The Bark Before Christmas (2 page)

Bertie wasn't the only one who'd be spending the next several days driving back and forth to the “Big E” Exposition Center in Massachusetts. My son, Davey, had his Standard Poodle, Augie, entered in the dog shows as well. The big black dog had spent the previous five months away from the show ring, growing hair—enough to balance out his new continental trim. Davey was delighted that his pet was finally ready to make his adult debut.

“You'll be swamped,” said Bertie. “Especially if you have to oversee that booth
and
everything else.”

“That's what I'm thinking.”

“You ought to tell Hanover that you need some help.”

“I already did.”

Bertie was bent over the sink. She had one hand covering the Toy Poodle's eyes. The other held the nozzle and directed the spray toward the loose topknot hair. She looked back over her shoulder at me and frowned.

“No,” she said firmly. “No way.”

“It will be fun,” I told her brightly.

“No, it won't. It will be chaos. You just told me as much. Besides, I'm busy next Saturday.”

“No, you're not. I looked at the calendar. It's December. There isn't a decent dog show within two hundred miles.”

“I'm sure I must be doing something.”

“You're not,” I said. “I even checked with Frank. He told me you were free.”

“Frank's a traitor,” Bertie muttered. “I wouldn't believe a word he says.”

Funny thing about that. I'd felt the same way about my feckless younger brother for years. But meeting Bertie was the best thing that ever could have happened to him. Not only had she become a steadying influence in his life, but it also turned out that Frank's desire to live up to his wife's expectations was the impetus he'd needed to finally outgrow his irresponsible ways.

“Come on,” I said. “Give me a hand. It's for a good cause.”

Bertie sighed. She was wavering, I could tell.

“Between the kids, and Santa, and the pets, there's going to be a lot going on. You know I'll need someone there who's really good with dogs. And the best person I could think of was you.”

“Not Aunt Peg?”

I lifted a brow. “Can you picture Aunt Peg in an elf costume?”

“Wait a minute.” Bertie spun around. “You didn't say anything about an
elf costume
.”

“Umm . . .”

“Before you answer,” she warned, “bear in mind that it's a deal breaker.”

“Then no,” I said quickly. “The costume isn't mandatory. Though I bet you'd look cute in a pair of striped tights.”

That was an understatement. Bertie was gorgeous. She had thick auburn hair, killer cheekbones, and the kind of body that instantly rendered every other woman practically invisible. If anyone could pull off a forest-green tunic and pointy shoes, it would be my sister-in-law.

“Don't even think about it,” she said.

“All right, you don't have to dress up. But will you come and help out? If I'm going to tackle a project this size—especially with Mr. Hanover watching—I'm going to need back-up I can count on. It's just for a few hours. And I'll owe you one.”

“You're not going to let me say no, are you?”

Not if I could help it. I'd beg if I had to.

Bertie went back to bathing the Toy Poodle. Even though her back was turned, I heard her mutter, “Someone should have warned me before I married into this family.”

“I tried to,” I told her. “You didn't listen.”
And thank God for that,
I thought.

“All right,” said Bertie. “I'm in.”

P
oodles are the greatest breed of dog.

You may be thinking that I'm a bit biased—and I am—but hear me out, because this is a breed with a whole lot to commend it. First, they come in three sizes—Toy, Miniature, and Standard—which makes it easy to find a suitable companion for every lifestyle from couch potato to serious athlete. And second, their temperament is beyond compare. Poodles are smart, they're silly, they're empathetic. They also have a terrific sense of humor. If you don't already know how to laugh at yourself, a Poodle will teach you—and she will make sure that you enjoy the learning process.

My husband, Sam, and I have five Standard Poodles between us. Six, if you count Augie, who belongs to Davey. Sam and I have been married for four years. Not surprisingly, we met because of a Poodle. My first marriage—over and done with more than a decade earlier—had been, among its many other problems, dog-free. The second time around, I'd chosen much more wisely.

Standard Poodles are the largest variety of the breed. It's easy to look them in the eye—and that's a mode of communication at which they excel. Poodles are thinking dogs. The only dumb one I've ever met is Sam's retired specials dog, Tar.

Big, black, and beautiful, Tar is a Gold Grand Champion with multiple Group and Best in Show wins. Fortunately what he lacks in brainpower, he makes up for in amiability. The big goof always means well. It's not his fault that he never has a clue.

Faith and Eve, the two Standard Poodles I'd contributed to our blended canine family, are a mother and daughter pair. Faith, who had come to me as a gift from Aunt Peg, was the first dog I'd ever owned. She'd entered my life as a young puppy, opened up a space in my heart, and wriggled herself right in. Our bond was immediate and all-encompassing.

Faith was well into middle age now and our connection had deepened and matured with time. Communication between us needed only a word, or a glance, or a gentle touch. I liked to think that I could read Faith's mind; I knew full well that she could read mine.

Though it was December, snow had yet to fall in southwestern Connecticut. Even so, it was cold. As I drove home to our house in North Stamford, a sharp wind rattled and shook the bare branches of the trees that lined both sides of the scenic Merritt Parkway.

By now, Davey would be home from school. He and Sam had clipped Augie the previous afternoon. Today they were planning to bathe him and blow his coat dry. Preparing a Poodle for the show ring is an exacting task, made even more so in this case since it was the first time that Augie would be making an appearance in his new adult trim.

For Poodle puppies that are destined for the show ring, hair matters from the moment they are born. Their coats are continuously pampered and protected, and maximum growth is encouraged. Up to one year of age, Poodles are shown in the puppy trim, with a dense blanket of hair covering their entire bodies. Once they reach adulthood, however, in order to conform to the breed standard, much of that hair must be clipped away.

Augie was now sporting the continental trim, which meant that a large, shaped, mane of hair covered the front half of his body, while his face, his legs and feet, and his hindquarters were all clipped to the skin. Rounded pompons adorned his hips and the end of his tail. In addition, he had bracelets of hair at the bottoms of all four legs.

Davey had turned twelve in September. Though he'd spent much of his childhood surrounded by Standard Poodles, Augie was the first dog that was truly his. Davey was old enough now to accept responsibility for a pet's well-being. Even better, he and Sam had decided to make finishing Augie's championship a joint project for the two of them to achieve together.

I couldn't have planned that better if I'd tried.

Our grooming room is located off the kitchen toward the back of the house. I knew that the loud, droning, whine of the blow-dryer would cover the sound of my arrival. My human family wouldn't hear me come in, but the pack of Poodles certainly would.

Faith and Eve were already there to greet me before I'd even closed the door behind me. Sam's two bitches, Raven and Casey, quickly followed. Tar, a chew toy dangling out of the side of his mouth like a cigar, brought up the rear. Five black dogs—all of them wearing the easy and convenient sporting trim—milled around the hallway, eddying around my legs like a comforting current.

It's hard to pat five dogs at once, but I was giving it my best shot when the Poodles' ears suddenly lifted. As one their heads swiveled away, their gazes turning back in the direction from which they'd come. A second later, I heard a high-pitched shriek.

“Momm—eeeeee!!”

Alerted by the Poodle posse, I knew which way to look. Abruptly a two-foot-high, mostly naked child came barreling through the kitchen doorway and rocketing down the hall. Diaper bouncing, bare feet slapping on the hardwood floor, Kevin careened through the startled pack of Poodles and crashed into my legs. He wrapped his pudgy arms around my thighs, gazed upward, and aimed a loud, smacking kiss in the direction of my face.

“Mommy home!” he cried.

I reached down to pick him up but I was a moment too slow. Kevin had already spun away again. Eluding my hands, he bounced off of Eve and wiggled past Tar. Finding himself in the clear, he zoomed back down the hallway. Once he'd learned to walk, there'd been no stopping that child. The only pace he knew was a dead run.

“Hey, Kev,” I called after him. “Where are your clothes?”

“Gone!”

Undressing himself was Kevin's new favorite game. There were mornings where he'd whipped off his socks and shirt before I even had a chance to pull on his pants. He thought zippers were vastly entertaining, and buttons didn't deter his small fingers one bit. No doubt somewhere in the house was a bundle of discarded, pint-sized clothing. On other occasions, his sneakers had ended up in the garbage and his T-shirt was left floating in the dog's water bowl.

Aside from his chubby cheeks, the little fair-haired, blue-eyed, dynamo was the image of his father. Now he yelled out his reply without even bothering to slow down. Reaching the end of the hall at toddler-warp speed, Kevin shot through the doorway, angled left, and disappeared. The Poodles and I followed at a more sedate pace.

As we rounded the corner, Sam poked his head out of the grooming room. He usually wears his blond hair short, but he'd been busy lately and was in badly need of a trim. I liked my husband's current, scruffy look. It gave him a bad-boy vibe that I found compelling.

A lean, six-foot-two, Sam had to lean way down to brush a kiss across my cheek. “I thought I heard you come in,” he said. “Did you happen to see Kev?”

“He blew by me a minute ago. Since he's not with you, I'm guessing he ended up in the dining room. That child does realize it's winter, doesn't he?”

“If so, he doesn't seem to care. I take it his clothes are gone again?”

“Yup. Wearing nothing but a diaper.”

“Be thankful for small favors,” Sam said with a laugh.

There was that. I'd already had to explain to Kevin that since the Poodles were housebroken, he needed to be, too.

Inside the small room, Davey had Augie lying flat on his side on a rubber-matted grooming table. A free-standing blow-dryer directed a steady stream of hot hair toward a section of hair that he was carefully straightening with a pin brush. Davey took his eyes off his task for a few seconds. He looked up at me with a smirk on his face.

“Did I do that when I was Kev's age?” he asked.

“No.” I thought back, then added, “Never.”

“I bet I was a model child.”

“Not exactly. Your favorite game was hide-and-seek.”

“What's the matter with that?”

“You were always getting lost. And usually at the most inconvenient times.”

“I was exploring,” Davey corrected with a grin. “I wasn't lost.”

“To a parent, it all looks pretty much the same,” Sam told him. “We like to know where our kids are.”

“Yeah, well.” Davey patted his pocket happily. “Now you can call me.”

The personal cell phone was a new perk, one that made my son feel very grown up. For safety's sake, I liked knowing that he was only a phone call away. Typical twelve-year-old, Davey didn't care at all about that aspect. He liked the fact that the Smartphone made him feel cool, and that it gave him instant access to the Internet—a pair of benefits I could have happily done without.

“Speaking of calling,” said Sam. “We've heard from Peg three times since Davey got home from school.”

No surprise there. In fact I wouldn't have been shocked to arrive home and find that Aunt Peg had dropped in to supervise Augie's preshow grooming. She's a woman who likes to be in charge.

“What did she want?” I asked.

“Auggg-eeee!” Kevin squealed behind us.

Legs pumping, small hands fisted around Tar's chew toy, the toddler went racing across the kitchen with Tar in hot pursuit. I winced as the Standard Poodle skidded on the floor and sideswiped a chair. Hearing his name, Augie opened his eyes, lifted his head fractionally to have a look, then settled back in place. What a good dog. At least somebody remembered his training.

Kevin glanced our way but didn't stop running. A moment later, he and Tar disappeared in the direction of the hall.

I gazed after him thoughtfully. “He can't get the front door open yet, can he?”

The toddler's list of accomplishments seemed to grow daily. And unfortunately, sometimes when he'd mastered a new skill, I found out the hard way. Now I pictured him letting the dogs outside and all of them dashing madly around the front yard, accompanied by Kevin dressed only in his diaper.

Sad to say, one of my chief goals in life is to keep most of the chaos surrounding my family confined to a place where the neighbors won't see it.

“No way,” said Sam. “The knob's too big for his hands, and it's too stiff for him to turn.”

I waited a beat. Sam thought for a moment, then frowned. “I'll go check,” he said.

“So,” I said, turning back to Davey as Sam left the room. “You've heard from Aunt Peg?”

“Three times,” Davey confirmed. He repositioned the dryer's nozzle and moved on to a new section of hair. “She wanted to make sure I knew that Saturday's judge likes a pretty head.”

Connie Wilburn was our first judge of the weekend. Now in her late seventies, Mrs. Wilburn had been judging Poodles since before I was born. Her opinion on a dog was knowledgeable, impartial, and well worth seeking. The downside was that Mrs. Wilburn wasn't nearly as limber as she'd once been. Arthritis prevented her from bending down over a dog and really getting her hands on the body beneath the hair. She had always appreciated a Poodle with a pretty face; now that was just about all she could see.

“Augie's got a great head,” I said. “Nothing to worry about there.”

“I know. That's what I told Aunt Peg. But then she called back to say that she'd stop by the setup on Saturday to put in Augie's topknot for me.”

“I hope you said no, thank you.”

Handling Augie to his championship was Davey's second try at dog show competition. Several years earlier he'd been eager to try out his fledgling skills in Junior Showmanship. Initially he'd had a great time. He'd done pretty well, too—until Aunt Peg's overbearing coaching had managed to ruin his enjoyment of the sport.

This time around, Sam and I were both determined that things would be very different. Davey would be allowed to learn at his own pace, make mistakes without censure, and find his own path to success—no matter how long it took.

“I did.” Davey sighed. “But she'll probably show up anyway.”

“Who?” Sam reappeared, trailed by Raven and Faith. “Are we talking about Peg?”

“Of course, who else?” I glanced around behind him. “Where's the munchkin?”

“I got him settled in front of the TV with a cartoon and a couple of Poodles for company. I think all that running around wore him out.”

Faith sidled up beside me and pressed her muzzle into my hand. I curled my fingers around her lips and squeezed gently. She blew out a warm breath into my palm.

Every Standard Poodle in the house save Augie was a retired show dog. So they were all familiar with both the lengthy duration and the repetitive tedium of the grooming process. I knew that Faith was feeling conflicted. She was happy not to be the dog who had to lie perfectly still on the grooming table; but at the same time she was a little bit jealous that she wasn't the one receiving all the attention.

I squatted down beside her, wrapped my arm around her body, and gave her a hug. Faith leaned into me. Her tail waved gently back and forth. It was just enough to let me know that we were good.

“The third call,” said Davey, “was Aunt Peg offering to give me a lesson in how to manage Augie's ears at the show. She wants me to be sure to hold them back so that Mrs. Wilburn can see Augie's length of muzzle and the chiseling under his eyes.”

“I told her I'd take care of that part,” said Sam. “And that all she has to do is come and watch.”

“I'm sure that went over well,” I said.

Aunt Peg was a doer, not a watcher. Having scaled back the extent of her own exhibiting due to the demands of her busy judging schedule, she now seemed determined to compete vicariously through her great-nephew.

“At least she hasn't called back again,” said Davey.

“Don't worry, Sam and I will run interference for you at the show,” I told him. “Not only that, but I've got a brilliant idea. One that should keep her busy all day.”