Best in Show (3 page)

Edith Jean ducked down briefly beneath the table and came up with pictures. Eight-by-ten color glossies in a familiar white cardboard envelope, they were win photos from the puppy's successes on the Cherry Blossom circuit. I thumbed through them, while both sisters supplied commentary on each win. The little Toy had done his owners proud. Not only had he been Winner Dog five times, he'd even racked up two Best of Variety wins and a group placement.

“How many points does he have?” I asked.

“Shhh!” Edith Jean held a finger up to her lips. “We don't talk about that.”

“Fourteen,” Betty Jean said firmly. Her voice was loud enough to override her sister's and her tone allowed for no argument.

“I see.” It sounded as though the sisters had run into a common problem. Judging by their demeanor, someone—probably their handler, Roger Carew—had gotten over-zealous in planning little Bubba's career. The silver Toy had done extremely well on the spring circuit, perhaps too well.

In order to achieve a championship, a dog must accumulate a total of fifteen points under at least three different judges. Points are earned by beating same-sex competition in the classes. At a specialty show like this one, those classes would be Puppy, 6 to 9 Months old, Puppy 9 to 12 Months old, Dog (or Bitch) 12 to 18 Months, Novice, Bred by Exhibitor, American-Bred, and Open. Once the individual classes have been judged, the class winners return to the ring to compete for the award of Winners Dog or Winners Bitch.

These are the only two who receive points, and the number of points awarded varies from one to five, based on the amount of competition. A win of three, four, or five points is referred to as a major win, and two are required (under two different judges) before a dog can secure the title of champion. Some dogs chase the points needed to attain their championships for a year or two. Others, like Bubba, race through a serendipitous circuit of shows and seem to fulfill the requirements almost overnight.

Under normal circumstances such success, especially with a young puppy, would be considered a blessing. However, when exhibitors are calculating the chances of their dogs securing a coveted BIG WIN at the national specialty, normal is a concept that flies right out the window.

At PCA a puppy like Bubba would be a standout in his age-restricted class. He'd have a good shot at taking the prestigious blue and perhaps even, as the sisters hoped, going on to Winners Dog or maybe Best Toy Puppy. If, however, he had already finished his championship, Bubba would have to be entered not in the classes, but in the much more rigorous Best of Variety competition.

There he'd be up against more than forty of the top Toy Poodle champions from all over the world. There, a cute silver puppy like Bubba would, most likely, get lost in the shuffle.

Hence the confusion regarding Bubba's point total. My guess was that Roger Carew had forgotten to keep count and that the puppy had finished several weeks earlier. No doubt Bubba had been keeping a low profile ever since, biding his time and awaiting his chance to sparkle in the puppy class at PCA.

Other exhibitors might grumble but there wasn't much that could be done to prevent such subterfuge. Truth be told, many had done such a thing themselves. Those who hadn't had probably been guilty of other, similar white lies, such as fudging a puppy's birth date to keep it eligible for the puppy classes beyond a year of age, or dyeing a Poodle's coat to enhance its color.

When the stakes were high enough, anything could happen. And for Poodle lovers, PCA was the biggest game around.

A
fter lunch I got Eve out of her crate and took her for a walk around the equestrian center. The area surrounding the outdoor riding rings was beginning to fill up with big rigs: handlers, and exhibitors from around the country who had found that the easiest way to transport large numbers of dogs in comfort was to pack them into a motor home. Eve tugged at the end of her leash, eager to go exploring. At home, I would have turned her loose to run a little, but PCA had very strict rules about dog control at the specialty. Exercising off-lead at the equestrian center was grounds for expulsion from the show.

“Well, well, well, look who's here.”

I turned at the sound of the familiar voice. Terry Denunzio, one of my favorite dog show people, was reclining in a lounge chair set up beside one of the motor homes. The words “Bedford Kennels” were stenciled discreetly on the cab's door, identifying the rig as belonging to Crawford Langley, the top professional handler in the Northeast. Terry was his partner and assistant.

Many of the handlers who came to PCA, I saw just once or twice a year. I knew them only by reputation, or from their pictures in the magazines. But Crawford and Terry, who lived half an hour away from my home in Connecticut and showed at most of the same shows I did, were friends.

Terry, by virtue of being one of the best-looking men I had ever seen, was, of course, gay. His hair, newly darkened to follow some fashion trend that I was oblivious to, was crisply styled. His face bore the beginning of a spring tan. He wore a brightly colored Hawaiian shirt, open at the throat, and a pair of khaki shorts brief enough to make most men blush.

Not Terry, though. He was charmingly incorrigible, both the bane and the blessing of Crawford's much more dignified existence. Terry folded away a piece of cardboard he'd been holding and patted the recliner beside him.

“Come, sit,” he said. “Tell me the news.”

The motor home's awning was unfurled to shade two, now empty, exercise pens. Both held bowls of water. Eve helped herself to a drink and lay down in the shade. I joined Terry in the sun, perching on the edge of the chaise.

“What news?”

“I don't know, anything. ” His grin was cheeky. Terry loved gossip. “Whatever's new and exciting.”

“For starters, you're going to give yourself skin cancer.” I reached over his legs and retrieved the board he'd dropped. Unfolding it, I found what I'd suspected. “A sun reflector? Don't you know these things went out in the seventies?”

“Oh, please. Don't tell me you actually thought that horrid, pallid, stringy-haired, heroin chic look was going to last? Golden is good. Do I have to teach you
everything?”

“Maybe.” A woman could do worse than to get her beauty tips from Terry. As it was, the man already cut my hair. And did a great job of it, too. “What are you guys doing here so early in the week? Has Crawford developed an interest in agility?”

“Hardly. The PCA board met yesterday. Crawford's a member, so he had to be here. It didn't make sense for us to drive down separately, so we just packed up the dogs a couple of days early and came on down. Which means that I have two days off to loll around and have fun in the sun.” He stretched back out on the lounge chair and turned his young, unlined face back up into the warm rays.

“I have to admit, Terry, you're one of the best lollers I've ever met.”

“If you're trying to insult me, doll, you'll have to try harder than that.” He opened one eye. “However, I think you got that sentence slightly wrong. What you actually meant to say is that I'm one of the best-
looking
lollers you've ever met.”

The man had absolutely no shame.

“So what about you and the canine companion?” His hand waved carelessly in Eve's general direction. “Bitches don't show until Thursday. What brought you down to Maryland so early in the week? Here's an educated guess. I'll bet your aunt roped you into helping out on some god-forsaken committee.”

“Am I that predictable?”

“Not you, Peg. That woman would have the queen of England breeding Poodles instead of those ridiculous Dorgis if only she could get her on the phone. So what does she have you doing? Banquet? Trophies? Hospitality?”

“Raffle,” I admitted. “I spent the morning selling tickets.”

“Ahhh. You're working for the Doublemint twins.”

“Yes, except they're not twins.”

“Could have fooled me. Maybe it's a southern thing. You know, after so many generations of marrying their own cousins, everyone begins to look alike?”

I swatted him on his flat stomach. Terry barely flinched. “You're terrible!”

“Of course I'm terrible. It's one of the things you like best about me. That and the fact that every time you get yourself into a jam, I wheedle some sort of information out of Crawford and ride to your rescue.”

“You have
never
rescued me.”

“In my dreams, doll. In my dreams.”

Yeah, right.

“Flirting with me does you no good,” I pointed out. “In case you haven't noticed, I'm the wrong sex.”

“My God!” Terry lifted a hand to his mouth and feigned shock. “Is that what it is? I knew there was something—”

“Oh, shut up.” I was sorely tempted to hit him again.

“I'd be delighted to, except that would leave you doing all the talking and so far you haven't said much of anything. Come on, the show's been open a whole half a day. So what have we learned? What's new and delicious?”

Well, now that he mentioned it, not a whole lot. I thought for a minute. “Betty Jean and Edith Jean have a silver Toy puppy that they're very excited about—”

“Betty Jean and Edith Jean?” Terry sat up. “Tell me those aren't their names.”

“Don't make fun. Their mother's name was Jean.”

“I would never have guessed.” Sarcasm 101. “I guess we should be glad she wasn't called Maybelline or Magnolia—”

“Nobody—I don't care where they're from—names a child Magnolia.”

“I think you need to get out more.”

Quite possibly. “Back to the puppy. Bubba—”

“No!” Terry snorted in disbelief. Obviously I was nothing more than a continuing source of amusement.

“Bubba?
” Laughing, he rolled back and forth on the chaise. In a minute, he was going to roll right off. In a minute, I might be tempted to help him. “This is too good to be true. They actually have a Toy named Bubba?”

“That's what I'm trying to tell you. He's very cute, I saw his pictures. He's supposed to win his class. Maybe even Winners Dog.”

“Possibly.” Terry stopped laughing and began to pay attention. “Though not if Harry Gandolf has anything to say about it. Scuttlebutt I've heard is that his Toy dog is the one to beat.”

Making preshow predictions was a long-standing tradition among knowledgeable exhibitors. They were usually based half on good PR—make everyone think your dog is going to be the winner, and he's that much closer to being there—and half on an educated guess that took into account the judge's preferences as well as the dog's record and his strengths and weaknesses. Throw in a dash of intuition to round things out, and it was amazing how often the scuttlebutt turned out to be right.

“I guess Wednesday's judging will be interesting, then. I can't help rooting for the sisters, though. They seem like nice ladies.”

“When they're not sniping at one another,” said Terry. “Either one alone could just about talk your ear off. Together, they're enough to drive you half mad. Besides, they had the bad taste to name that poor innocent puppy Bubba. No, I think I'll put my money on Harry.”

The sound of a horn, loud and shrill, made us both turn around and look. The noise was coming from the far end of the arena building, where a wide ramp led down to the unloading area. The exhibitors who were showing in agility had long since finished setting up and moved their cars over to the parking lot. A few who had gotten done early were leaving, but there hadn't been a line on the ramp when Eve and I came out.

The horn blared again.

“What do you suppose that's about?” I asked.

Terry was already getting up. “Let's go see.”

Eve was on her feet as well, anxious to get moving. I snagged her leash and hurried after Terry who was striding toward the arena. Meanwhile, the horn continued to honk. Even from the other side of the building, the sound made my head pound. Eve had her ears flattened to her head. Inside, the noise must have been deafening.

Terry walked around the arena, but I went directly into one of the side doors that led to the upper seating levels. From there, I walked Eve down the stairs and out into the turf-covered ground floor. Some sort of fracas was going on in the grooming area. Though the agility trial was still in progress, most of the spectators around the ring were looking instead at the end of the arena where a big garage door opened out onto the unloading ramp.

Thankfully, the honking had stopped. As I took Eve back to her crate, the cluster of people who'd been standing in the doorway, arguing, began to disperse. I recognized most of them at a glance as they included several PCA board members and an equal number of committee heads. Not surprisingly, Aunt Peg was among them.

One person I didn't recognize was the man who went stamping out of the building. He climbed into a truck that was parked at the base of the ramp and gunned the engine several times, leaving a thick cloud of exhaust behind as he drove away. I tucked the puppy back in her crate and flagged down Aunt Peg as she came by.

“What was that all about?”

Peg rolled her eyes toward the heavens. “Damien Bradley,” she intoned as though the name alone should have been explanation enough.

It wasn't, at least not for me. Aunt Peg kept on walking. Since I didn't have anywhere I needed to be in the immediate future, I tagged along after her. “Who's he?”

“A professional handler, and I use the term loosely, from Ohio. You've heard me talk about him.”

Had I? I didn't remember.

“In what context?”

Aunt Peg stopped abruptly, “Melanie, don't you pay the slightest bit of attention when I talk to you?”

“Usually.” Whatever had caused Aunt Peg's snit, I was pretty sure it wasn't me. After all, with the number of tickets I'd sold that morning, I was the fair-haired girl of the raffle committee. Quickly I sorted through other options.

“How did Hope do in agility?” I asked.

“That's not a subject we're currently discussing.”

Bingo.

“Miss an obstacle?”

“Missing it would have been preferable.” For a moment, I thought she wasn't going to continue. Finally Aunt Peg said, “Hope went in one end of the tunnel and didn't come out the other. Sat down somewhere in the middle, I expect. Heaven knows what she thought she was doing. Taking a nap, while the clock continued to tick away. I nearly had to crawl in and retrieve her.”

Hope, like her litter sister, Faith, had a wicked sense of humor. I could well imagine the Poodle having a little fun at Peg's expense. Most dogs liked to get through the tunnel as quickly as possible. On the other hand, few are as adept at playing jokes as Poodles are. My aunt is not a small woman; the thought of her six-foot body trying to fold itself down and fit into the tunnel entrance was enough to bring a smile.

“Don't,” Aunt Peg warned.

The smile vanished. “Damien Bradley?” I said instead.

“Yet another annoyance in an already trying day.”

“Oh, pish.” It's one of Aunt Peg's favorite expressions. Somehow I seem to have started using it myself. “You love PCA. You
always
love PCA. You look forward to it for months. You're sorry when it's over.”

“And while it's going on I work like a slave for a week straight to make absolutely sure that nothing goes wrong,” she grumbled.

“But still . . .”

Aunt Peg sighed. “You're right, I love it. I love every blessed minute. Even the impossible ones, which would be any that include Damien Bradley.”

“What was his problem?”

“His problem is, was, and always will be that he thinks he's the most important person on the face of the earth. The club makes rules for a reason, usually to make everyone's life a little easier. But Damien thinks they shouldn't apply to him.”

“He wanted to unload his dogs,” I guessed.

“Of course, he wanted to unload his dogs. When he knows full well that the setup time for breed exhibitors doesn't start until tomorrow morning, eleven
A.M.
Numbers are preassigned through the mail, and members of the grounds committee are on hand to make sure that all the handlers, big and small, get the space they need. It's the only way to ensure that everything goes smoothly.”

“And yet Damien thought the club would make an exception for him?”

“Apparently so. Which is nothing short of astounding when you realize that he was the cause of our being kicked out of our last headquarters hotel.”

Finding hotels that will allow large numbers of dog fanciers to use their facilities has become a nightmare for show-giving clubs everywhere. It's not the hotels' fault. Over the years, dog owners have earned themselves an often justified reputation as slobs and miscreants, leaving soiled rugs, chewed furniture, and flea infestations in their wake. No wonder that most hotels, faced with the prospect of housing such problem guests, simply refuse to take dogs at all.