Gone With the Woof (6 page)

“Really, Melanie.” Aunt Peg sputtered out a laugh. “I don't think so. The man is pulling your leg.”

“No, he's not. He's serious. We started working on it this morning. I heard all about his first love, the beautiful Caroline, with the alluring freckle at the base of her throat. . . .”

Aunt Peg set down her fork. “Not Caroline Trendle?”

Caroline Trendle was a Doberman breeder and, like my aunt, a highly respected judge. She was every bit as steadfast and muscular as her favorite breed. It would take a brave man to kiss that Caroline, and an even braver one to gossip about it afterward.

“I doubt it,” I replied. “March's Caroline was sixteen years old.”

“Well, that's a relief.”

“For you maybe. But it doesn't help me. And here's something else that's strange. Have you ever been to March's house?”

“Several times.” Aunt Peg thought back. “When his wife was still alive, there were parties. None recently, though. I'd imagine it's been almost two decades.”

“Did it seem normal to you?”

“As far as I remember. Why? What's the problem?”

“For some reason, I'm not allowed to go anywhere in March's house unescorted. Not even just from the library to the front door.”

I explained what had happened earlier, when I'd left my laptop in the car. But rather than focusing on my concerns, it turned out that Aunt Peg was intrigued by Charlotte's timely and breathless arrival.

“How do you suppose Edward managed that?” she mused.

“I actually know how because I asked Charlotte about that when I was leaving. She said there's a buzzer hidden under March's desk. He presses it with his foot when he wants to summon her. Usually, she just hears a little ring, but the way he was pounding on the button earlier, she thought the house must be on fire. That was why she came running.”

“A buzzer to summon the servants. How positively feudal.”

“March walks with a cane now. It's not that easy for him to get around.”

“Even so.”

Peg enjoys oddities, and I could tell that she was pondering the possibility of installing a buzzer of her own. I had no idea whom she'd use it to call. Maybe she'd taught her Poodles to make tea.

“It all seems very strange,” I said. “Where do they think I'm going to go? What don't they want me to see?”

“Perhaps it's like Jane Eyre. Maybe there's a crazy relative locked away in the attic and they're afraid you'll find her.”

“I don't see why they would be. March seems pretty loony himself, and he's right there, front and center.”

“Well, I certainly can't help you with that,” said Peg. “And as for Edward's book . . .”

“Yes?” I leaned forward eagerly.

“You'll simply have to steer Edward back onto the right path. Don't let him get sidetracked. Amorous adventures, indeed.” She sniffed. “Who would want to read about that?”

Here's the thing: going to Aunt Peg for advice is like playing with a wheel of chance. You never know whether she will solve your problems or magnify them tenfold. This time, however, she'd done neither. Instead, she'd simply lobbed the hot potato back into my lap.

“In case you haven't noticed,” I said drily, “March is not the most malleable man.”

“Perhaps not. But he isn't a totally unreasonable one, either. Keep reminding him of all the wonderful dogs he's known over the years. Make him tell you those stories, and it will all work out in the end.”

Aunt Peg always made things sound so easy. Too bad that they never seemed to work out that way.

S
omebody has to be the first to admit it. Winter dog shows in the Northeast aren't really that much fun.

For three seasons of the year exhibitors travel to wide open spaces. They show their dogs beneath gaily striped tents, in spacious rings spread out over freshly mowed meadows. But during the cold, dark months of a New England winter, all that changes.

Kennel clubs that host cold weather shows have had an increasingly hard time finding venues to accommodate their needs. They often have to settle for whatever they can get. Exhibitors find themselves in downtown civic centers or conference halls or, if they're really unlucky, high school gymnasiums. Parking is at a premium, as is interior space.

At indoor shows the rings are small and the floors, even where matted, are slippery. The light in the grooming areas is often inadequate. And yet we continue to come back anyway.

There are a number of reasons for that. Some exhibitors are chasing points, whether to finish a championship or with an eye toward year-end awards. Others can't bear to pass up a good judge who's been hired for their breed. And all of us enjoy the opportunity to spend a day hanging out with friends and fellow competitors.

That weekend, as Sam and I have done many times before, we packed up the boys and headed off to a dog show. This one was up the Connecticut coast, in New Haven. We weren't exhibiting, as none of our Poodles were currently in hair. But Aunt Peg was judging, and that was always fun to watch. Plus, we hadn't been to a dog show since before Christmas, and both of us were ready for a fix.

Over the years since she was first approved to judge, Aunt Peg's repertoire of breeds has expanded exponentially. She began her judging career with Poodles, but their three varieties—Standard, Miniature, and Toy—gave her entrée into two different groups. Now she's approved to judge all the breeds in both Toy and Non-Sporting.

The New Haven Kennel Club had hired her to judge most of the individual toy breeds plus the group, and she had repaid their confidence in her abilities by drawing an entry large enough to keep her busy all day. Aunt Peg had handled her own Standard Poodles in the show ring for decades. Known as a dedicated owner-breeder, she drew entries from amateur and professional handlers alike. She was fair and conscientious, and everyone who exhibited under her knew that she would do her utmost to uncover their dogs' better qualities.

Between the crate, the grooming table, and individual grooming supplies, I used to think that it took a lot of equipment to show a Poodle, but traveling with a two-year-old child is almost as bad. Sam carried the diaper bag. I had the prepacked lunch and a satchel filled with toys.

Davey was holding his brother's hand and steering him in the right direction. Kevin's walking skills are a work in progress, and he tends to get distracted easily. The two boys' movement across the exhibition floor wasn't fast, but at least it was steady.

Sam and I were heading toward the grooming area on the far side of the exhibition hall. Poodles weren't due to be judged until after lunch, but they'd already be out on their grooming tables. Handlers would be busy brushing, scissoring, and putting up topknots. The preparations would have started several days earlier with bathing and clipping, and now would continue right up until the moment the dogs entered the ring.

Sam strode past the already full rings like a man on a mission. It was left to me to notice that Davey and Kevin had fallen behind. When I stopped and looked back, I saw that Davey had paused beside a ring where a Junior Showmanship class was in progress.

Two summers earlier, he'd given the competition a try himself. Coached by Aunt Peg, he'd been moderately successful before deciding when school started again in the fall that he preferred to devote his time to team sports. I fell back and went to stand beside him.

Kevin's eyes were wide open. His head swiveled back and forth in fascination as he watched the activity in the ring. A teenage girl gaited past us with a blue merle Collie. The toddler leaned forward over the low barrier, reached out a hand, and tried to touch the dog's bushy tail.

“Oh no you don't!” I caught Kevin's hand just in time. As a further precaution, I scooped him up and placed him on my hip. “You can look, but no touching.”

“Want,” Kevin said firmly. Like Aunt Peg, he's a great believer in his own opinions.

Davey laughed. “He wants everything he sees.”

“So did you when you were his age.” I nodded toward the ring. “Do you miss it?”

“No,” he replied, then quickly looked up to gauge my reaction to his honest answer. “Is that okay?”

“Of course it is. You shouldn't have to do something you don't enjoy just because your relatives think it's fun.”

“I guess . . .”

“But?”

“Aunt Peg is disappointed, isn't she?”

“Aunt Peg has high expectations, and she isn't satisfied unless people live up to them. That kind of attitude can lead to disappointment. But that's her problem, not yours. Just between you and me . . .” I juggled Kevin to one side, leaned down, and whispered in Davey's ear, “Aunt Peg can also be a little pushy when it comes to telling people what she thinks they ought to do.”

I'd expected Davey to laugh. Instead, he still looked uncertain. “She told me I had the makings of a great handler.”

“You do,” I agreed. “But do you want to be a great handler?”

“Not particularly.”

“Then there's your answer. Aunt Peg might have been disappointed briefly, but trust me, she'll get over it.”

“I guess she knows how.” Davey glanced up at me with a teasing smile. “She's disappointed in you all the time.”

Sad to say, there was no point in arguing with the truth. Contrary to Aunt Peg's opinion, it wasn't my fault that her goals for me and my goals for myself sometimes failed to coincide.

“There you guys are,” said Sam. He came up behind us and found a spot ringside. “I didn't even notice I'd lost you until I reached Bertie's setup and you were gone.”

“We just stopped for a minute to watch Junior Show.”

Sam glanced at the ring, then at Davey. Then he looked at me and raised a brow. I knew he was wondering the same thing I had about Davey's previous involvement. Silently, I shook my head.

“We're ready to move on,” I told him. “Here, take this guy. He's too heavy for me.”

Sam took Kevin out of my arms, swung him up, and settled him on his shoulders. Kevin laughed with delight at his new vantage point. He tangled his chubby fingers through Sam's hair and wrapped his short legs around Sam's neck.

The best thing about that was that it meant I could relax. Riding up above the crowd, Kevin was too high to reach out and create havoc with anyone's carefully coiffed entry. For the moment my family was actually under control—at least as much as they ever would be. With that happy thought in mind, I led the way across the room.

Bertie Kennedy is my best friend, a professional handler, the mother of three-year-old Maggie, and married to my brother, Frank. As you can probably guess, she's a very busy woman. Her setup was on the near edge of the grooming area, just beyond the toy ring where Aunt Peg was judging. I spared Aunt Peg only a brief glance—she would
not
have appreciated an interruption—on my way to giving the tall redhead a hug.

“It's about time you arrived,” she said, her hands holding scissors and comb carefully angled out and away as she hugged me back. “Is it noon yet?”

It was barely 10:00 a.m. Since dog shows run on a tight schedule, I was assuming Bertie knew that.

“You try getting out of the house early with two kids,” said Sam.

“Bite your tongue. One is hard enough.” Bertie chuckled. “Maggie's barely out of diapers, and she already has to change her outfit three times before she decides she's ready to go.”

“And what's wrong with that?”

The voice, floating over from the next setup, belonged to Terry Denunzio, assistant and partner to Crawford Langley, the top Poodle handler in the Northeast. Terry was young and gorgeous and knew how to play to an audience. He also knew how to keep one thoroughly entertained.

Both his wardrobe and his manicure are better than mine, and Terry is constantly threatening to take me shopping. The implied insult might have annoyed me if I didn't enjoy his company so much. I wasn't surprised that Terry had been eavesdropping on our conversation. He has big ears, and he puts them to good use. It's no wonder that he knows everyone's secrets.

Crawford, who is closer in age to Aunt Peg, is in many ways Terry's opposite. Dignified, professional, and known for his discretion, he's been in the game longer than any of us. Crawford is often dismayed by his partner's nosiness. I thought it added enormously to Terry's appeal.

“And yet you were probably here at dawn,” I said to him.

A professional handler's day is long, and it starts early. It wasn't unusual for Crawford to bring several dozen dogs of various different breeds to a single show. Their schedule was hectic, to say the least. Even now, Crawford was nowhere to be seen. Most likely, he was up at the rings, showing a dog, while Terry stayed behind at the setup to do prep work on the others.

“Before dawn,” Terry corrected. “You know Crawford. He likes to crack the whip.” His eyebrows waggled comically. “Lucky for me, I like that.”

“Do you mind?” I squeaked. “There are children present!” I reached up and covered Kevin's ears.

Thinking it was a game, Kevin responded with a toothy grin. He clapped his hands enthusiastically and just missed boxing Sam's ears. Davey only laughed. He has known Terry for most of his life and doesn't take anything he says too seriously.

“I don't mind a bit,” Terry replied. His eyebrows were still dancing. Any moment now, his body would join in. “That's the whole point.”

“No, the whole point is that you're supposed to be brushing dogs.”

Crawford, back from the ring with a Chow Chow on a slender leash and a purple ribbon tucked in his pocket, leveled me a look. He thinks I'm a bad influence on his partner, probably with good reason. “Melanie, if you don't have enough to do, I can put you to work.”

“No, thank you. I'm here to watch Aunt Peg judge.”

“Is that so? Her ring is over there.” Crawford squinted toward ring three. “It looks to me like she's doing Yorkies.”

“Well . . . maybe I need to ask a few questions, too.”

Crawford muttered something I couldn't quite hear. I suspected that was just as well.

“It's not like you didn't see that coming,” Terry told him. He turned back to me. “So, who are we dishing about this week?”

Bertie snorted a laugh under her breath. She swept a Bichon off a tabletop, tucked it under her arm, and left for the ring.

“That's my cue to bow out, too,” said Sam. “The kids and I are going to go see the sights.” Holding Kevin carefully in place, he dropped a quick kiss on my lips. “Try not to annoy Crawford too much, okay?”

“You should listen to that man,” Crawford told me as my family left, heading toward ring three. “He knows what he's talking about.”

He slipped the Chow into an open crate, then tucked the ribbon into his tack box. At shows, Crawford's almost always on the run. Now I waited for him to grab another dog off a table and head out. Pumping Terry for information is much easier when Crawford isn't in the background, grumbling about our conversation.

Now, however, he shrugged out of his sports coat and hung it on a hanger attached to a stack of crates. Then he pulled out an apron and slipped it on over his head. A white Standard Poodle was lying on its side on a grooming table next to him. Crawford picked up a pin brush and spray bottle.

I must have looked surprised, because he glanced my way and said, “What? You don't think I can brush out a dog?”

“Of course you
can.
You just never seem to have time to.”

He pointed to a schedule taped to the inside lid of the tack box. “Next up, Standards at one o'clock.”

Since I obviously hadn't already figured it out for myself, Terry leaned over and whispered, “Crawford has fewer dogs today because he isn't showing under Peg.”

Of course. I should have realized. Crawford and Aunt Peg were old friends, and both would want to avoid any appearance of favoritism or impropriety in the judging. The fact that Aunt Peg was doing all the toy breeds meant that half his string must have stayed home.

Crawford pulled a pair of reading glasses out of his apron pocket and perched them on his nose. Then he misted the dog on the table and went to work. Expertly.

Geez, I thought, even his line brushing was perfect.

“So,” he said. “Ask.”

Crawford giving me an opening? That was a first. And I certainly wasn't about to squander the opportunity.

“Edward March is writing a book.”

“Oh, goody,” cried Terry.

“Not really,” I said. “It's going to be a kiss-and-tell memoir filled with juicy details about his amorous adventures in the dog show world. March thinks it will be a best-seller.”

Crawford lifted his head and gazed at me over the rims of his glasses. “And we care about this, why?”

“I'm his coauthor,” I admitted.

I thought he might snort or grumble. A discreet swear word wasn't out of the question. But once again, Crawford surprised me. Instead, he began to laugh.

“I'll give you this, Melanie,” he said. “You're a constant source of entertainment. How in hell did that happen?”