As I approached, I heard the sound of a sharp whine through the van’s half-open window. Wounded censure, Standard Poodle-style. I deserved the rebuke. When we’d left earlier, I hadn’t realized that we’d be gone for so long.
A second later, Faith’s head popped up into view. Her long muzzle pushed out through the slender opening. Her tail was wagging so hard that her whole body undulated with delight. She woofed softly under her breath.
“I know, I’m sorry.” Quickly I slid the door open. Then I climbed onto the seat and gathered the big Poodle into my lap. “That was all my fault.”
Faith tipped her head back and gave me a look that was easy to read. I know that, she said.
As usual, my Poodle and I were in perfect agreement.
I was still sitting in the backseat of the minivan half an hour later when Aunt Peg emerged from the office. Faith’s long, warm, body was draped across my lap. My arms looped around her neck. Her head angled upward so that her muzzle rested in the crook of my shoulder.
“You baby that dog,” Aunt Peg said with a snort as she climbed into the driver’s seat.
As if that was a bad thing.
“You’re just jealous that you didn’t bring along a Poodle of your own,” I told her.
Aunt Peg harrumphed under her breath, but she didn’t disagree.
When we reached the outskirts of Louisville, I took out my phone and called Bertie. She had left Connecticut very early that morning, which meant that she should be arriving soon. If Bertie was almost here, I figured I’d have Aunt Peg drop me off at the Expo Center rather than to going back to the hotel.
“Hey, it’s me,” I said when Bertie picked up. “Where are you?”
“Almost done,” she replied.
“Done what?”
“Unloading. Setting up. I got in early and I’m finishing up at the Expo Center now.”
I sat up straight. Jostled to one side, Faith exhaled a sigh of protest. I resettled her and frowned into the phone.
“What do you mean ‘finishing up’? You were supposed to call me. I was going to come and help.”
“About that,” said Bertie.
“Yes?”
“I don’t actually need your help.”
“Of course you do. You said you did. You’re pregnant, remember?”
“Oh please.” Bertie laughed. “As if I could forget.”
“Precisely!” I announced with satisfaction.
“Mel, I’ve been managing this business all by myself for years.”
“I know that.”
“Including during my last pregnancy,” she pointed out.
When I’m pregnant, all I want to do is sleep. And wear stretchy clothes and no makeup. Not Bertie. As I recalled, she’d sailed through her previous pregnancy with all the aplomb of Helen racing triumphantly across the Aegean Sea to Troy.
“Yes, but—”
“I’m pregnant, not incapacitated.”
To add insult to injury, I could hear noises in the background. It sounded as though Bertie was stacking crates while we talked. Me? All I was doing was sitting on a seat and holding a dog.
“It’s a perfectly normal condition,” she added. “Not only that, but it’s barely twelve weeks. I’m hardly pregnant at all.”
“That’s not funny,” I said. “If you don’t need my help, what am I doing in Kentucky?”
“Enjoying your vacation? Taking a break? Having a good time? All of the above?”
True enough. Even so, I refused to be mollified.
“You set me up,” I said.
“Actually Sam did that. And Peg. It was their idea. My pregnancy was just a convenient excuse.”
“Wonderful,” I muttered.
“So we’re good, right?” asked Bertie. “I’ll be done here soon. See you back at the hotel!”
The connection ended. I tucked the phone back in my pocket. Then I sat and stared at the back of Aunt Peg’s head. She didn’t turn around. My aunt, who could probably navigate New York City traffic and knit an argyle sweater at the same time, studiously kept her eyes on the road ahead.
“I feel manipulated,” I said.
I saw Aunt Peg’s smirk in the rearview mirror. “We wouldn’t do it if you didn’t make it so easy,” she told me.
* * *
Bertie was right about pregnancy not slowing her down. With a full string of dogs to feed and exercise before the show started, she was up and out of the hotel room at sunrise the next morning. Aunt Peg would be judging half the breeds in the Non-Sporting Group on this first day of the dog show cluster, but since her duties didn’t begin until nine A.M., she, Faith, and I followed along at a more reasonable hour.
“I have a surprise for you,” Aunt Peg said as we made the short drive over to the Expo Center.
Of course she did. I should have seen the announcement coming. It was how most of my days started when I was with Aunt Peg.
“After we left last night, I called Miss Ellie to tell her about our visit to Six Oaks.”
“That’s hardly a surprise.”
Aunt Peg slanted me a look. “Shush and let me talk. After Miss Ellie and I discussed Lucky Luna, we started talking about Poodles.”
Again, I thought, not a surprise.
“It turns out that she hasn’t been to a dog show in more than a dozen years.”
Now that was unexpected.
“How very odd,” I said. “Especially for someone who was once so involved in the sport. When Miss Ellie stopped breeding Standard Poodles, did she apply for a judge’s license?”
That was the direction many former exhibitors chose when they were ready to cut back on breeding or handling. It was an excellent way to put years of hard-won knowledge to good use. It was also a means of giving back to the sport which was a lifelong passion for many of its participants.
“Not that I’m aware of,” Aunt Peg replied. Which basically meant no.
“How come?”
She paused at the kiosk, waved her parking pass, and then pulled through to the lot. “I don’t know the answer to that. Perhaps you should ask her yourself.”
“Are we going to back Lexington later?”
I had seen Aunt Peg’s schedule. She had a full day’s slate of dogs to judge. I wondered when we were going to fit in such a trip.
“Not at all. In fact, that’s my surprise. Miss Ellie is coming here to the dog show.” Aunt Peg smiled with satisfaction. “Mind you, it took some convincing on my part. At first she seemed quite reluctant to join us. For some reason Miss Ellie seems to think that she won’t fit in with the current dog show crowd.”
“Nonsense,” I said.
“That’s precisely what I told her. Ellie Gates Wanamaker was a fixture in the Midwestern dog community for many years. I’m sure at least some of her old friends will be here. Not only that but the entry in Poodles is enormous. She’s bound to enjoy watching the judging.”
Listening to our conversation from the backseat, Faith heard a familiar word. She lifted her head and cocked an ear inquiringly.
“Other Poodles,” I told her. “Not you.” As an unentered dog, Faith would be spending most of the day tucked inside a large crate at Bertie’s setup.
“So now you won’t be at loose ends all day while Bertie and I are busy working.” Aunt Peg found an empty parking spot around the back of the building near the exhibitor’s entrance. She pulled the minivan into it. “Instead I’ve found you a way to make yourself useful. You will have the rare privilege of escorting Miss Ellie around the dog show.”
Loose ends, indeed, I thought. I should be so lucky. Despite what Bertie had said, I’d still been planning to offer her my services. Not only that, but I’d been hoping to watch the Poodle judging as well.
On the other hand, useful people were Aunt Peg’s favorite kind. And spectating at the Poodle ring would be even more interesting with Miss Ellie by my side. Indeed, it occurred to me that perhaps I should thank Aunt Peg for the vote of confidence.
I never go
t the chance. As soon as the three of us stepped inside the large building, Aunt Peg was all business. “I have to go check in,” she told me. “You’ll want to keep yourself available. I told Miss Ellie to call you as soon as she arrives.” And then she was gone.
Faith and I paused at the edge of the cavernous room to get our bearings. Even though I had never been to this particular venue before, the large pavilion already looked and felt familiar. Nearly all dog shows share a similar order and pattern of organization; and the vast hall where the show was being held appeared very much as I’d expected it to.
Twenty-two rubber-matted rings were arranged in back-to-back rows down the middle of the room. A wide aisle had been left free around the block of rings. Exhibitors would congregate there as they awaited their turns in the ring; spectators could use the space to pull up chairs and watch their favorite breeds.
Behind that busy area were the vendors’ booths, offering everything from dog supplies to canine artwork and jewelry. Around the hall’s perimeter was a narrow corridor available for grooming. Another larger, lighter grooming area filled the handlers’ room next door.
Casual dog show attendees think that what happens in the show rings—who gets awarded what ribbon, who gets their picture taken when it’s all over—is all that matters. But exhibitors know better. The amount of time that dogs spend being judged is miniscule compared to the hours that are devoted to prering preparation. And much of that time is spent in the handlers’ area.
There, exhibitors spend the day grooming, gossiping, and hanging out with friends—all while sizing up the competition. By the time the judging arrives, it’s not unusual for experienced exhibitors to be well aware of where they stand in the day’s hierarchy of entries. The judge’s opinion merely becomes confirmation of what they already knew—or at least suspected.
The action in the show ring might be the face of a dog show, but the grooming area is its heart. So that was where Faith and I went first.
There’s something about the early morning buzz of energy at a show that always makes my senses tingle. People and dogs alike are busy. Everyone has a place to be and a job to do. But there’s also a special zing in the air. Every dog show is a new adventure. And now, even though I wasn’t showing myself, I couldn’t wait to get started.
Faith’s show days are long behind her but she remembered the drill. Head up and tail wagging as she took in the pavilion’s sights and sounds, the Standard Poodle trotted along happily at my side. When I paused at the entrance to the handlers’ room, looking around to see where the Poodles were set up, it was Faith who seemed to know, almost instinctively, which direction to head.
Or maybe she just smelled the hairspray.
The jumble and clutter of the grooming room was as familiar as it was welcoming. Exhibitors piled their crates on top of each other, nudged their rubber-matted grooming tables into the closest possible proximity, and left only slender aisles between setups. Tack boxes balanced on top of coolers. Storage space was any available crevice. The low hum of dozens of blow dryers served as customary background noise.
Everyone likes to be surrounded by friends, and dog show exhibitors tend to cluster by breed in the grooming area. So as soon as I spied a trio of Miniature Poodles standing on a row of rubber-matted tables, I knew we were going the right way. A moment later, Bertie came into view. Enviably statuesque with long, fiery red hair, my sister-in-law wasn’t hard to spot—even in the midst of all this canine chaos.
Years earlier, when Bertie and I had first met, she’d been near the beginning of her handling career. Struggling to build a name for herself and to make a living, Bertie had had to accept any handling assignment that was offered. Now, however, she’d reached the point where she could afford to pick and choose among the opportunities that were presented to her.
Like most successful professional handlers, Bertie specializes in those breeds whose looks and traits she find most appealing. My sister-in-law has always had an affinity for the Corgis, Shelties, and Shepherds of the Herding Group. But no one related to Aunt Peg could resist the lure of the Poodle breed for long.
Not that Bertie had ever had a great deal of choice in the matter. As I recalled, Aunt Peg had simply nudged the handler under her ample wing, then set about teaching Bertie all there was to know about presenting the three varieties of Poodles to Aunt Peg’s own impeccable standard.
Considering that I’d had a several year head start on a similar education, you might think that I’d have been able to offer Bertie some pointers as well. But while I still struggled to scissor lines that were smooth as glass, or to spray up a topknot so that it looked entirely natural while standing straight up in the air, Bertie had effortlessly absorbed every nugget of information that Aunt Peg offered and then deftly gone on to create stylish trims that were all her own.
I have no idea how she accomplished that. In fact, if I hadn’t liked Bertie so much I might have been a little bit resentful about it. Possibly even more than a little.
Today, however, the fact that Bertie had added Poodles and several other Non-Sporting breeds to her roster, made my life easier. Not only did it mean that I knew where to look for her, it also ensured that she would be grooming near my great dog show friends, top Poodle handler Crawford Langley, and his assistant, Terry Denunzio.
“Thank God you’re here!” Bertie said as Faith and I approached.
Alarmed by the unexpected greeting, I quickly scooted Faith into an empty, floor-level, crate. Snapping the latch shut behind her, I straightened and held out my empty hands, ready to go to work.
“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Am I late? What do you need?”
Bertie had an apricot Mini Poodle lying on the table in front of her. She was line brushing through its wispy coat, the first stage of preparation for the ring. Now she leaned across the tabletop so that her lips were only inches from my ear.
“It’s Crawford,” she whispered.
“Crawford?” I was so surprised that I repeated his name out loud without thinking.
The handler was standing at the other end of the next setup. Though he was currently facing away from us, I’d suspected for years that Crawford had eyes in the back of his head.
“Shhh!” Bertie snapped. “Not so loud! He’ll hear us.”
“What’s the matter with Crawford?” I whispered back, casting him a quick glance. He and I had been mates for years. I hoped it was nothing serious.
“He is driving me insane.” Bertie grabbed my arm and squeezed it, hard. “You have got to do something. Because if this keeps up, I swear I’m going to have to kill him.”
Chapter 7
Pregnancy hormones. Surely that was the problem. There was no other way to explain Bertie’s outburst.
Crawford Langley was one of the first people I had met when I became involved in the dog show world. He enjoyed Elder Statesman status in the Poodle community, having reigned for years as one of its premier professional handlers. Crawford presented his Poodles in the show ring with an enviable mix of talent and flair. He knew how to make a good dog look better than it was, and he could make a great dog unbeatable.
Crawford was two decades older than I was, and it had taken us some time to become comfortable with one another. The handler was dignified and charming, and he always knew the right thing to say. In short, we had little in common beyond our mutual love of dogs. But beneath Crawford’s reserved exterior was a man who cared deeply about his friends, and I was honored to count myself as one of them.
Terry Denunzio, on the other hand, was a whole different kettle of fish. Terry was not only Crawford’s assistant, he was also his life partner. He was young, gorgeous, and flamboyantly out-there.
Terry cuts my hair and he criticizes my wardrobe. He always knows the latest gossip, sometimes because he’s created it himself. I was well aware of Terry’s propensity for stirring up mischief. So if Bertie had a complaint I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear that it concerned Terry. But Crawford?
“Bertie, what on earth are you talking about?” I asked.
She looked over my shoulder and her eyes widened at what she saw. “Here he comes,” she whispered unhappily. “You’ll see.”
I turned around. Crawford was threading his way toward us down the narrow aisle between his numerous grooming tables. The Miniature variety was first to be judged and Crawford had four Mini Poodles, all in various stages of preparation, out of their crates and waiting patiently on their tabletops.
He didn’t look like a man with time to spare.
Nevertheless, as Crawford approached I gave him a big smile. Like many of my dog friends, we usually only saw each other when our show schedules meshed. And since Augie was our only Standard Poodle “in hair,” and Davey, who handled him, was in the middle of basketball season, I hadn’t been to many shows lately. At least a month had passed since Crawford and I had last seen one another.
He answered my smile with a glower and barked, “You’re late!”
“No, I’m not,” I replied uncertainly. It was unlike Crawford to be wrong about anything. “The show hasn’t even started yet.”
“Bertie told me she was counting on you.”
“Umm . . . okay?” I sent my sister-in-law a quick, surprised glance. That wasn’t what I’d heard.
Bertie’s gaze slid away. She averted her eyes, staring upward as if something utterly fascinating was happening on the ceiling. (It wasn’t.)
So . . . no help there. It would have been nice if she’d bothered to tell me what the heck Crawford and I were arguing about before opting out of the conversation.
“Bertie is in a delicate condition,” he said.
Oh.
Only Crawford would have phrased the news that way. And overlooked the fact that Bertie was about as delicate as a longshoreman. But at least now I had an inkling what the problem was.
“She’s pregnant,” I said, just to see if Crawford would wince.
He didn’t, but he did close his eyes briefly as if uttering a silent prayer. Lord save me from women with explicit vocabularies.
Live and Let Growl Page 6
