Chow Down

by Laurien Berenson

  “Sleep well?” Sam asked.

  “Umm . . .”

  With Davey in the room, I wasn’t about to elaborate. But one look at the expression on Sam’s face told me I didn’t have to. Married for three months, we were still honeymooners. Both of us had been blissfully worn out by the time we’d dropped off to sleep the night before.

  I stepped back out of his arms and said, “You’re not going to kill yourself climbing around in that tree, are you?”

  Sam grinned cheerfully. “I hope not.”

  That was reassuring.

  “What about Davey? He’s my only son and heir, you know.”

  Something flickered briefly in Sam’s eyes, and I felt a small pang. Both of us were eager for another child. We’d been trying but so far it hadn’t happened.

  When Sam spoke, however, his tone was light. “Don’t worry. Kids his age don’t go splat, they bounce.”

  “Charming.” I peered into a bag. I saw two boxes of nails, a new tape measure, and a small hammer, the size that Davey could easily wrap his hands around.

  “We aim to please,” said Sam.

  Davey only giggled. The notion of bouncing—or going splat—apparently held more appeal for him than it did for me.

  “I got something interesting in the mail this morning,” I said.

  “What was it?” Sam had followed Davey to the fruit bowl. He selected a banana and began to peel it. “Coupons for free pizza? An envelope from Publisher’s Clearing House? Did we win a million bucks?”

  “Not quite. Though apparently one of our Poodles may be on the fast track to fame and fortune.”

  “Faith?” Davey perked up. “Did she win the contest?”

  Well, I guessed that answered my next question.

  “What contest?” Sam asked, banana poised in the air midway to his lips.

  “ ‘ All Dogs Are Champions.’ ”

  “They are?”

  “That’s the name of the contest. It’s sponsored by the makers of Chow Down dog food.”

  “I’ve heard of them. They’re headquartered around here somewhere, aren’t they?”

  “Norwalk,” Davey said impatiently. “They’re in Norwalk. Did Faith win?”

  “Not quite. But she’s been named one of five finalists—”

  “Yippee!” my son shrieked. He began to twirl in circles around the room.

  “Not so fast, Lord of the Dance. Did it ever occur to you that it might have been a good idea to check with me before you went ahead and entered Faith in a contest?”

  “Umm . . . no.”

  Davey’s exuberant steps never even faltered. I watched him and sighed. I supposed, if nothing else, I had to give him points for honesty.

  “Faith is a champion,” Sam pointed out. I don’t think he had a clue what was going on.

  “That’s what I told the people at the booth,” said Davey.

  “What booth?”

  “The Chow Down booth. They have one at all the dog shows.”

  “They do?” I’d never noticed. Then again, when I’m at a show I’m usually busy either exhibiting or getting Eve ready to go in the ring. I seldom spend time browsing the concessions.

  “That’s where I found out about the contest. The man told me they were trying to get show dogs interested in eating their new kibble.”

  “Presumably they were trying to attract the dogs’ owners,” Sam said under his breath.

  “No,” Davey corrected. “The food is for the dogs. I told the man about Faith and he gave me a brochure and an entry form. There was a web site to go to and I filled everything out online.”

  “All without mentioning it to me?” I said again.

  “I couldn’t tell you,” Davey said earnestly. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”

  “Trust me, it was.”

  “Is this the letter?” Sam picked up the sheet of paper from the counter. His eyes skimmed down the page. Midway through, he was biting back a smile. “A personal interview with Faith . . . ? I’d like to see that myself. This sounds like quite an undertaking.”

  “It sounds like fun,” said Davey. “Faith could be famous. She could make lots of money! She could be on TV, like in commercials and everything. Everyone would know who she was!”

  Maybe that seemed like a good thing to an eight-year-old. To me, it sounded like a nightmare. I’ve never understood the appeal of fame. Fortune, sure. Who doesn’t like money? But thanks to a video game Sam had designed years earlier, he and I already had more than enough.

  Besides, it was summer. This was supposed to be my time off. I had no desire to shepherd Faith through the final phases of a selection process for a contest I didn’t particularly want to win.

  “The notification letter was addressed to me,” I said.

  For the first time, Davey’s eyes slipped away.

  “Did you sign my name on the entry form?”

  Davey developed a sudden interest in his apple. “Not exactly,” he mumbled.

  “Then what did you do?”

  “The form was online, so I just typed your name in.”

  A small distinction, but at least I didn’t have to add forgery to his crimes.

  “The owner of the dog was supposed to sign. Faith belongs to me as much as she belongs to you . . .” Davey looked at me for confirmation and I nodded. “Except that . . .” Another pause, then he blurted out the rest. “You had to be over the age of eighteen to enter.”

  A rule imposed to prevent an occurrence like this one, presumably.

  “Please, Mom!” Davey pleaded. “Just give it a try and see what happens.”

  I glanced at Sam, who merely shrugged. This was going to be my decision.

  “I’ll tell you what,” I proposed. “I’ll call the company and find out what the contest is all about, see how much time and effort it would take to continue on with the selection process. But until I have a clearer idea of what’s involved, I’m not making any promises—”

  “Yippee!” Davey shouted again. “Faith is going to be famous.”

  Oh joy.

  The phone call to Champions Dog Food went just about as well as the conversation with Davey had.

  After Sam and Davey had gone outside to unpack the car, I dialed the number on the letterhead and asked to speak with Doug Allen, the contest chairman.

  “May I ask what this is in reference to?” the receptionist inquired.

  I considered for a moment, then said, “No.”

  Obviously it wasn’t the answer she’d been expecting.

  “Is it about the results of the contest we’re currently running?” she asked after a pause. “Because if it is, I need to inform you that the decision of the judges is final. We at Champions Dog Food are terribly sorry if your pet wasn’t selected, but with so many worthy applicants to choose from . . .”

  The woman sounded as though she was reading a prepared speech. I wondered if the company had actually been fielding phone calls from disgruntled losers. And more to the point, since I’d found out only that morning, how did the people whose dogs hadn’t been chosen already know the results?

  “That isn’t the problem,” I broke in. “My dog is supposed to be one of the finalists.”

  “Oh well that’s different, then. Congratulations! In that case, you’ll be contacted shortly—”

  “I’ve already been contacted.” It was an effort not to grind my teeth. “Otherwise how would I know she’d been chosen?”

  “The preliminary results were posted on our web site last night,” she said helpfully. “And it’s been a madhouse around here ever since. Well, frankly, it’s been like that ever since the contest started, if you want to know the truth. We hoped the contest would strike a chord but we never expected a response like this. Who would have guessed there were so many people who were dying to get their dogs on television?”

  Who indeed? I wondered. Davey was eight. What was everyone else’s excuse?

  “I’ll get Mr. Allen for you right away.”

 
; I was put on hold and left to listen to music that my grandmother would have found boring. “Right away” turned out to be ten minutes. I spent the time watching Sam and Davey unload what looked like enough lumber to build a second garage. Or maybe an addition to the house.

  Surely they weren’t planning to haul all that up into the branches of the old oak? The tree would probably collapse with both of them in it. And if I was really unlucky, the Poodles, all of whom had gone outside to oversee the project, would be under the tree when it came down. That gloomy thought was interrupted by two quick clicks, then I was reconnected to a live person.

  “Ms. Travis?” Doug Allen sounded bright, highly motivated, and more enthusiastic than anyone had a right to be about dog food. “Sorry to keep you waiting! How are you and Faith doing this morning?”

  “We’re fine but—”

  “I’m happy to hear that! And congratulations, by the way. I want you to know, getting this far was no small feat. Not only that, but it’s going to be one heck of a competition from here on in.”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about—”

  “Each of our five finalists would make a very worthy spokesdog for Chow Down dog food. Narrowing the selection process down further is going to involve splitting some very fine hairs, if you’ll pardon the pun! Not that all our remaining competitors are long-haired dogs, of course. That would hardly be fair, now would it?”

  I assumed the question was rhetorical. Good thing because Doug didn’t pause long enough for me to answer.

  “Of course you would know that by now. I’m sure you’ve looked on the web site and scoped out the competition. Let me tell you, though, just between the two of us”—his voice lowered confidentially—“I’ve always been partial to Poodles. I mean, what’s not to like about a breed that combines beauty and brains with such panache?”

  At least Doug Allen had good taste.

  “Nothing,” I said quickly, wedging in the word when he paused for breath. “Poodles are superb, they’re wonderful dogs. But they’re not pushovers. They have minds of their own. They don’t eat just anything that’s put in front of them like Labs or Beagles do.”

  “Oh, we’re not worried about that. All dogs like Chow Down.”

  “How do you know?”

  Suddenly I found myself picturing an eat-off among the finalists. Five dogs and five big bowls of Chow Down dog food: a race to see who could gobble down their kibble with the most gusto. Eve liked most foods, but Faith was finicky. She liked to take her time and sample new things slowly.

  “We’ve done taste tests, of course! They were an integral part of the development process. Every dog that saw Chow Down lapped it right up.”

  “Were they hungry?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Were the dogs hungry when you fed them? Had they missed a meal or maybe two?”

  Doug seemed surprised by the question. “Well I should think so. That would be the whole point, wouldn’t it?”

  Or perhaps the point was that a dog that was hungry enough would eat almost anything. Rather than mentioning that, however, I steered the conversation back to the topic I’d meant to discuss.

  “What I wanted to ask about is how much of a time commitment I’d be looking at. You know, in terms of Faith continuing on with the selection process.”

  “Pretty extensive, I’d say. Choosing just the right spokesdog to represent our product and our company isn’t something we take lightly. It’s important for us to see the dog as it will appear in a variety of challenging situations. First on the agenda will be the personal interviews. And then all of you will be vetted by our PR department and focus groups. We’ve booked an appearance on the This Is Your Morning Show, which will be followed by a press conference . . .”

  Doug kept talking, but I was so stunned by the enormity of what he was proposing that his words had stopped registering. Focus groups? Appearance on a morning show? Those didn’t sound like the kinds of things I needed to have on my agenda. Especially not when I was supposed to be enjoying a lazy summer with my new husband and my darling child who—at that moment—I could cheerfully have strangled.

  “Listen, Doug,” I said. Amazingly he stopped speaking. “I’m not really sure that any of this is going to work for me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I don’t think Faith is the dog you’re looking for.”

  “Of course she is! Or at least,” he quickly amended, “she might be. You’re just feeling overwhelmed by the enormity of the opportunity. Believe me, her chances of being chosen are as good as anyone’s. Better than some, though I shouldn’t say that—so let’s just keep it between us. Several members of our committee loved Faith, adored her, in fact. She was a very, very popular choice.”

  “Thank you,” I said firmly, “but I’m afraid she needs to be unchosen.”

  There was a long moment of silence. Then Doug said slowly, “That’s not possible.”

  “Sure it is. You’re right, this is an honor and a wonderful opportunity. But for somebody else, not us. We respectfully decline. Go get your number six pick and bump them up.”

  “We can’t do that. The announcement’s already been made on the web site. The media’s already been notified. Faith’s picture was included in all the material that went out. Changing things now would undermine the integrity of what we’re trying to accomplish and I’m afraid we can’t allow that to happen. People who have been following the contest will expect to see a big black Poodle eating Chow Down dog food.”

  “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear,” I said. “I’m withdrawing my entry.”

  “Maybe I was the one who wasn’t clear,” Doug shot back. “You can’t do that.”

  “I hardly see how you can stop me.”

  “When you submitted the entry form, you were making certain warranties about the ownership and availability of your pet. You entered into a binding contract. All of that was spelled out on the web site and in the brochure. Didn’t you read the fine print before entering the contest?”

  I hadn’t read any print, that was part of the problem. Admitting that, however, would only get Davey in trouble, so I didn’t bother.

  “Let me read it to you,” said Doug. “Wait a minute, I have it right here.

  “I, the undersigned, agree to abide by all rules and conditions of this contest, as spelled out above, including but not limited to permitting my dog’s name and likeness to be used in print or television advertising as deemed suitable by the Champions Dog Food Company . . .”

  Doug continued reading but once again I’d stopped listening. It was beginning to look like Faith would be remaining a finalist whether I wanted her to or not.

  That part was bad enough. Even worse was the fact that, left to her own devices, Faith was a formidable competitor.

  If I wasn’t lucky, she might just go ahead and win the whole damn thing.

  3

  “Let me get this straight,” said Bertie. She was trying hard not to laugh. And not entirely succeeding, I might add. “Davey entered Faith in a dog chow contest and now you have to spend your summer chauffeuring her around to auditions?”

  “Something like that.” The prospect didn’t sound any more appealing now than it had two days earlier when I’d finished speaking to Doug Allen.

  Bertie was a dear friend and my sister-in-law, having married my younger brother, Frank, two years earlier. She was also a professional dog handler and mother to six-month-old Maggie. Like most women I knew, she was habitually overcommitted and overworked, and occasionally underappreciated.

  Bertie, however, multitasked with aplomb. Now she was combing out the topknot on a Miniature Poodle, looking over the day’s schedule that was taped to the inside of her grooming box, and making fun of me. Simultaneously.

  Oh, did I forget to mention that we were at a dog show? Well, we were. It was Saturday and we were gathered at the Mid-Hudson Kennel Club event in Dutchess County, New York, where Bertie had a dozen dogs ente
red in nearly as many different breeds. As for me, I was hanging out and helping her groom. Though Eve still needed a major to finish her championship, I had elected not to show her.

  One of the good things about being an owner-handler is that if you don’t approve of a judge’s knowledge or credentials, you can decline to enter. Professional handlers don’t have that luxury. They show—rain or shine, week in and week out—exhibiting their clients’ dogs in front of experts and buffoons alike.

  Some days they look like heroes. Other times they go home with almost nothing to show for a long day’s hard work. It was a tough way to make a living, but Bertie thrived on the competition. Plus she was very good at what she did.

  When Bertie and I met several years earlier, Aunt Peg and I were showing Standard Poodles and Bertie was showing almost anything but. Like many of the terrier breeds, there are exacting requirements for the upkeep and presentation of Poodles’ coats. They’re a specialized breed, not for those who lack patience or artistic talent.

  The previous summer, however, Bertie had attended the Poodle Club of America national specialty, fallen in love with the breed, and decided that Aunt Peg and I were going to teach her everything she needed to know about Poodle hair. Along the way, that had evolved into our current situation, where I was working as Bertie’s part-time assistant at the shows, and Aunt Peg was overseeing our efforts with her usual imperious elan. Fortunately, for the sake of our relationship and my sanity, I refused to take my position as underling very seriously.

  “So how good is this Chow Down stuff anyway?” Deftly Bertie parted the hair on the Mini’s head with a knitting needle and began the process of putting in the tight, show ring topknot. “I’ve never even heard of it.”

  “It’s a brand new product.” I was working on a Standard Poodle that belonged to one of Bertie’s clients, scissoring the long hair in his mane coat as he stood atop a rubber matted grooming table. “I don’t know if anybody’s tried it yet, except the groups they’ve test-marketed it to.”