Even Bertie was paying attention now.
“Before Sara got herself in a load of trouble by poisoning a competitor’s dog.”
3
One thing you have to say for my aunt, she sure knows how to liven up a conversation.
“She what?” Bertie gasped.
I just stood and stared.
Aunt Peg considered our stunned expressions for a moment, enjoying our undivided attention. Casually, she resumed her scissoring. “It’s really a very old story. It goes back to Sara’s junior days. I imagine she’s put it all behind her now.”
“Just my luck,” Bertie muttered. She opened one of her stacked crates and took out a MinPin. “I’ve hired a murderer to plan my wedding.” Her glance slid my way. “I’m not sure how, but this is probably your fault.”
“My fault? I never even met the woman until a couple of days ago, and you were the one who introduced us. She’s your old friend.”
“Now, now,” Peg broke in. “In the first place, Sara was quite young when this took place. I’m sure she’s changed since then. And in the second, who said anything about murder?”
“You did,” I said, and Bertie nodded her head in agreement. “You said she poisoned someone’s dog.”
“As I recall, the dog didn’t actually die. I hate to admit it, but I’m somewhat sketchy on the details. Of course in deference to Delilah’s feelings, none of us talked about it much.”
“At least not when she was within earshot,” I said, well acquainted with the ways of dog show gossip. “But I’ll bet you all had a field day with it when she wasn’t around.”
“Some of us,” Aunt Peg sniffed, “are above such things.”
“While others of us get a real kick out of them,” said Bertie.
What a great addition to the family she was going to be, I thought. If nothing else, she’d give Aunt Peg another direction to sling her barbs. Once Peg got over this whole unexpected niceness thing.
“There must be more to the story,” I said. “If Sara was known to have poisoned someone’s dog, how did she ever manage to become a professional handler?”
“That must have come later,” said Bertie. “Sara’s here at the show today. If you want, you can ask her.”
Sure, I thought, make me look like the one who’s rude and nosy.
“What’s she doing here?” asked Aunt Peg.
“She has Titus entered in obedience. I believe she said he needs one more leg for his CDX.”
Many, if not most, dog clubs run obedience trials concurrently with their dog shows. Unlike their conformation counterparts, obedience dogs are required to perform a series of precise exercises that demonstrate their ability to learn and obey. Also unlike breed competition, they do not have to beat everyone in their class in order to do well.
Instead, each of the exercises is assigned a numerical value, with all of them together equaling a perfect score of two hundred. If a dog accumulates at least 170 points and does not flunk any one of the exercises outright, he is awarded a green qualifying ribbon. Three qualifying scores, under three different judges, earns a degree.
CDX, short for Companion Dog Excellent, is the second title a dog would compete for after earning its CD. In order to gain a green ribbon, Titus would be required to do such things as heel off-leash, retrieve a dumbbell, navigate a high jump and broad jump, and remain in the position he’d been left (either sitting or lying down) for up to five minutes with his handler out of sight.
Known for their high degree of intelligence and willingness to work, Shelties make excellent obedience dogs. Poodles do, too, for that matter. Now that Faith had nearly finished her championship, I harbored the secret ambition of taking her to a few obedience classes and seeing how we both liked it. As soon as I found some spare time, that is.
“Down,” Aunt Peg said firmly.
Obediently I dropped my arm.
“Not you, Faith.” Brushing my hand out of the way, Peg gently tugged the Poodle’s front legs forward. Familiar with the cue, Faith lay down on her haunches. “Melanie, are you paying any attention at all? If we don’t get this bitch sprayed up soon, you’re going to miss your class.”
“Gotta run,” said Bertie. “Good luck to you two.” With a scant five minutes of preparation, the low-maintenance MinPin was ready to go. She tucked the little dog under her arm and strode away toward the rings.
I checked my watch. We were running a little late. “While you spray, I’ll check the ring and get my number.”
Applying hair spray to a Poodle’s coat is, like scissoring, an art. Illegal under A.K.C. rules, which prohibit showing a dog with any foreign substance in its coat, the rule is flouted with impunity by competitors. The problem is that hair—even dense, correctly textured Poodle hair—does not stand straight up by itself. It’s simply impossible to achieve the dramatic outline that Poodles flaunt in the show ring without the copious use of hair spray.
This practice is abetted by those who judge the breed, most of whom enjoy a flashy presentation and reward for it accordingly. In deference to the A.K.C. dictates, Poodle exhibitors have learned how to apply the majority of the forbidden substance to the base of the hair, achieving stiffness and height without telltale stickiness.
Since I was still working on perfecting my technique, I figured this made a pretty good division of labor, and Aunt Peg agreed. I fished Davey out of Faith’s crate and tucked his hand in mine. Together we headed off in search of ring eight.
Our judge, Derek Hunnicutt, turned out to be a florid man with thinning hair and a squinty gaze that peered out at the dogs in his ring from behind a pair of thick glasses. His hands, like the rest of him, were large. As he stepped over the table to examine a Maltese, I saw the toy dog flinch at his touch.
Like all the other bits and pieces of information about judges that came my way, I filed that one away for the future. Don’t bring the man a puppy. No matter how good a job a judge does in other areas, if he doesn’t have a kind hand on a dog, certain precautions must be taken. Seasoned campaigners can handle a heavy touch; sensitive puppies who are learning what the show ring is all about must be treated with more care.
Davey and I walked over to the gate and waited our turn to talk to the steward. In the ring, Hunnicutt was judging Best of Breed. He took the entry shown by well-known professional handler Crawford Langley and placed it at the head of the line.
Mindful of what Aunt Peg had said, I wondered if the win was deserved. Unfortunately I didn’t know enough about the Maltese breed to have a useful opinion on the subject.
Standard Poodles were next to be judged and most were already gathering at ringside. By the time I’d gotten my armband, the Open Dogs class was being judged. Watching as I waited, my first impression was that Hunnicutt was fast, and perhaps not as thorough as I’d have liked, in evaluating the dogs before him.
Some judges think that rolling along at a speedy clip shows decisiveness and command of the entry. Some exhibitors wonder if what it actually shows is a need to move judging mistakes out of the ring quickly.
“There’s Aunt Peg,” said Davey as I rolled my armband over my sweater and secured it with a pair of rubber bands. “She brought Faith to us.”
Good thing, too, because by that time the puppy bitches were in the ring. Peg waved us over, quickly tucking a long comb into one of my pockets, then patting the other to make sure that it already contained a handful of dried liver and a squeaky toy.
“Sorry.” I took Faith’s leash from her, balling most of it up in my hand. “I didn’t realize he’d go so fast.”
“He always does. About the best thing you’ll be able to say for today’s judging is that it was mercifully brief.”
As usual, when she was standing ringside, Aunt Peg kept her voice low. Especially now that she had applied for her own judge’s license and had received provisional approval, Peg had no intention of stating such rude, if truthful, opinions for an audience.
Her first judging assignment was sche
duled to take place in two weeks. I knew Aunt Peg was well aware that there would be critics standing ringside as she performed her duties, too.
Before I could reply, the steward called the Open Bitches into the ring. With a major entry, the class was large. Ten Standard Poodle bitches—seven black, two white, and one apricot—formed a line that filled two sides of the matted arena.
Hunnicutt had requested “catalogue order,” which eliminated the need to jockey for the prime position at the head of the line. Instead, the handlers found their places according to the numbers on their armbands. Faith and I were right in the middle.
The judge began his examination of the class by standing in the center of the ring and letting his gaze slide down the line, pausing briefly on each dog in turn. Having stacked Faith with her front legs square underneath her and her hind legs slightly extended, I used one hand to support her chin and the other to hold up her tail.
Surreptitiously I glanced up and down the line as well, checking out the competition. To my admittedly biased eye, Faith was the best bitch there. Not only that, but she’d already beaten most of the other entrants at earlier shows. I felt my stomach drop, however, as my casual assessment revealed something else.
I was the only owner-handler in the ring.
That didn’t bode well.
Though Poodles are predominantly a professionally handled breed, there does exist a small core of talented amateurs who compete regularly against the pros and win. The fact that none of them had chosen to show under Derek Hunnicutt indicated that Peg was probably right: I didn’t stand a chance.
Hunnicutt lifted his hands and sent the line once around. Keeping Faith positioned squarely on the mats meant that I ran beside her on the more slippery floor. Not only was the footing bad, but the ring was too small to hold ten trotting Standard Poodles. We started, clumped, bumped, stopped, then started again before finally completing a listless circuit of the ring. I was beginning to feel annoyed that I was even there.
“Psst!”
Aunt Peg was leaning over the thigh-high barrier, gesturing in my direction. “What’s the matter with you?” she demanded in a stern undertone as I approached. “Quit moping around in there or you’re going to defeat yourself.”
“It doesn’t look as though I have much of a chance anyway.”
“You’re here, aren’t you? And thanks to me, you’re holding the prettiest bitch in the ring. Of course you’re not going to win—I already told you that, didn’t I? But the least you can do is put some effort into it and make me proud.”
A pep talk, Aunt Peg style. But it had the desired effect. Maybe we were going down, I decided, but it wouldn’t hurt to do so in style.
Like most Poodles, Faith is a natural clown. She loves performing for an audience. Some dogs grudgingly allow themselves to be shown; Faith adores it.
Which was a good thing because, by the time the class was over, about the only thing we had to show for our efforts was the fact that Faith had enjoyed herself enormously. Ribbonless, she trotted out of the ring just as happy as she’d gone in. It was her owner who was looking distinctly grumpy about the whole experience.
“If you say I told you so, I’m not going to be happy,” I grumbled as we headed back to the setup.
“I wouldn’t dream of it. Now that you’ve got that out of the way, you can look forward to tomorrow’s show. And since Faith is already bathed, clipped, and scissored, it’ll be a breeze.”
First she was calling Bertie “dear.” Now she was ignoring the fact that I hadn’t even placed in my class and telling me to look on the bright side. Briefly I wondered if aliens had stolen my aunt and replaced her with a cheery six-foot impostor.
“What’s up with you?” I asked as I hopped Faith back onto her table and began gently to pull apart her topknot.
“Up?” Peg said innocently. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Davey giggled. “You know what up means, Aunt Peg. It’s the opposite of down.”
“Down?” She pulled her nephew into her arms and pretended to consider. “Isn’t that the fluffy stuff they take off geese and put inside pillows and comforters? How can that be the opposite of up?”
Davey howled with laughter. He’s reached an age where puns and word-play are among his favorite things. “There’s a girl in my class whose name is Fluffy. Do you think she’s made of down?”
“It’s entirely possible,” Peg agreed. Releasing her nephew, she pointed him toward Bertie who was working at the other end of the aisle. “Go see if Bertie has time to join us for lunch, okay?”
“Okay!” Davey skipped off.
“I’ll tell you what’s up,” I told Aunt Peg. “You’re entirely too cheerful. You’re beginning to get on my nerves.”
“And you’re entirely too morose. So Sam left. Guess what? Bad things happen. It’s about time you got over it and moved on. Get a life.”
“I have a life.”
“Not one that’s good enough, apparently. For God’s sake, Melanie, it’s been nearly four months and you’re still wandering around like a lost lamb. Sam will come back when he’s ready. In the meantime, I’d like to think that my niece has something better to do than put her whole life on hold and wait for his return.”
That stung, as it was obviously meant to. Even worse, there might have been the tiniest bit of truth to her words.
“I haven’t been that bad, have I?”
“You’ve been worse,” Peg informed me. “I’m trying to soften the blow.”
Not very hard, apparently.
“I have to admit, I’ve been worried about you. And so has Frank.”
“Frank?” My carefree younger brother had never worried about anyone but himself in his whole life.
“He even asked Bertie to keep an eye on you, maybe get you involved in the plans for their wedding.”
Wasn’t that just like a man? I thought. Somehow it hadn’t occurred to my brother that the best cure for being dumped by my own fiancé might not be helping out with someone else’s wedding.
“Wait a minute.” My eyes narrowed. “That’s not what Bertie told me. She told me I was supposed to baby-sit you.”
Aunt Peg spun around. “Baby-sit me? I’ll have you know I’m entirely capable of taking care of myself.”
And any other hapless individuals who happened to wander into her sphere of influence.
“Baby-sit me?” Peg repeated. “We’ll just see about that!”
Drat, I thought. I knew I shouldn’t have spoken so fast. Double drat.
If things kept up like this, I was going to have to cultivate a whole new crop of swear words.
4
“Lunch?” Bertie said, coming back down the aisle with Davey. “You must be kidding. I have thirteen dogs to show, and at least two are going on to the groups. The only food I’ll get today is going to be on the fly.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” I asked. “Faith’s all done and she doesn’t mind hanging out in her crate for a while. Aunt Peg and Davey can go get something to eat and you can put me to work.”
“You don’t have to do that, Melanie.”
Despite her words, I could tell Bertie was considering the offer. Fiercely independent, she had built her business over the years through sheer talent and determination. During most of that time, she’d had nobody but herself to depend on.
Being a professional handler isn’t an easy job for anyone, much less a young woman alone. The days start and finish in the dark, and the work is often arduous. Weekends demand constant travel, driving to out-of-the-way places, often in less-than-ideal weather. And even on a handler’s day off, the dogs must still be cared for.
Not only that, but the pressure to win, to produce results for your clients, is constant. I knew the sacrifices that Bertie had made, and I knew how much of her life she’d dedicated to succeeding in the sport of dogs. But until she’d mentioned it just now, I hadn’t realized that her string had grown so large. Bertie must have been running from the mome
nt she arrived at the show hours earlier.
“Come on,” I said. “Give me a dog to do. It will be good for me to learn something besides how to brush a Poodle.”
“Well . . . I’ve got two Shar Peis, a class dog and bitch, going in about fifteen minutes. I’ve been wondering how I was going to juggle that.”
“Extra hands.” I held mine up and wiggled my fingers. “At your service.”
“We’ll bring you back something,” Peg promised as she and Davey left. Actually, considering the caliber of most dog show food, missing lunch wasn’t a hardship.
“I had no idea you had so many dogs now,” I said, leaning back against the edge of a grooming table as Bertie sorted through her tack box, looking for the Shar Peis’ leashes. “You ought to think about hiring an assistant.”
“I’ve considered it. And of course, Kate worked out great for a while.”
Kate Russo was one of my former students at Howard Academy. The teenager’s love for dogs and her boundless energy had combined to make her seem like the perfect helper. I’d introduced her to Bertie a year earlier, and Bertie had taken Kate on as an unpaid apprentice.
“How come she’s not still working for you? Did she quit?”
Bertie nodded. “This fall when she started high school. Her mother really wanted her to concentrate on her studies and I could understand that. Besides, Kate wanted to sign up for the debating team and try out for JV basketball, so her time was really limited.
“Having her around was great while it lasted. This many dogs is a lot for one person to handle, but you know how these things go. I’m half afraid that as soon as I hire someone, all my clients will disappear and I’ll be overextended financially. Working around the clock isn’t my idea of fun, but it seems like less of a gamble.”
Bertie handed me a show leash and pointed to two medium-sized wooden crates, each at the bottom of a stack. Chinese Shar Peis, the breed famous for their loose, wrinkled skin, are not terribly tall, but they’re heavy for their size. Bending down, I braced myself as I opened the crate and the Shar Pei came bounding out into the aisle.
Once Bitten (A Melanie Travis Mystery) Page 3
