Live and Let Growl

by Laurien Berenson

  Now puppy bitches filled the ring. There were five in the class. Three were black and two were white. And Aldous Connor was taking his time deciding what he wanted to do with them.

  Before finding a seat, I looked around for Miss Ellie. Standard Poodles always draw a crowd, and spectators were tightly packed on all sides of the ring.

  It took me a minute to search through the throng of people. I didn’t see Miss Ellie anywhere.

  The Puppy class finished. A single Bred-by bitch came and went. The Open class entered the ring. Eight Standard Poodle bitches took up the entire length of the long mat. As the dogs and handlers got themselves situated, I had another look around. This was Miss Ellie’s breed. If she didn’t show up soon, she was going to miss the whole thing.

  Then the judge sent the class around the ring for the first time and I forgot all about Miss Ellie. The sight of that many lovely Standard Poodle bitches gaiting together in unison was a study of beauty in motion. Crawford was at the head of the line. Bertie was toward the back. My gaze focused on the ring as I devoted myself to watching the competition.

  Mr. Connor performed his individual examinations—pulling out each Poodle by itself and using his hands to feel for correct conformation, then moving the bitch down and back across the matted floor to assess soundness—and I found myself judging the class along with him. Many other spectators were doing the same. The fact that we weren’t able to put our hands on the dogs to verify what we thought we saw from ringside, didn’t deter us in the slightest. We all formed firm opinions anyway, about which bitches we favored and which we would send to the end of the line.

  As Mr. Connor made his cut and then his final decision and gaited the bitches one last time around the ring, I heard both mutterings of disapproval and a scattering of applause. Imperturbable, the judge ignored both reactions. No doubt he was well aware that no judge ever succeeds in pleasing everybody. He pinned his class, then chose his Winners Bitch and Reserve.

  Best of Variety was another nail-biter. In a ring filled with quality, Mr. Connor had more than one deserving option and he gave each Standard Poodle every chance to show what it could do. In the end, Crawford who had won Toys and lost in Minis, was again victorious with his Standard. Bertie, whose class entries hadn’t made it as far as the BOV ring, ended up with nothing more to show for her efforts than a couple of colored ribbons.

  Everybody gathered up their dogs and headed back to the setups. I trailed along behind. There’d still been no sign of Miss Ellie. I hoped she would come and meet us in the grooming area.

  But an hour later, Miss Ellie still hadn’t put in an appearance. The Poodles who weren’t needed for further judging had had their hairspray and tight show ring topknots removed. Their hair was brushed out, rebanded and wrapped, and they’d been returned to their crates. Only Crawford’s two Variety winners remained out on their tabletops to await the start of the group judging.

  “I guess I did lose Miss Ellie,” I said finally. “She told me she wanted to see the show on her own for a while, but I thought she intended to catch up with us later.”

  “I’m sorry I missed her,” said Crawford. “If I’d known that was the only chance I’d get, I would have made time earlier to talk to her.”

  “Maybe she got tired and went home,” said Bertie.

  The rest of us nodded. Even when you weren’t exhibiting, dog shows could be a long day.

  “Miss Ellie said she might come back on Sunday to watch Aunt Peg judge Poodles,” I said. “Hopefully you can get together with her then.”

  Crawford’s Standard Poodle made the cut in the Non-Sporting Group but didn’t get a ribbon. He was too much of a professional to visibly show his dissatisfaction with the outcome, but I could tell by the set of his jaw and the way he exited the ring almost before the judge had even finished pointing at her winners, that he was not happy. Fortunately the Toy Group went better and the day ended on a high note.

  Over dinner that evening, Bertie, Aunt Peg, and I rehashed the day’s events. I related the highlights of my morning with Miss Ellie and Aunt Peg told a story about an exhibitor in an adjoining ring who’d tripped over the edge of a mat and lost hold of her leash. The woman’s Basenji had bounced several times around its own ring before hopping over the barrier into Aunt Peg’s domain. Its unexpected appearance had set her class of Shiba Inus to leaping and spinning.

  “Nothing like a little levity to liven up the proceedings,” Aunt Peg said, recounting the tale with relish. She had snagged the dangling leash and returned the errant hound to its embarrassed owner. Their reunion had been accompanied by a large round of applause from the spectators.

  Having judged Non-Sporting breeds on Thursday, Aunt Peg had a full slate of Toys to judge on Friday. Faith’s and my morning routine was the same as it had been the previous day. She and I arrived at the show and went straight to Bertie’s setup.

  As we drew near, I saw a cluster of colorful cardboard boxes arrayed on an empty tabletop in Bertie’s setup: Ritz Crackers, saltines, Stoned Wheat Crackers, Wheat Thins, water biscuits. There were enough crackers on the table to host an impromptu cheese tasting.

  I looked over at my sister-in-law and lifted a brow.

  “Crawford brought them for me this morning,” she said sweetly. “Wasn’t that nice of him?”

  “Crackers,” Crawford said from the next row over where he had a Bichon Frise out on a grooming table. “They’re supposed to settle her stomach. I didn’t know which kind she liked so I figured I’d better bring a selection.”

  I might have stopped and stared. Even Faith looked a bit flummoxed by the handler’s explanation. Even after all the time I’ve known him, Crawford can still manage to surprise me.

  “What?” he said, grinning at the look on my face. “You think I don’t know how to use the Internet?”

  The handler returned to his Bichon. Terry, for once, wisely remained silent. I slipped Faith into her crate. Bertie sidled over next to me.

  “I might have been a little annoyed that Crawford’s still trying to boss me around,” she muttered under her breath as she reached for another saltine. “Except the damn things seem to be working. I feel better than I have all week.”

  After that auspicious beginning, the rest of the day went swimmingly. Bertie put points on both her Mini bitch and a Bearded Collie. Crawford repeated his Variety wins in both Standards and Toys. I spent much of the day watching Aunt Peg judge. She ruled her ring with authority and sorted through her entry with such deft precision that even the exhibitors who didn’t win knew that their dogs had been given every consideration.

  Aunt Peg joined Bertie and me late that afternoon when she was finished judging. The three of us made our way over to the center of the pavilion where the group judging was due to begin shortly. Two side-by-side rings had been opened up and joined together to form one large space. The mats were repositioned and group markers situated in the middle of the ring. More than two dozen Sporting dogs—spaniels, setters, retrievers—all clustered near the in-gate.

  Everything appeared to be ready, but some invisible hand stayed the dogs and handlers from entering the ring. Standing in front of the gate were several people I didn’t recognize. The group was engaged in a heated discussion.

  As we watched, one of the participants stepped away from the others. He hesitated briefly as if gathering his thoughts—or perhaps his courage—and then strode out to the middle of the ring.

  “Who is that?” I whispered to Aunt Peg. I knew it wasn’t the Sporting Group judge. That man had remained beside the gate.

  “Ken Dolby, the show chairman,” she replied in a low tone. “I wonder what’s going on.”

  Mr. Dolby reached the center of the expanse and paused, as if he was waiting for silence. He needn’t have bothered. The stillness around the ring was palpable. Even the dogs quieted.

  “I’m afraid I have some sad news.” Mr. Dolby’s voice sounded loud in the hushed room. “Today we have lost one of our own. A dedic
ated dog woman, a longtime breeder and exhibitor, Miss Ellie Gates Wanamaker was a friend to many of us here. She died today on her family farm in Midway. Godspeed, Miss Ellie. We know your Standard Poodles are waiting for you at the Rainbow Bridge.”

  Chapter 11

  “I called the front desk and extended our stay,” said Aunt Peg. “I’m sure there will be a service in Miss Ellie’s honor and I wouldn’t want to miss it.”

  She and I were back in our hotel room. Ninety minutes had passed since Ken Dolby’s announcement had cast a pall over the remainder of the dog show. The Sporting Group began as soon as Mr. Dolby left the ring but almost nobody appeared to be watching the dogs compete for the coveted prize. Instead, most people were standing in small clusters talking among themselves

  Aunt Peg had left Bertie and me and gone to see what she could find out. She’d returned fifteen minutes later looking grim, and unfortunately none the wiser. Everyone she’d spoken to was as shocked by the dire news as we were. But no one had had any further details to share.

  The Toy Group followed the Sporting dogs and we all made a pretense of directing our attention back to the ring. Non-Sporting was after that. When the Poodles were defeated in both groups and thereby eliminated from further competition, we decided we’d seen enough. Bertie went to tend to her dogs and Aunt Peg and I slipped out and went back to the hotel.

  “What could possibly have happened?” I asked yet again. I was sitting on the bed in Aunt Peg’s room, cradling Faith in my lap. In times of stress, hug a dog. That credo has always worked for me.

  Aunt Peg hadn’t had an answer the first several times I’d voiced the question and she still didn’t now. “Nobody knew anything about the circumstances of Miss Ellie’s death,” she said. “I’m not even sure how the news made its way to the showground so quickly.”

  “That’s the least of my concerns.” I ran one hand down the length of Faith’s body. “Miss Ellie was fine yesterday. How can she be dead today?”

  “Maybe she wasn’t fine.” Aunt Peg sank into a chair near the room’s wide window. “Didn’t you tell me that she disappeared yesterday afternoon?”

  “Well . . . yes. But not in an ominous way. Miss Ellie just said that she wanted to be by herself for a while.”

  “Maybe she didn’t feel well,” Aunt Peg mused. “I wonder if she had a weak heart or some kind of chronic illness.”

  I’d been set down once for bringing up Miss Ellie’s age. I certainly wasn’t about to do so again.

  “She must have made it back home though,” I pointed out instead, “because Mr. Dolby said that she died in Midway.”

  “Not just in Midway, but on the family farm. I wonder what she was doing there.”

  Yet another question for which I had no answer.

  Aunt Peg looked over at me. Her expression was thoughtful. “You spent the entire morning with Miss Ellie yesterday.”

  I nodded.

  “I imagine you must have spent at least part of that time talking.”

  “We did. We had a long conversation over lunch.”

  “Did she mention anything about her family’s rather contentious history?”

  “I asked Miss Ellie about Green Gates Farm,” I admitted. “I wanted to know why she no longer lived there. She talked about some of the problems her father had had and told me that he’d lost his share of the property to his two brothers.”

  Never one to sit still for long, Aunt Peg stood up and began to pace back and forth across the small room. She appeared to be deep in thought. Faith lifted her head and watched Peg’s movements with interest. That made two of us.

  Several minutes passed. Abruptly Aunt Peg stopped pacing. She turned to face us. “Did Miss Ellie say anything to you about a plan to get that land back?”

  “No,” I replied, surprised. “Not a thing. Why?”

  “I’m just wondering about a comment she made the other night when she and I were talking on the phone about Lucky Luna. Remember I called her to tell her how the visit to Six Oaks went?”

  “Sure. That was when you convinced her to come to the show.”

  “Precisely. But before that she wanted to know everything about Lucky Luna. So I tried to oblige her but seriously, how much could I possibly have to say about a horse? Especially one that I’d just met.”

  If it was even one tenth of what she might have to say about a dog she’d just met it could have been a long conversation, I thought. The question must have been rhetorical, however, because Aunt Peg didn’t wait for my reply.

  “I was trying to think of things I could add and I happened to remember that comment Erin Sayre made about Miss Ellie. You know, when she was wondering whether Ellie had recommended that I move Lucky Luna to Green Gates?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, Miss Ellie gave an odd laugh when I told her about that. And then she said, ‘I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing now, but in the future, who knows? Even things that people think are set in stone can change.’ ”

  “Wow,” I said, sitting up straight. “That’s interesting. Did you ask her what she meant?”

  “Of course I did. But Miss Ellie just muttered something about old wrongs being made right again, and that I would find out soon enough and we would talk about Lucky Luna again. Before I could ask any more questions, she changed the subject. Next thing I knew we were talking about Poodles and the upcoming dog shows and you know how that goes.”

  Everybody knew how that went. Aunt Peg could wax poetic about her two favorite subjects for hours.

  Aunt Peg frowned in annoyance. “It didn’t seem worth pursuing at the time. Now I wish that I had forced her to elaborate.”

  “As if anyone could force Miss Ellie to do anything,” I muttered. Faith flicked her tail up and down in agreement.

  “I was so looking forward to this trip,” Aunt Peg said quietly. “Lucky Luna provided a convenient excuse for Miss Ellie and me to renew our friendship, but I’d intended to make sure that happened regardless. I hate not knowing what went wrong.”

  Faith slipped out of my lap and down off the bed. She padded softly across the room and leaned her body against Aunt Peg’s legs. Automatically Peg’s hand reached out. Her fingers cradled Faith’s muzzle. Her thumb stroked the Poodle’s cheek. Aunt Peg exhaled a deep sigh. Faith closed her eyes and silently pressed closer.

  “You’re not judging tomorrow,” I said.

  Approved for the Toy and Non-Sporting breeds, Aunt Peg had been hired to judge at three out of the four cluster shows. Saturday, she had off. We’d been intending to explore Louisville but now I suspected that we’d be heading back to the Lexington area.

  The comment might have sounded extraneous but Aunt Peg immediately knew what I was thinking.

  “You’re right,” she agreed. “We ought to call on Miss Ellie’s son and pay our condolences. It would be the polite thing to do. As I recall, he works at Green Gates Farm.”

  “Along with the rest of Miss Ellie’s family,” I mentioned. “Including that man you antagonized the last time we were there.”

  “Perfect.” Aunt Peg blithely ignored my cautionary tone. “Everyone all in one place. Surely someone will be able to tell us how this terrible thing happened.”

  * * *

  Six Oaks Farm had been a showplace. Green Gates had the look and feel of a working farm, albeit a very large one. As we’d come to expect, the front gate swung open upon our approach. And once again the first structure we came to was the farm’s office, this time a plain clapboard building beside an old maple tree.

  I’d suspected this was going to be a long day, so rather than making Faith spend another chunk of time waiting for us in the minivan, I’d left her in Louisville with Bertie. The Poodle would be comfortable there and I wouldn’t have to worry about her. From force of habit, Aunt Peg parked in a shady spot beside the building anyway.

  The single-storey structure consisted of just three rooms. Two offices with cluttered desks and worn furniture opened off the narrow recep
tion room. Both offices were empty. A receptionist, seated behind a low counter, took a minute to finish what she was doing before looking up from her computer screen.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “My name is Margaret Turnbull,” Aunt Peg said with authority. Her impeccable posture and air of total assurance gain her access to all sorts of places that mere mortals—like me—would be denied. “We’re here to see Gates Wanamaker.”

  The woman glanced down at a sheet on her desk. “Is he expecting you?”

  “No, but we are old friends of his mother,” Peg replied imperturbably. “Here in Kentucky for only a few days. I know he won’t want to miss us.”

  I wasn’t even slightly surprised to see the woman pick up her phone and make a call. Dogs and humans both tend to jump to do Aunt Peg’s bidding. I’ve been known to do the same thing myself.

  The receptionist spoke for a moment, then replaced the receiver. “Gates is on his way,” she told us. “If you would go back outside and wait next to the fence on the right, he will be with you shortly.”

  The day was warm and sunny for late March. In Connecticut, we’d have been wading through slush and hoping that winter’s storms were over for the year. But in Kentucky, spring was already on the horizon. The grass was turning green and trees were beginning to bud. From the spot where we’d been told to wait, I could gaze out over a large open field where a group of mares and foals was grazing contentedly.

  At Six Oaks, Erin had come to get us in a pickup truck. Gates Wanamaker arrived on foot. A long dirt driveway led from the other side of the fence where we were standing to a big center-aisle barn that was painted white with green trim. As I watched, a man exited the barn and hurried in our direction.

  Gates looked to be in his mid-twenties and had the strong build of a person who worked outdoors for a living. His brown hair glinted with red highlights in the sun and he walked toward us with a slight limp. As he drew near, I saw that he shared his mother’s sharp features and direct gaze.