A Pedigree to Die For

by Laurien Berenson

  My answer made him frown. “Because there’s a tremendous pet overpopulation problem. The pounds are filled with unwanted puppies, many of them bred by people just like yourself who thought it might be fun to have a litter. Every bitch that’s bred without good reason only adds to the problem. That’s why not.”

  “I see.” I pretended to ponder what he’d told me. No use in trying to justify the breeding of a nonexistent Poodle. “Then I guess you wouldn’t have a stud dog for me.”

  Driver stood up the tall rangy Poodle on his grooming table and fluffed out her bracelets. “As it happens, I don’t have any dogs at all, only bitches. Are you aware of the genetic testing that should be done before your bitch can be bred—hips, eyes, SA?”

  I hadn’t the slightest idea what he was talking about, but his superior attitude was beginning to get on my nerves. “Of course,” I said. “I’m planning to have all that done.”

  “When?”

  I raised my nose a notch. “I’m working on it now.”

  “Is that so?” With great care he hopped the bitch down from her perch, then waited while she shook out. “Any responsible breeder will make you prove that. If you’re determined to find a stud dog, I guess you may as well talk to Peg Turnbull. She’s the tall woman—”

  “I know who she is.”

  “And?”

  “I’m not interested in her dogs.”

  A further proof of my stupidity, if the look he gave me was anything to go by. “Well, you should be. Peg has bred some of the finest Poodles on the East Coast, and the dog she has now, Beau, is probably the best she’s ever had.”

  “Really? What can you tell me about him?”

  “There’s no point in my telling you anything. Talk to Peg. She’s the one whose approval you’ll need.”

  With that, he turned his back and left. I figured he was just being rude, but when I looked around, I saw that most of the other exhibitors were heading up to the ring as well. Checking my watch, I was surprised to discover that it was almost two o’clock.

  I followed the heavy woman with the little black bitch over to the next tent, fascinated by the contortions she went through to push, wave, and bump everyone out of the way so that throughout the course of the journey, no one came within three feet of her immaculately coiffed entry.

  At the gate, a steward was handing out numbered armbands and calling the first class’s entrants into the ring. I found an empty chair and sat down to watch.

  In breed competition, the judge assesses the correctness of each dog’s conformation and movement, using both his hands and eyes as a guide. Although a certain standard of training and behavior is expected, the dogs are not required to perform anything even approaching the intricate maneuvers seen in the obedience classes. For the most part, they are examined singly, first standing still, then trotting a predescribed pattern. The judge then weighs his choices and makes his selection.

  Although the process itself was not rife with excitement, now that I knew some of the players in the game I found out how easy it was to become involved. I hadn’t stopped to buy a catalogue at the gate, but the woman sitting beside me had. The classes for the males went first, and as they came and went, I read over her shoulder, smiling at the Poodles’ elaborate names and skimming through their parentage in search of a familiar line.

  As all of the people I’d spoken to were showing bitches, my attention wasn’t entirely on the ring. Still, I couldn’t help but notice a tall, flamboyantly dressed man who appeared again and again. There was definitely something about him that drew the eye. It might have been that he was dressed in lime green slacks, a pink jacket, and a madras tie; or maybe it was because he used the outsized gestures of a Broadway star playing to the balcony. Either way, he was hard to miss. Judging by the fact that he won almost every class he entered, it seemed to be a successful system.

  “Excuse me,” I said to the woman with the catalogue. “Could you tell me who that man is?”

  She didn’t even have to consult the book to find out. “That’s Crawford Langley. Everybody knows him.”

  “He certainly shows a lot of dogs.”

  The woman nodded. “He’s a professional handler. People who don’t have the time or the talent to show their own Poodles pay him a fee to do it for them. He’s got a big string now, and a waiting list after that. He’s the best there is. ”

  That was the second time I’d heard that accolade. Curious, I turned back to the ring to study the man. He was tall, tan, and whippet-thin; also reasonably good-looking in a studied sort of way, his brown hair carefully styled and blown dry, his fingernails manicured and buffed to a high gloss. He controlled the ring with authority, exuding an air of aggressive confidence that left little doubt but that he knew that he was good at what he did.

  When the bitch classes began, Langley’s dominance continued. He piloted a pretty cream to the head of the line in the Puppy class, then won the American-Bred as well, beating the big blond woman, who looked none too pleased. Finally the Open class filed into the ring. Aunt Peg took her place in line, as did Sam Driver, Crawford Langley, and seven others, most of them—according to the talkative woman sitting beside me—professional handlers as well.

  The judge went through his individual examinations, then pulled out four bitches to receive further attention. Aunt Peg was pulled, as were Langley and Driver. The fourth bitch singled out was a blue with a beautiful head and melting, dark brown eyes. I looked her up in the catalogue and saw that her handler was listed as Randall Tarnower, Agent. Another pro.

  “Watch this,” the woman beside me whispered.

  The conventions of good handling can be pretty subtle, so it took me a minute to catch on, but when I did I realized I was witnessing a real battle between two experts as each of the professional handlers pulled out all the stops to showcase his bitch’s good points for the judge. While Tarnower pushed the blue’s pretty head, Langley was all over his Poodle’s correct hindquarter, both of them working with a seriousness and sense of purpose that seemed more suited to weightier decisions.

  Finally the judge made his selection. He went with the blue bitch and placed Langley’s black in second. Aunt Peg was third, Sam Driver, fourth. I joined in the applause as the previous class winners were brought back into the ring to contest the Open bitch for Winners Bitch. Langley, in with the puppy, gave it his all; but once again Tarnower’s blue prevailed. The scowl on Langley’s face as he accepted the striped ribbon for Reserve left no doubt as to his feelings on the matter.

  The woman chuckled with satisfaction as she snapped her catalogue shut. “There’ll be hell to pay for that. Crawford and Randy are the worst sort of rivals. Even though they’re both immensely talented, neither is willing to give the other even an ounce of credit. That’s the first time Randy’s beaten Crawford with that bitch. Next we’ll hear the rumors starting: the judge was paid off, he’s in Randy’s pocket, etc.”

  I stared at her in surprise. “Do things like that really happen?”

  “The rumormongering or the paying off?”

  “Both.”

  “Sure, they do. And more often than most people would like to admit.”

  After the battle that had gone on in bitches, Best of Variety seemed almost anticlimactic. There was only one champion entered, shown by yet another of the pros. The judge awarded it the prize almost summarily.

  The judging over, I followed the exhibitors back to the grooming tent. After the hours they’d spent preparing their Poodles to go into the ring, yet another hour would now have to be devoted to taking everything apart. Langley’s huge setup was down at the end. In a regrettable bit of placement, I saw that Tarnower’s crates were only one row over. All concerned were ignoring each other determinedly.

  The assistants, who never seemed to take a break, were busy brushing out and rewrapping. Langley stood back and surveyed the scene, his face a study in boredom. Obviously he was not so bored, however, that he would stoop to helping out with the chores, so
I leapt in to fill the gap.

  Catching his eye, I strode purposefully over and introduced myself. In the manner of all those who make their living by charming total strangers, Crawford Langley was very pleased to meet me. “I’m sure I can help you,” he said when I’d finished outlining my quest. “I currently have several stud dogs, including a new one that I’m very high on. He’s here with me today, back in my motor home, if you’d like to see him.”

  This was too good to be true. “I’d love to. Do you have time now?”

  “Sure.” He removed his sports coat and flung it over his shoulder, then barked out a command to the two flunkies, and we were off.

  As we reached the edge of the field, a shout went up from under the grooming tent behind us. We both turned just in time to see Tarnower’s blue Poodle come racing out from beneath the tent, running free. Beautiful as she was, I still felt my breath catch. What if she ran out to the road? How would they ever catch her? Luckily, when Tarnower appeared only seconds later and called the bitch to him, she gamboled happily into his arms, and the crisis was averted.

  If he hadn’t chuckled, I probably wouldn’t even have looked Langley’s way, but when I did, I saw that his expression was tinged with satisfaction. Then he glanced over and caught me staring. “Kid got lucky,” he said.

  Kid? Did he mean Tarnower? I supposed there was a gap in their ages. Was that why the rivalry was so intense? The old guard being pushed aside by the new young buck?

  “How do you suppose she got loose?” I wondered aloud.

  “Who knows?” Langley shrugged, but he sounded more than a little pleased. “Poor management, probably.”

  After that, we walked in silence for a few minutes, past the first parking lot and on to the next, where the overnight vehicles were parked—a dazzling display of vans, trucks, and motor homes that fanned out in all directions.

  “Who do all these belong to?” I asked.

  “Handlers mostly. We need something this size just to carry all the dogs we bring to each show. The rest belong to regular exhibitors who use them to save on hotel bills. This one’s mine here.”

  We’d arrived at a sleek white number, and he hopped up the three steps into the coach. “Be back in a minute. I’m sure the dog will be just what you’re looking for.”

  A moment later he reappeared in the doorway, his hand cupped around the muzzle of a black Standard Poodle. Hoisting him up and out, he dropped the dog into a chrome exercise pen beside the door.

  I gasped audibly with disappointment. Langley’s Poodle was in full show coat. Beau, who had retired from the show ring months ago, had had his coat cut down. There was no way this Poodle could have been Aunt Peg’s missing stud dog; he simply had too much hair.

  Crawford Langley, however, mistook my gasp for one of pleasure. “He’s a beauty, isn’t he?” he asked, a rhetorical question if I’d ever heard one. Langley, the salesman, pressed on. “He’s producing gorgeous puppies, too. He’s terrific with heads and hindquarters.”

  His spiel sounded like the come-on on the back of a cereal box. Idly I wondered if there was a free prize offered with every mating.

  “What do you think?”

  “I’m afraid he isn’t the right dog for me,” I said. The disappointment in my voice was genuine.

  “Maybe you’d like to see him move.” Obviously Langley was not about to let a potential client slip away without a fight. “It’s hard to tell too much before you’ve seen the dog come and go.”

  Without waiting for my reply, he threw open the gate to the pen, fished a leash from his pocket, and looped the collar around the Poodle’s neck. “Watch,” he called back over his shoulder as they trotted away.

  There didn’t seem to be much else I could do under the circumstances, so I watched. Next he’d have the dog jumping through hoops.

  “Well?” Langley asked as he and the Poodle slid to a stop.

  “He’s very nice. But I’m afraid he’s just not what I’m looking for.”

  “Well, think about it. You may change your mind.” His hand slid in his pocket once more and came out with a card. I reached for it, but he didn’t let go right away, so for a moment our hands locked. “In this business, you’ve got to be careful whom you deal with.” His eyes flickered off in the direction of the grooming tent. “Not everyone’s on the up and up. You know what I mean?”

  He released the card and I pocketed it, reasonably sure that I did.

  Ten

  When I got home, I found I’d beaten Frank and Davey back. I was checking around in the refrigerator to see what was there that might make dinner when the telephone rang. Before I even picked up, I knew it would be Aunt Peg. Actually, I was surprised she’d managed to control her curiosity that long.

  “What did you find out?” she demanded.

  “For starters, Crawford Langley’s new stud dog isn’t Beau.”

  “Of course not. Why on earth would you think he might be? That dog’s in full show coat.”

  “So I discovered. You might say it was the first thing I noticed.”

  “I saw you managed to talk to Sam Driver. Tell me what he had to say.”

  Of course she would bring him up first. “Nothing useful at all. In fact, for the most part all he wanted to do was lecture me.”

  “Lecture you?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” I dragged a stool over to the counter and sat down. “He went on and on about unwanted puppies and genetic testing. He asked if my bitch had had her hips and eyes done, and something else—something with initials.”

  “SA?”

  “That’s it. I hadn’t a clue what to tell him, so I bluffed my way through. What was he talking about?”

  “Hereditary problems,” said Aunt Peg. “All breeds have them. Poodles perhaps more than most. There are so many things to look out for, you wouldn’t believe it. Anyone who knows what they’re doing tests all their stock before they allow it to be used. Hip x-rays for hip dysplasia, eye exams for cataracts and PRA, and then punch-skin biopsies for sebaceous adenitis—otherwise known as SA. Those are the three most Standard Poodle breeders start with.”

  Hip dysplasia seemed pretty much self-explanatory, so I moved on to the next. “What’s PRA?”

  “Progressive retinal atrophy. It’s a degenerative eye disease, more common in Minis and Toys, although we’re beginning to see a few isolated cases in Standards. Unfortunately in Poodles, we’re dealing with the late onset variety, which means that it usually can’t be diagnosed by your local ophthalmologist until the dog is well into adulthood. Dogs that are affected will eventually go blind.”

  “Sounds delightful,” I muttered. “What about SA?”

  “Another hereditary disease that can’t be diagnosed until it’s in the clinical stages. That one attacks the dog’s sebaceous glands. The skin becomes rough and scaly, and if the dog isn’t managed right, most of his hair will eventually fall out.”

  “Better than going blind,” I said, thinking aloud.

  “No, it’s not! It’s a terrible disease, absolutely devastating.”

  I wondered at her vehemence. “Do you test?”

  “Of course. Anyone who calls herself a responsible breeder has to. Any Poodle that comes up positive on any score is eliminated from the breeding program. It’s as simple as that. Now then,” she said impatiently. “Get back to Sam. What else did he tell you?”

  “Nothing. To tell the truth, he was very abrupt.”

  “Well, you did catch him at a busy time.”

  “Aunt Peg, why are you making excuses for him?”

  “Because I like him. He seems like a genuinely nice man. Just because he wanted to buy Beau, it doesn’t follow that he’d stoop to stealing him.”

  I wasn’t nearly as convinced. “He did mention Beau by name. Driver said he was the best dog you’d ever produced.”

  It was a moment before Aunt Peg replied. When she did, I could tell she was pleased. “You see? I told you he was a man who knew what he was talking about. I take it h
e referred you to me?”

  “He did. Along with just about everyone else I spoke to.” While she was thinking about that, I changed the subject. “Now I have a question for you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Were you under the grooming tent when Randall Tarnower’s Poodle got loose?”

  “I suppose I was. Why?”

  “How did it happen?”

  “I haven’t any idea. By the time I heard the commotion and looked up, she was already out in the field.”

  “Do you suppose somebody might have turned her loose on purpose?”

  The question brought another pause. “I guess it’s a possibility,” she said finally. “The animal rights groups have been very active in this area recently. Do you know anything about that?”

  “Not a thing.” I’d wanted to see if she might implicate Langley or maybe one of his assistants. Instead, we seemed to be heading off in a different direction entirely.

  “There are two groups that are big at the moment. PAR—People for Animal Rights, and WOAF—Welfare Of Animals First. They’re the ones who organized all the resistance to wearing fur and who periodically blow up the research labs that do animal testing.”

  “Fanatics, in other words.”

  “I’d agree with you,” said Aunt Peg. “But amazingly, a lot of people support them. Recently their goals have become even more outrageous. They’re promoting the idea that animals should have the same rights as humans and that keeping them as pets amounts to slavery. They believe we should neither own dogs nor, heaven forbid, breed them. In protest, the activists have been showing up at some of the events in the area. They picket for a while, then sneak under the tent and open all the crates so that the dogs can run loose and return to the wild.”

  I thought back on the dogs I’d seen that day, with their snoods and special pillows and bottled water. They hadn’t looked to me like they were itching to get back to the wild. I couldn’t imagine why anyone would think they might be. “They’re not serious, are they?”

  “Deadly serious. That’s why whenever there’s a threat that they might appear, all the exhibitors pass the word and stay on the look-out. I have to say, however, I saw no evidence of PAR or WOAF today.”