he pointed down at his brown leather loafers. “A mastiff got slobber on my Alexander McQueens.”

  “More than you bargained for, I’m sure,” I said. I was suddenly grateful that I was dressed in my Saturday best, sneakers, or trainers as they liked to call them here, and a sweat suit, which was clearly a misnomer because I never did anything that made me sweat; in fact, I wasn’t even sure I could sweat other than the nervous sort of flop sweat that happened when I was terrified, like right now.

  “When are you up?” he asked.

  “In thirty minutes,” I said.

  Andre checked the paper schedule in his hand. “Right, you’re first in the next round. Speaking of which, I had better get out there now and prepare.”

  “You’re leaving me?” I asked. Panic made my voice squeaky.

  Andre squeezed my hand and then bent over to pat Freddy’s head. “Don’t worry. I’ll see you out there. Just meditate or something, you’ll be fine. I mean, look at this boy. He has ‘champion’ written all over him.”

  Freddy barked as if he knew exactly what Andre had said. It made me smile and I felt a burst of confidence. If Freddy was this smart, maybe we would be all right after all. I watched Andre leave and then found a spot against the wall to while away the next thirty . . . no, a glance at the clock gave me twenty minutes. Why did that feel like an eternity and yet not nearly enough time to mentally prepare to be humiliated in front of the crowd? Gah!

  I closed my eyes and willed away the sound of the contestants talking, the whimpers, growls and barks of the dogs, the muted sound of the crowd applauding whatever was happening on the course at the moment. Freddy, bless his heart, leaned against my leg. His trust in me made me feel nervous and at the same time confident. He believed in us, how could I not? But also, what if I let him down? What if I said “over” when it was supposed to be “through,” or “under” when it was supposed to be “over”?

  “Freddy?”
r />   I opened my eyes. Who was talking to my dog?

  “Is that Betty Wentworth’s Freddy?”

  I turned my head and saw a middle-aged man, rather soft around the jawline and middle with thinning gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses, staring at Freddy as if trying to place an acquaintance who was out of context.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m competing with Freddy on her behalf today.”

  “Oh.” He glanced up at me then. He looked me over and extended his hand. “Richard Freestone and this is Muffin.”

  This was the man Betty had mentioned as the previous winner, the pompous blowhard she wanted to knock off his pedestal. Being in the fashion industry, sort of, I noted that his clothes were all high-end designer stuff, pointy shoes and tapered pants with a shirt cut to try and reduce the slight pudge he had going. I shook his hand and then glanced down to see an English bulldog sitting beside him. It occurred to me that the old expression was true: dog owners and their dogs did resemble each other, and in the case of these two, they both had some rather impressive jowls.

  “Is Betty all right?” he asked. I met his gaze. There was genuine concern there, which made me like him more but I still didn’t feel the need to enlighten him about the situation with the registration. Then again, I thought of the threat Betty had received. Freestone was the reigning winner. If someone wanted Betty out, surely they wanted him out, too. This was my chance to do some information excavation.

  “She’s fine,” I said. “She just wanted me to have a go at the dog show, and there was . . . well, a thing.”

  He gave me a speculative look and then said, “A thing?”

  “A note that gave us some concern,” I said.

  “In her postbox?” he asked. “Telling her to withdraw or they would poison Freddy?”

  My eyes went wide. “How did you know?”

  “I got one, too,” he said. “And so did two other high-ranking competitors. There could be more but those are the ones I know about.”

  “But you’re still here?”

  “As is Freddy,” he said.

  “We weren’t sure if it was a scare tactic or not,” I said.

  “I’m betting it was,” Richard said. “But, of course, I am ever vigilant. Muffin takes no food or treats unless they’re from me.”

  “Same,” I said.

  We were both silent, glancing around the room as if a person was going to leap out and say, “Ha! It was just a bad joke” or “Aha! Now I’ve got you!” Neither of these things happened. Richard finished surveying the room and turned back to me.

  “I did hear one other rumor,” he said. He looked troubled.

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. I heard that Liza Stanhope said she was going to ban Betty from competing because of an incident at the cocktail party.”

  I did not confirm or deny.

  After a moment, he said, “How fortunate that Betty had planned to have you compete with Freddy in her stead.”

  “Indeed,” I agreed. I could feel the hot flush of embarrassment at the fib color my face. Still, I didn’t give any details. Technically, Aunt Betty did want me to compete with Freddy in her place, since she was banned and all.

  “May I offer a word of advice?” he asked.

  “Sure,” I said. He could offer it, but that didn’t mean I would listen.

  “Muffin and I have won this competition three years running,” he said. “The best in show is ours to lose.”

  I stared at him. There was some breathtaking arrogance there.

  “If anyone can best us, it’s Freddy,” he continued. “He knows what to do, just let him lead.”

  Okay, that was nice of him to say. I felt myself warm to the man. He did have kind brown eyes and he seemed to genuinely care.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate—”

  “Richard, Richard, Richard,” a voice interrupted, saying his name, drawing out each syllable, making each one more filled with contempt than the last. “Do you really think that you and that dried-up old prune of a dog have a chance at this competition? It is Henry’s year and everyone knows it.”

  Richard’s jowls shook as he spun around to face the person who approached us from behind. It was a couple, a man and woman, who were leading a Jack Russell terrier. Perhaps it was my instant dislike of his people, but I thought the Jack Russell had a sly look to him as if he was just waiting to make trouble.

  Richard turned away from them without acknowledging the woman’s words. He looked at me and, in a low voice, said, “The Youngs. Awful people. Their Henry is a thug, keep Freddy away from him.”

  “Ah!” the woman gasped. “I heard that.”

  “It’s no secret, Penelope,” Richard said. He made a hand gesture and Muffin scurried to stand behind him, using him as a sort of human shield protecting herself from Henry. I took a step forward, placing myself in front of Freddy. “You and Jasper treat Henry like he’s your baby. He’s spoiled, ill-mannered and not fit for competition.”

  The man, presumably Jasper, holding Henry’s leash, looked like he wanted to punch Richard. I sidestepped, not wanting to get caught in the fracas. But Jasper reined in his temper and jutted out his chin in a defiant manner.

  “We’ll see,” he said. “Come along, Henry, Penelope.”

  We watched as Jasper and Penelope began to walk away but Henry stayed. As if he understood that Muffin and Freddy were his competition, he sat and stared at them as if trying to intimidate them.

  “Henry, come,” Penelope commanded. Henry ignored her.

  “Henry, now,” Jasper snapped. Henry didn’t budge, not even in response to a yank on his leash. Jasper was forced to bend down and pick him up and carry him off.

  “Let’s hope those two never have children,” Richard said.

  I’d been thinking the same thing and laughed.

  “Scarlett Parker and Freddy, you’re next.” I heard my name called and my laughter caught in my throat like a dry cracker.

  “Good luck,” Richard said.

  I glanced quickly at his face. I couldn’t tell if he meant it or not, but I decided it really didn’t matter. It was showtime. I tightened my grip on Freddy’s leash as we approached the doors that led out to the arena. The personnel at the door signaled for me to wait. I could hear the crowd applauding. I wondered where Harry, Viv and Aunt Betty were in the crowd, and I hoped we didn’t let them down.

  “All right, Freddy,” I said. I adjusted my hat and his and tried to sound more confident than I felt. “Let’s do this.”

  Chapter 7

  The spotlights were the first thing I noticed. They were very bright and very hot. We approached the judges’ table, and I presented Freddy as Aunt Betty had shown me. The consummate charmer, Freddy gave a small bow, lowering himself on his forelegs while leaving his rump in the air, as he glanced at them from under the brim of his hat. They should have just handed him the trophy right there because, honestly, he was too much in the best possible way.

  There were five judges, and I noticed that they each took a second to make a note before the stern-looking woman who was the head judge gave me the nod to proceed.

  The agility course looked like the craziest sort of maze and frankly if one of the volunteers hadn’t been standing at the entrance, I would have had no idea where to go. Freddy did not seem confused at all and trotted right over to the start line. I saw there was a large digital clock and a timekeeper stood next to it.

  The PAWS volunteer next to me said, “When I say, ‘Go,’ you may begin.”

  She was a young woman, probably a few years younger than me, and she gave me a reassuring smile. I nodded and removed both Freddy’s hat and my own, leaving them on a nearby bench. We took our places at the start line. I scanned the tunnels, jumps, a small pond and series of standing hoops in front of us and thought I might pass out.

  I bent down
next to Freddy, unclipped his leash and said, “It’s all on you, buddy, no pressure, but seriously, I don’t have a clue. Just run your cute little butt off, okay?”

  Freddy turned his head so we were nose to nose. He licked my face and then barked. I took that to mean he understood.

  I straightened up and the volunteer shouted, “Go!”

  Freddy took off like there was a steak dinner ahead of him. I bolted after him, trying to look like I knew what I was doing, but seriously, since I run only if someone scary is chasing me, I was pretty winded after the first series of hoops, the tunnel and a series of short rails. Freddy did not wait for me. He dashed through the course as if it were what he was bred to do.

  Halfway through, my nerves were forgotten as I marveled at how brilliantly Freddy was attacking the course. He didn’t just jump, he soared. When he ran fast, it was fast and low to the ground, like a high-speed train with no brakes. At the apparatus that required crawling, he looked like a commando attacking an enemy line. I found myself jumping up and down beside him, cheering him on as more of a spectator than a handler. Freddy paid me no mind. When he sped for the finish line, I was right behind him. Okay, not right behind, but pretty close.

  He sat proudly in front of the judges’ table, and I collapsed to my knees beside him. I was sucking in huge gulps of air while Andre snapped our picture. I hugged Freddy, thrilled that we had survived and he had kicked butt.

  When our time score came up, the crowd erupted. Freddy had moved into first place on the leaderboard, which so far ranked only the agility course. I laughed as Andre looped an arm about me and hauled me to my feet.

  “You did it, Scarlett!” he cried. “That was brilliant!”

  “Freddy did it,” I gasped. “I was just along for the run.”

  Aunt Betty, Harry and Viv waved to us from their spot behind the judges’ table. I shot a double thumbs-up at them. The look on Aunt Betty’s face made it all worth it. She was thrilled.