Hair of the Dog

by Laurien Berenson

  “No problem. It’s not as though I was doing anything else.” Viv frowned slightly, glancing over toward Crawford’s setup. Terry was back now, using a blow dryer on a Toy Poodle’s bracelets, but Ron and Crawford still hadn’t returned.

  “Did Leo win today?”

  Viv nodded. “So did our new puppy. But Chows showed first thing this morning, and the group isn’t for another couple of hours yet. I hate it when that happens. Ron has too much time to get nervous in between.”

  “Ron gets nervous?”

  “After all this time, you’d think he’d take the competition in stride, wouldn’t you? But somehow, the more the dog wins, the worse it gets. He’s very competitive. He can’t stand to see Leo lose.”

  “Especially not to one of Austin’s dogs,” I guessed.

  “You’re right about that. Austin’s a whole different kind of player, and on some levels, that really ticks Ron off. Leo was born in our family room. Ron raised him from a puppy. In some ways I’d swear that dog is like his child, or maybe an extension of his ego.

  “Austin doesn’t have to worry about bloodlines, or genetic testing, or middle-of-the-night whelpings. He just sees something he likes and he buys it. There’s no risk involved with his method.”

  Aunt Peg had finished scissoring and was now putting up Tory’s topknot. She managed to talk around the mound of rubber bands between her lips. “Except perhaps the risk that a breeder won’t want to sell a really good one.”

  “To Austin? With his resources?” Viv’s beige-tipped fingers drummed lightly on the top of the crate. “Unfortunately, nobody ever says no to him. We’d all be better off if someone did.”

  “Shhh!” said Terry in a loud stage whisper. “Stop talking about them. Here they come!”

  Crawford strode through the grooming area, carrying the Bichon and a red ribbon. As the aisle was too narrow to walk abreast, Ron followed a step behind. The handler slanted Terry a look. “Gossiping again? I thought you were supposed to be working.”

  “I wasn’t gossiping. I was eavesdropping. It hardly takes any effort at all.”

  Crawford eyed the freshly blown-out Toy Poodle. “Much like your grooming.”

  “I’m not done yet.” Terry snatched up a pair of scissors. “What you see here is a masterpiece in the making.”

  “What I’d like to see is a class bitch with her topknot in.”

  “Slave driver.” Terry pouted briefly, then brightened. “Lucky for you, I like that.”

  Shaking his head, Crawford put the Bichon away in its crate. As Ron and Viv strolled away, he went to check on his two Standard Poodles which were lying on top of their tables. He and Terry had worked on them earlier and both were just about ready.

  Meanwhile behind me, Aunt Peg had begun to spray up. I knew what was coming. Without waiting to be asked, I went over and cupped Tory’s muzzle in the palm of my hand.

  “When you say you’ll keep an eye on Davey,” I said mildly, “that means you’re supposed to know where he is.”

  “I did.” Peg deftly feathered her comb through the long neck hair, stretching it until it stood upright, then spraying it into place. “He was with Viv, just like I told you.”

  There was no use arguing. Next time I’d try hanging a box of doughnuts around his neck. At least that would keep her attention.

  Standard Poodles were scheduled to be judged at one o’clock with Minis and Toys following. On our way up to the ring, we ran into Bertie Kennedy. She was carrying a black Mini bitch and heading in the same direction.

  “New client?” I asked, nodding toward the Mini.

  “No, this is one of Beth’s. She’s stuck in the Pom ring. I told her I’d get this one up to ringside.”

  I took a closer look. “I think I did up that bitch last week.”

  “You probably did. With Barry gone, that operation’s coming apart at the seams. Beth’s taking any help she can get.”

  I wondered if I’d been insulted and decided it probably wasn’t intentional. When it came to other women, Bertie wasn’t inclined to be catty. Of course, with her looks, she didn’t have to be.

  As usual, she looked stunning. Her wide green eyes were softly lined with shadow, and her dress was a fluid column of soft teal silk. It was long enough so that she could stoop and bend without embarrassment, and short enough to show off plenty of leg.

  I sighed softly. I thought I was doing well when I didn’t have peanut butter or jelly smeared on me.

  “Your brother called me,” Bertie said.

  “Are you going to go out with him?”

  “Friday night. Didn’t you know?”

  “No, why would I?”

  “He said we were doubling with you and your guy. Sam Driver, right?”

  “Right. But this is the first I’ve heard of it.”

  “Wow,” said Davey, tagging along at my side. “Can I come?”

  “No.” The answer was swift and automatic. Sometimes it felt as though my son spent more time with Sam than I did. I turned back to Bertie. “You’re sure about that?”

  “Positive. Mark your calendar.” We passed the ring where Pomeranians were being judged, and Bertie veered away.

  “Naughty, naughty,” said Terry. He was two steps behind Davey and me, leading one of Crawford’s Standards.

  “What?”

  “I know what you’re thinking.”

  “That I’d like to strangle my brother?”

  He shook his head. “You’re thinking, why don’t I look like that?”

  “I am not.”

  His hands waved through the air, shaping a curvy, hourglass figure. “Trust me, Bertie is too much of a good thing.”

  “To you, maybe. You’re gay.”

  “Oh, my God!” Terry cried. “I am? Don’t tell my parents!”

  I smiled, amused in spite of myself.

  “I told you before, I could work wonders with your hair.”

  “I like my hair.”

  “Sure you do. You like it so much, you’ve worn it the same way since college.”

  No point in trying to refute that.

  “Where’s my comb?” said Aunt Peg. We’d almost reached the Poodle ring, where I could see that the Puppy Dog class was already being judged. “Who has my comb?”

  “Right here,” I said, hurrying to catch up.

  “You can run,” Terry called after me, “but you can’t hide!”

  “Goodness,” said Peg as I handed over the wide-toothed comb for last-minute repairs. “What was that all about?”

  “Just Terry being dramatic. He wants to cut my hair.”

  Aunt Peg reached for her can of hair spray. Applying any sort of additive to a dog’s coat is illegal according to A.K.C. rules. The laws are rarely enforced, however, and few dogs appear in the ring in their natural state. Since she was spraying at ringside, however, she took the precaution of standing between Tory and the judge as she worked. No use in making a blatant infraction any more visible than it had to be.

  Peg looked up, assessing my hair style as if she’d never noticed it before. “You have perfectly nice hair. Too bad it just lies there.”

  “Isn’t it time for your class?”

  Her head swung around quickly. “That’s Open Dog,” she sniffed. “Don’t be mean to an old lady.”

  “Old? You?”

  “Heaven forbid,” said Crawford, coming out of the ring. He handed Terry the Open Dog who had just gone third in his class, and took the bitch. “If you’re old, we’ll all have to reconsider.”

  Puppy Bitch came and went. As at many shows, there were no entries in the intervening classes, and Open Bitch was next. As Peg and Crawford both entered the ring, Davey and I moved up to the rail to watch.

  “That looks like fun,” said Davey.

  “It is,” I said. “Sort of.”

  It was also nerve-racking and painfully intense. After all the effort that went into preparing a Poodle to be shown, the actual time spent in the ring amounted to only a few minutes. Firs
t impressions count a lot. Mess up once, and you’ve often cost yourself the chance to win.

  That’s one reason many exhibitors hire professionals to show their dogs for them. In theory, the pros don’t make mistakes. Watching Crawford handle his bitch was like watching Nureyev dance. He was a master at work.

  “So who’s going to win?” I asked Terry, who had come to stand beside us.

  “You’re asking moi? Do I look like a fortune-teller?”

  I leaned back and pretended to consider. “Add a pair of hoop earrings, a feather boa, and you could probably pass.”

  “Pass?” He fluttered his eyelashes demurely. “Honey, I’m stunning in feathers.”

  The judge had finished her individual examinations. As she ran her gaze down the line, she didn’t seem very interested in either Tory or Crawford’s bitch. A moment later, she pulled out a leggy black handled by a pro from Pennsylvania and motioned her to the front. Tory was pulled third, Crawford’s bitch, fifth.

  “Too bad,” I said.

  Terry shrugged. “Crawford won’t mind. He knew she wouldn’t like what he was bringing her in Standards.”

  “Then why did he bring them?”

  “She’s doing the group.”

  I ran that through my thought processes twice. At the end, I wasn’t any closer to understanding. If the judge didn’t like his Standard Poodles enough to even give them their classes, what possible difference could it make that she was judging the Non-Sporting group? I gave up trying to figure it out, and asked.

  “Leo has a real shot at going Best today,” said Terry. “This judge has liked him before, and Crawford’s hoping she’ll like him again. It certainly doesn’t hurt when group time rolls around that she’s seen Crawford in her ring all day long, bringing her entries.”

  Now that I could understand. Judges are licensed by the American Kennel Club, but they’re hired to judge by the individual kennel clubs that put on the shows. I’d thought about joining an all-breed club in the spring and I’d learned a lot about how they operate.

  Kennel clubs serve a variety of functions, but holding dog shows is their chief source of revenue. Much careful planning is done to maximize each show’s appeal to entry-paying exhibitors. Clubs vie for advantageous dates and sites, and they hire judges who they hope will attract the largest number of exhibitors.

  A judge who doesn’t “draw” is one who will eventually find himself with fewer and fewer assignments. Conversely, one who brings out the exhibitors will become very popular. No wonder, then, that judges tend to favor the handlers who bring them the largest number of entries.

  “Who’s doing Best?” I asked.

  “Maggie Cowan. She hasn’t had Leo before, but Crawford’s heard she’s said some nice things about him.”

  The dog show grapevine. Time-Warner should have a communications system this good.

  “And supposedly she dumped Midas last month in New Jersey.”

  The light was not only beginning to dawn, it was shining like a beacon. No wonder Ron was nervous. A win over Austin’s top dog would mean a lot. I began making plans to stay and see how it all turned out.

  “Well, that was a waste of time,” said Peg. Usually she’s a very good sport, but today she looked positively disgruntled. The white ribbon in her hand attested to the fact that while I’d been talking to Terry, the judge had dropped her placement from third to fourth.

  “Maybe you should hire a handler to show your bitch,” Terry said.

  Aunt Peg is a dedicated owner-handler. I expected a diatribe in reply, but instead she only laughed. “What for? Crawford did even worse than I did.”

  “Yes,” I said. “But he’ll get his eventually.”

  On the way back to the setup, Davey and I stopped off at the food concession and picked up lunch. There wasn’t much of a choice. I vetoed the cheese-covered nachos my son had his eye on and went for hamburgers all around.

  By the time we finished eating and Peg had Tory on the table for a quick brush-through and rewrap, the groups were already beginning. Herding was first. Holding Davey’s hand, I wandered over to see how it would go.

  Group judging is often a relatively speedy process. Though each of the seven groups has a large number of breeds, the same person is often hired to judge both the group and the breeds within it. Since he selected the Best of Breed winners earlier in the day, going over them again is a perfunctory matter.

  With the groups starting early in the afternoon, there was still a large crowd of spectators in the building. Most were clustered around the group ring, applauding vigorously for the dogs they liked. Davey and I found a spot to wedge ourselves in and had a look.

  Austin’s German Shepherd was an obvious crowd favorite, as were the rough Collie and Old English Sheepdog. The rarer breeds, which in this case seemed to mean those that had not been featured to a mass audience on TV, were greeted only with silence. I clapped enthusiastically for a nice Cardigan Welsh Corgi, but it was a lonely and thankless effort.

  Fortunately the judge did his job, paying scant attention to popular opinion and rewarding the dogs he liked best. A Puli was first, followed by a Briard. Austin’s Shepherd managed third, while the Corgi I’d picked out was fourth.

  The Toy group was next. Even with a Poodle in it, the group has never been one of my favorites. As the little dogs began filing into the ring, Davey, who’d inherited his great-aunt’s sweet tooth gene, began angling for ice cream. If I appeased him now, there was a good chance he’d stand still for the Non-Sporting group later. Besides, my son wasn’t the only one who’d noticed the Häagen-Dazs stand over by the obedience rings.

  We walked across the building and skirted around the grooming area. Most of the breed rings were now empty, but the obedience competition was still going strong. Davey paused, enchanted, as a beautifully trained Border Collie flew over an obstacle, picked up a dumbbell its handler had tossed, then spun around and leapt back over the jump.

  “Cool!” he cried. “Can we teach Faith to do that?”

  “Sure, when she’s finished in the breed ring, and we cut off her hair.” One problem at a time. “Standard Poodles make great obedience dogs because they’re so smart.”

  “I bet Faith could learn to do anything.”

  I bet she could too. Whether or not I could teach her was another matter entirely.

  “Look,” said Davey. “There’s Viv.”

  I looked where he was pointing, but didn’t immediately see her. Nor could I imagine what she’d be doing on this side of the building. “I don’t think so. Come on, let’s get that ice cream.”

  “No,” said Davey with all the determination a five-year-old could muster. “It is Viv. She’s yelling at that man.”

  So I had another look. And what do you know, Davey was right. Viv was standing over in the shadows on the far side of the obedience ring.

  Even more interesting, the man she was arguing with was Austin Beamish.

  Eighteen

  It wasn’t any of my business.

  That didn’t stop me from staring.

  “What about my ice cream?” asked Davey.

  The ice cream stand was at the end of the ring. I fished two dollar bills out of my wallet and sent Davey running on ahead.

  The Border Collie had finished its turn and been replaced by a Shetland Sheepdog. Watching as the dog heeled off-lead, I strolled casually in Viv and Austin’s direction.

  Obedience competitors, like their counterpart in breed, are very committed to what they’re doing. The sign by the gate identified the class as Open B, which meant that those involved had plenty at stake. No one standing ringside seemed to be paying any attention to Austin and Viv but me.

  Viv wasn’t yelling anymore, but even from a distance she looked angry. Austin was speaking in a low voice. When he reached out and placed a hand on her arm, she quickly shook him off.

  I’d hesitated for a moment, not wanting to interrupt. Now I started forward again, some vague, unformed thought in my mind tha
t maybe Viv needed rescuing.

  As I drew near, she looked past Austin and saw me. Immediately Viv took a step back as Austin turned to see what she was looking at. I pasted a smile on my face that probably looked as phony as it felt.

  “Davey wanted ice cream,” I said, hoping that explained, more or less, what I was doing there. “Thank you again for your help earlier.”

  “Help?” asked Austin, looking baffled.

  “Viv’s help. With Davey. He can be quite a handful.”

  “No, he wasn’t.” Viv shook her head. “He was fine.”

  “Excuse me, I believe the Sporting group is about to begin.” Austin turned and strode away.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked Viv.

  “Sure.” She looked as though she wanted to leave too. Maybe I’d been wrong about the rescuing part.

  “Are you and Austin having a problem?”

  “It was nothing.”

  “It didn’t look that way.”

  “You know what Austin’s like. He can be pretty intense.”

  Poor Viv, surrounded on all sides by competitive men.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I was keeping track of Davey’s progress. He’d worked his way to the front of the line and was making his selection. Any minute now, he’d be back.

  Viv looked as though she were wishing desperately that I would change the subject, so I decided to oblige her. “You know, there’s something I’ve been wondering about. Maybe you could clarify things for me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Your Chow, Leo. Barry Turk used to show him, didn’t he?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I heard that Ron took the dog away from Barry last spring, and I was wondering what went wrong. Did they have a disagreement over something?”

  “Not at all,” Viv said firmly. “Putting Leo with Crawford was my idea. Ron had nothing to do with it. I thought Crawford could do better with the dog, and obviously he has.”

  “Hey, Mom! Look what I got!” Davey skidded to a stop beside us, waving a double chocolate ice cream bar. And not a napkin in sight.

  “That looks great.” Viv smiled down at him.