Live and Let Growl

by Laurien Berenson

  Once the individual classes in each sex have been judged, the class winners return to the ring to vie for the award of Winners Dog or Winner Bitch. Those two competitors are the only ones who receive points toward their championships. The number of points earned is based on the number of dogs beaten on the day. The highest number of points a dog can win at any single show is five. The fewest—assuming that there is competition—is one. Within that fifteen point total, a dog must also win two “majors,” meaning that he must defeat enough dogs to be awarded at least three points under two different judges.

  The system sounds complex, but in practice it’s actually quite easy to follow. When we arrived at Aunt Peg’s ring, she was judging her Open Dogs. She devoted a fair amount of time to sorting through the five dogs in that class. Then, having already found her eventual victor, she made short work of awarding both Winners Dog and Reserve.

  While Aunt Peg’s ring steward got her bitch entry in order and called the Puppy Bitches into the ring, Peg came over to say hello to Miss Ellie.

  “I’m so glad you came,” she said.

  “I am, too,” Miss Ellie replied. “I didn’t realize how much I’d missed all this until I walked in the building this morning and saw everything in front of me looking just the same as I remembered it.” She added with a smile, “It felt a bit like coming home.”

  “As well it should have,” Aunt Peg told her. “For many years, this was your home. And the dog community was your family. I know you’ve been missed. I hope Melanie is taking good care of you?”

  “We’re just getting started,” I told her. “We’ve barely had time to see anything yet.”

  “Off you go, then.” Aunt Peg shooed us away as if she’d been the one to hold us up, rather than the reverse. While we’d been speaking, her Puppy Bitch class had filed into the ring and the steward was sending us pointed looks. It was time for Aunt Peg to get back to work.

  Miss Ellie and I strolled past several adjacent rings, taking our time and pausing here and there whenever something that caught her eye. Miss Ellie had only had Standard Poodles but like most dedicated breeders, she appreciated a good dog no matter what breed it happened to be.

  We’d been in the room about fifteen minutes when I started to sense a subtle shift in the atmosphere. At first a few heads turned in our direction. Soon they were followed by more. Whispered conversations began to spring up around us, their murmured words a low buzz that was just beyond earshot.

  The dog show world has a telegraph that’s as insistent and efficient as jungle drums. And all at once, I could feel its rhythm pulsing around the room. Word of Miss Ellie’s presence was spreading rapidly. Before long, anyone old enough to remember her former dominance in the Midwestern dog show scene would be aware that she was back.

  Some of the faces I saw around us registered delight. Others looked surprised—and perhaps even a little shocked—by Miss Ellie’s unexpected appearance. Several people glanced our way with notable disinterest, then frowned and turned away.

  At the outset only a few exhibitors came over to greet Miss Ellie. But as time passed, interest grew steadily and so did the press of people. Hands were shaken. Hugs were exchanged. Our casual stroll around the large room threatened to turn into a procession.

  The first several times people approached, Miss Ellie took a moment to introduce me. But it quickly became clear that nobody cared who I was. It was the long-lost mistress of Gatewood Poodles who was the star attraction. After a few minutes, I simply stepped back out of the way and let Miss Ellie handle the commotion herself. She certainly didn’t need my help.

  A short while later I found myself standing near the Bedlington Terrier ring. I’ve always loved the look of that charming, playful breed so I was watching the action in the ring and paying only minimal attention to whom Miss Ellie was talking. I might not even have noticed the exhibitor who approached her at that point except for the fact that the woman was carrying a blue-shaded Bedlington in her arms and that she elbowed me sharply out of the way as she sidled in close to Miss Ellie.

  When the woman spoke in a honeyed Southern drawl, I couldn’t help but overhear. “Ellie, dear,” she said in a confidential, tone. “I just want you to know that I never believed those awful things I heard. I was sure they couldn’t possibly be true.”

  Miss Ellie drew back abruptly. I saw the muscles in her neck tense. But when she addressed the other woman, the smile on her face was cloyingly sweet. “Why, thank you, Mandy Jo. How very broad-minded of you. Now if you will excuse me, there’s somebody I simply must see.”

  Miss Ellie spun away and left the ringside so abruptly that it took me a moment to react. Then I quickly nudged my way through a small crowd of spectators and hurried to catch up. By the time I did, Miss Ellie’s determined stride had carried her almost to the end of the building.

  She turned as I came up behind her. The sickly sweet smile was still firmly in place.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she said. The smile dropped away.

  I didn’t know whether I should feel insulted or complimented by that.

  “Is everything all right?” I asked.

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “I heard what that woman said. And then you left in such a hurry—”

  “It was nothing,” Miss Ellie snapped. “Those terrier people are a tiresome bunch. I just decided I needed some fresh air.”

  Fresh air, my fanny, I thought. Miss Ellie had wanted to escape.

  “If there’s something I can do—” I began.

  Miss Ellie stopped walking. She laid a hand on my arm. Her fingers patted me softly. “Why, bless your heart. Don’t you worry about me. Everything is just fine.”

  That was the second time Miss Ellie had blessed my heart. The first time I’d misunderstood the expression’s intent. This time I got it. Miss Ellie wasn’t conferring a benediction upon me. Instead she was using the platitude to stonewall me—Southern-style.

  “Oh how lovely,” she said, looking over my shoulder at the nearest ring.

  We’d paused beside the Briard judging. The dogs were big, and hairy, and totally adorable in a “Cousin It” kind of way. That was the entire extent of my knowledge about the breed. Miss Ellie’s too, I suspected. But now she turned away from me and gazed avidly into the ring as if she was utterly fascinated by what she saw there.

  Five minutes passed, and then ten. The Briard judging ended. Great Danes took their place. Miss Ellie continued to spectate from the sidelines. She didn’t exactly have her back to me, but the way that she’d shifted her shoulders so that I could barely even see her profile, seemed meant to act as a deterrent to conversation.

  Maybe I’d misheard what that woman had said, I thought. Or maybe Miss Ellie had simply needed a break from the press of people that had eddied around us almost continuously since we’d first entered the room.

  Here down at the end of the auditorium, things were much quieter. And now that the initial flurry of greetings had passed, the remaining exhibitors around us seemed less inclined to make overtures in our direction. I couldn’t help but notice, however, that it didn’t stop them from staring. And occasionally pointing and whispering.

  I still felt the pulsing hum of the dog show telegraph eddying around us. But all at once, I was a lot less certain about what it might be saying.

  I edged over to Miss Ellie’s side, close enough that she had no choice but to acknowledge me. “Do you like Great Danes?” I asked when she tipped her head in my direction.

  “I do indeed. Majestic dogs. Wonderful animals.”

  The same could be said for any one of several dozen breeds, I thought cynically.

  “We can stay here as long as you like,” I said. “But I just wanted to let you know that the Mini Poodles should be in the ring by now. Toys will be judged after that, with Standards this afternoon. I told a friend of mine that you were coming today. He was excited about seeing you again.”

  “Oh?” Miss Ellie’s gaze narrowed fr
actionally. “Who is that?”

  “Crawford Langley.”

  “Crawford’s here?” Her expression eased. Indeed her whole demeanor relaxed. “I haven’t seen Crawford in years.”

  “He’s looking forward to renewing your acquaintance,” I said.

  “Dear man,” Miss Ellie replied with a smile. “Of course he is.”

  And just that quickly, the majestic Great Danes were forgotten.

  “What are we waiting around here for?” Miss Ellie asked. “Let’s go see some Poodles!”

  Chapter 9

  Once again, we crossed the large room. And once again couldn’t help but be aware of the speculative glances that Miss Ellie drew as we walked through the crowds.

  If she noticed those chilly looks, I saw no sign of it. Instead, with queenlike hauteur, Miss Ellie only paid attention to the abundance of complimentary attention that came her way. Several times she paused to return a smile or a wave. Once she even blew a kiss to an exhibitor holding a Bloodhound. The man looked thoroughly delighted to be the recipient of her regard.

  Miss Ellie might have been deliberately oblivious to the mixed reception her appearance at the dog show had generated, but I most definitely was not. I found the situation puzzling, and more than a little curious. Which made me want to do some probing.

  “You certainly know a lot of people here,” I mentioned as I strode along in Miss Ellie’s wake.

  “Does that surprise you?” she inquired archly. “If so, it shouldn’t. I spent the better part of three decades immersed in this world.”

  Miss Ellie had turned to look at me over her shoulder as she spoke. That was why she didn’t see the pale, round-shouldered man who’d stepped into her path. He was holding a Newfoundland close to his side on a short leash. When Miss Ellie went barreling into the pair, the big black dog got caught between them. It yelped loudly in protest.

  “Oh my!” Miss Ellie came bouncing back into me. I reached out and grasped her shoulders to steady her on her feet.

  “Sorry,“ the man snapped automatically.

  His hand reached down to shift the Newfoundland back out of the way. Then he glanced up and saw Miss Ellie’s face. The man’s eyes widened. His jaw went slack.

  Miss Ellie looked every bit as surprised as he was.

  “Arthur?” she said. Her hand seemed to lift of its own accord. She reached out toward the man tremulously.

  The man ignored the overture. Instead he looked Miss Ellie in the eye, gave his leash a sharp tug, and spun away. Within seconds, both he and the Newf had disappeared into the crowd. Miss Ellie remained rooted to the spot, staring after them.

  “Who was that?” I asked.

  “Arthur,” she repeated, sounding bemused.

  “Who is he?”

  Miss Ellie gave her head a small shake and began to walk once more. “An old friend.”

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, he didn’t look particularly friendly.”

  “Oh please,” Miss Ellie snapped. “I thought you said you showed dogs.”

  “I do.”

  “Then surely you know how things work. Half this room is filled with disgruntled former friends. This is a competition, not a playground. And the big winner is never everybody’s favorite person. I should hope you’ve figured that out by now.”

  Well, sure, I thought. I wasn’t an idiot.

  “But it’s been years since you’ve competed against any of these people.” Not just Newf-guy, I thought, but also the other exhibitors who’d stared and whispered. “How can animosity that old still matter now?”

  “Welcome to the South,” Miss Ellie said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “People have long memories in Kentucky. And we hold grudges even longer.” Absurdly she sounded almost proud of that fact. “It’s the way we’re brought up. It’s what we know how to do.”

  “Like the Hatfields and the McCoys?”

  I was mostly kidding in my reference to that famous Kentucky feud but Miss Ellie nodded anyway.

  “Now you’re catching on,” she told me.

  As if that was a good thing.

  It was definitely time to head to friendlier surroundings. Thank goodness we were on our way to Poodle territory.

  * * *

  Miss Ellie and I had missed the beginning of the Mini judging. By the time we arrived at ringside, Puppy Bitches were already in. I started to look around for a couple of seats, but abandoned that plan when I realized that Miss Ellie had no intention of sitting still.

  Instead she started by staking out a prime spot by the rail. Standing with her feet braced slightly apart and her fists propped on her hips, Miss Ellie stared at the puppy entry in the ring. There were three for her to look at, including the black bitch whose topknot I’d watched Terry set earlier.

  Midcompetition with Crawford, the puppy looked perfect now. No one would ever suspect that he and his assistant had been rushing around earlier trying to get everything done. But that was part of Crawford’s genius. He always made it look easy.

  “You’re trimming them differently now than in my day,” Miss Ellie commented.

  “Yes,” I agreed.

  “It’s a more stylized look. I like it.”

  As well she should, I thought. Poodle presentation had come a long way.

  “Crawford has the puppy in the middle,” I told her.

  The judge had completed his individual examinations. Now he’d stepped back to take one last look at the line of puppies before pinning the class.

  “So I see,” Miss Ellie replied. “He won’t win this one.”

  “No?” I said, surprised.

  Where I came from, Crawford almost always won everything. Even so, expecting him to do so here was a knee-jerk reaction on my part. But since we’d just arrived at ringside, I hadn’t yet had time to form an actual opinion about the Minis in front of us.

  Apparently Miss Ellie was like Aunt Peg, however. When it came to sorting out Poodles, it didn’t take her any time at all to know what was what.

  “Not if that judge has any sense,” she said, keeping her voice low as ringside etiquette dictated. “The puppy at the back of the line is a much better Mini.”

  Aldous Connor, the day’s judge, agreed with her. He wasted no time in reversing the order of his line and pinning the class that way. Less than a minute passed before Crawford had stepped out of the ring, handed off the puppy and its red ribbon to Terry, then reentered with his Open Bitch. This time, Bertie and a cream bitch were in the ring with him, as well as six other assorted Mini bitches.

  “Nice entry,” Miss Ellie said, running a practiced eye down the line. “There’s plenty of quality to choose from in there.”

  “There are majors in all three varieties,” I told her. “The entire weekend has great Poodle judges so they drew entries from all over. Aunt Peg is judging Poodles on Sunday. I know she can’t wait.”

  “I may have to come back for that.” Miss Ellie smiled. Now that we were surrounded by her own breed, she seemed to have relaxed. “That will be well worth watching.”

  Just as it had in the other parts of the room we’d visited, awareness of Miss Ellie’s presence spread quickly around the perimeter of the ring. In no time at all, there was a crush of exhibitors and spectators flocking to her side to pay court. Once again, I found myself shunted aside in favor of my vastly more interesting companion.

  Not that that was a hardship. While Miss Ellie was busy greeting long-lost friends and talked about old times, I got to relax and enjoy watching the judging.

  Crawford won the Open Class and then went Winners Bitch. Bertie’s bitch who was behind him in second, was Reserve Winners. She would get no points for that, but I knew that Bertie would be pleased anyway. It was a nice placement in a big entry. Not only that, but today’s win would finish Crawford’s bitch, so for the rest of the weekend she would be out of Bertie’s way.

  A Midwest handler won the Variety with a gorgeous Mini Poodle whom I’d only seen previously in maga
zine and online pictures. Crawford’s class bitch was Best of Opposite Sex. Then the Minis were finished and the first Toy Poodle class filed into the ring. By the time Toy judging was halfway done, I had found an empty chair near the in-gate and taken a seat. Still surrounded by well-wishers, Miss Ellie didn’t even notice that I was gone.

  “So that’s the famous Ellie Gates Wanamaker,” Terry said, coming up behind me. He nodded toward the side of the ring. “Has she been running you ragged all morning?”

  While Crawford was in the ring with one Toy Poodle, Terry was in charge of minding the rest of the handler’s entry. He also held armbands and hairspray, and kept the dogs ring-ready so that Crawford could hand off one Poodle and grab another with minimal turnaround time.

  Terry was holding two Toy Poodles, one cradled gently under each arm. The silver was Crawford’s specials dog. He would compete later for Best of Variety. The other was a black puppy who had already lost in his class. Since it didn’t matter anymore if his coat got mussed, I held out my hands.

  Terry passed the puppy over gratefully. The little dog was a charmer. He licked my face, then lay down and settled happily in my lap.

  “It’s been a whirlwind,” I told him. “I think Miss Ellie knows half the people here.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Terry replied. “I Googled her after you left. The Gatewood name came up in the same context as Standard Poodle kennels like Alekai and Rimskittle. Her dogs really must have been something special.”

  “I’m sure they were,” I agreed. “And Miss Ellie herself is quite a character. It’s been interesting walking around with her. Not everybody is happy to see her here.”

  Terry grinned wickedly. “She sounds like my kind of woman. Now I can’t wait to meet her.”

  “Your kind of woman,” I scoffed. “What kind is that?”

  “The kind with secrets, of course. I know all about these old Southern families. They all have skeletons in their attics.”

  “If Miss Ellie does have any secrets,” I said, “I doubt that she’ll be divulging them to you.”