The Bark Before Christmas (3 page)

“Whatever it is, I already love it,” Sam said. Davey nodded in agreement.

“Aunt Peg's a Howard Academy alum. I'm going to get her to walk around the show and encourage local exhibitors to support the Santa Claus and Pets Booth at next week's Christmas bazaar. Aunt Peg knows everybody. Not only that, but there's nothing she likes more than telling people what to do. So why not marry those two things together and put her to work on behalf of a good cause?”

“Good thinking,” said Sam.

“That sounds a whole lot better than having her follow me around all day, telling me everything I'm doing wrong,” Davey said glumly.

“Cheer up,” I told him. “This is supposed to be fun. And you're not going to do anything wrong.”

“I hope not,” said Davey.

“I just hope Kev keeps his clothes on,” I replied.

D
og show exhibitors spend half their lives in cars, driving to far-flung locations. Or at least that's the way it feels.

Living in southwestern Connecticut, we were ideally situated dog-show-wise. Nearly every weekend of the year we were within easy driving distance of events in both the New England and the Mid-Atlantic states. The shows we'd entered that weekend were taking place at the Eastern States Exposition in West Springfield, Massachusetts.

Exhibitors often find themselves dealing with indoor venues that offer cramped conditions, bad lighting, and nonexistent parking. Compared to that, the Big E was a very welcome alternative. Dog shows held at that location are always a huge draw, and nearly everyone we knew would be exhibiting. There were major entries in all three varieties of Poodles.

Since we only had Augie to prep for the ring, our arrival was timed for midmorning. By then, the coliseum building was already crowded. Bertie, who had gotten to the show shortly after dawn with her whole string of dogs, had saved us a spot in the grooming area right next to her own setup.

We left our car in the unloading zone, and made our way across the huge room, looking like an itinerant band of gypsies. Sam dragged the dolly loaded with Augie's crate and grooming table, the wooden tack box, and various other dog show necessities. Davey had Augie on a leash. The two of them bounced up and down with excitement and ran on ahead to explore.

Kevin and I straggled along in the rear. Kev is endlessly fascinated by the world around him and when I'm not in a hurry, I love his artless curiosity. Now, however, life would have been happier with a less inquisitive child.

No matter how hard I tried to point the toddler in the right direction and keep him moving forward, he still managed to find a reason to stop every few seconds. Kev was intrigued by everything from a Saint Bernard wearing a drool bib, to a Dachshund navigating a broad jump, to a rolling ball of fluffy white hair.

By the time we reached the setup, Sam already had the dolly unloaded. He'd shoved the big crate in line next to one of Bertie's, then arranged the tack box and Kev's diaper bag on top of it. As we approached, he was setting up the grooming table in the middle of the aisle. He was also frowning.

“What's the matter?” I asked.

We'd just arrived. Surely something couldn't be wrong already.

“Bertie has some bad news.”

“What?” I swung my gaze her way.

“There's a change of judge in Poodles. Mrs. Wilburn had a fall this morning in her hotel room, and she was taken to the hospital. She'll be out of commission until after Christmas. Bartholomew Perkin is taking over her assignment.”

“Who?”

I looked back at Sam. Like Aunt Peg, he's been involved in the dog show world for many more years than I have. He was often familiar with judges I didn't have the experience to know. Now, however, Sam just shrugged.

“Never heard of him,” he said.

That wasn't good.

A great deal of time, effort, and expense is involved in getting a dog to the show ring. So exhibitors choose their judges with care. There's no point in taking a typey dog to a judge who only cares about soundness, or in showing a silver Poodle to one who favors blacks. Nor do owner-handlers waste their time showing under judges who are known to play politics. There are few things more frustrating than knowing you have the best dog in the ring, only to watch the judge hand the purple ribbon to one of the pros anyway.

An unknown quantity
might
turn out to be a decent judge. But since none of us had ever even heard of Mrs. Wilburn's replacement, I was pretty sure that the odds were against it.

“You all look like you've just arrived at a funeral,” Aunt Peg said, coming up behind us. Standing a hair under six feet tall, she towers over me. It's a circumstance she's not above using to use to her advantage. “I take it you've heard about what happened?”

“Bertie just told us,” I replied. “How much trouble are we in? Who is Bartholomew Perkin?”

“Good question.”

That she didn't know either was really bad news. Aunt Peg is a steadfast member of the dog show community. She's spent the majority of her six decades devoted to the Poodle breed she adores.

While I'm the kind of person who is continually out of the loop, when it comes to dogs, Aunt Peg
is
the loop. She knows everything. She's on top of every new development.

If Aunt Peg didn't know who our new judge was, then he was clearly not worth knowing.

Kevin tugged at the hem of my jacket. Distracted by the conversation, I'd forgotten all about him. Quickly I leaned down and zipped him out of his parka. Kev unwound his scarf. I balled it up and shoved it down the empty sleeve of his jacket. With luck, we'd leave the show with as much clothing as we'd had when we arrived.

“Mr. Perkin's breed is Pekingese,” Davey announced, finally arriving at the setup. He hopped Augie up onto the grooming table, slipped off his leash, then patted the rubber matted surface so that the Standard Poodle would lie down.

“How do you know that?” I asked.

“I ran into Crawford and Terry.” Davey sketched a wave toward the other side of the ring. “They're grooming over there. Crawford isn't happy about the judge change either.”

Crawford Langley was the busiest and most talented Poodle handler in the Northeast. He'd handled Standard Poodles to top wins at Westminster, Eukanuba, and our national specialty. Terry was Crawford's partner in life, his assistant at the shows, and the most talkative person I've ever met. He's my best buddy and I love him like crazy.

“Pekes,” Aunt Peg said thoughtfully. “Maybe Mr. Perkin likes hair.”

“Or maybe he likes short legs,” Bertie guessed.

“Bite your tongue,” said Sam. Even lying down, Augie's length of leg was evident. We certainly hadn't brought Mr. Perkin that.

Bottom line, it didn't really matter what our new judge wanted. Having devoted several hours to grooming Augie Poodle and a couple more to driving, we were already committed. Davey would take his Standard Poodle in the ring regardless.

Sam went off to park the car. I got Kev situated in a folding chair with a coloring book and a box of crayons. Davey opened up the tack box and began pulling out the tools of the trade. Making a row along the edge of the table, he lined up a slicker brush for Augie's bracelets, a pin brush for his mane coat and topknot, a greyhound comb for smoothing through the tangles, and a spray bottle for misting away static.

Meanwhile, Aunt Peg continued to mutter under her breath.

Bertie, putting the finishing touches on a Finnish Spitz, regarded her with amusement. “According to the catalog,” she said, “Mr. Perkin comes from Arizona and he was hired to judge half a dozen Toy breeds.”

“If he was available to fill in at the last minute, that means he didn't have a full slate,” Aunt Peg replied. “That can't be good.”

“This will be his very first Poodle assignment,” Davey piped up. “Terry told me he just got approved.”

“Lord save me from beginners.” Aunt Peg rolled her eyes. “Well, there's nothing to be done about it now. I guess we're all going to find out what Bartholomew Perkin looks for in a Poodle at the same time.”

While she was speaking, Aunt Peg sidled over and had a surreptitious look at Davey's line brushing. Augie was lying flat on the table. His eyes were closed; he was totally relaxed. Brushing quickly and smoothly, Davey was doing a great job of working his way through the dog's dense coat. Even so, I knew it was only a matter of time before Aunt Peg would begin to nitpick.

“Guess what?” I said. “I have a job for you.”

“Oh?” Peg lifted a brow. “Do I need a job?”

I heard Bertie smother a laugh. I ignored that and said, “I know how much you like to stay busy.”

“And so I shall. Davey needs my help setting Augie's topknot.”

My son glanced up, caught my eye, and shook his head vehemently.

“Sam will do that when he gets back. And anyway, this is more important. I need your help.”

“Well, that's nothing new.” Aunt Peg gazed pointedly down her nose at me.

Bertie, that traitor, wasn't even bothering to hide her laughter now.

“But you'll like this job,” I told Aunt Peg. “It's for the Howard Academy Christmas Bazaar. There's going to be a photo booth for people to bring their pets and have their pictures taken with Santa Claus. It'll be great.”

For eleven months of the year, Aunt Peg is one of the least sentimental women I know. But as the Christmas holidays approach, all that changes. The mere sound of Christmas music is enough to turn her all mushy and misty-eyed. I was aiming for her soft spot and I knew it. With luck, I'd hit a bull's-eye.

“That's not until next week,” Aunt Peg said. Sometimes I think she knows the details of my life better than I do.

“It's never too soon to start getting the word out,” I told her. “And I can't think of a better place to find the kind of people who would want to take their dogs to visit Santa Claus than right here. I figured you could walk around the show and tell all your friends that they shouldn't miss it.”

“That sounds like an excellent idea,” Bertie offered from across the setup.

“It does,” Aunt Peg agreed. She sounded surprised. “But I'm not sure why your job ought to be done by me. Why don't
you
walk around and spread the news?”

“I could do that,” I said easily. “If you'd rather stay at the setup with the boys. Since you're going to be here anyway with Davey”—once again my son lifted his head and shot me an anguished look—“do you mind keeping an eye on Kevin for me?”

“Kevin,” Peg said flatly.

“You know, the little boy? Almost three?” I pointed to a chair. “He's sitting right over there.”

“Kevin,” Aunt Peg said again.

Hearing his name for a second time, the toddler looked up. “What?” he inquired.

“I think you mean ‘Excuse me,' ” I told him.

Kev tipped his head to one side and thought about that for a moment. He didn't issue a correction, however. Instead he merely picked up his red crayon and went back to coloring.

“I don't do children,” Aunt Peg stated.

“Kev's not
children,
he's family.” I smiled sweetly.

“All the same—”

“You could help him color,” I suggested. “Or maybe read to him. Just don't let him start taking his clothes off.” Slipping deftly between table and crate, I started to walk away. “And make sure he doesn't disappear. That's a biggie.”

“But—”

“His diaper bag is on Augie's crate. And there's a changing table in the ladies' room. You know . . . just in case.”

“I don't
think
so.”

“Excuse me?” I stopped and cocked an ear, just like Faith would have done.

“
You
stay here,” Aunt Peg said firmly. “And
I
will make the rounds of the other exhibitors.”

I held my breath until she'd swept past me. Aunt Peg's long stride carried her quickly down the narrow aisle between the stacked crates. She went a good ten yards before she even slowed down. Then it was to stop and chat with a Bichon exhibitor. Aunt Peg never looked back once.

“That was masterfully done,” said Bertie.

I was pretty pleased myself. “I guess I'm getting a little smarter as time goes on.” I turned to Kevin and grinned. “Good going, kid. Thanks.”

Kev looked up. “'scuse me?” he said.

 

Sam returned from parking the car. Bertie and the Finnish Spitz left to go to the ring. Davey finished brushing Augie's right side and turned him over. The left side—the one that faces the judge when the Poodle is in the ring—is always brushed last so that it won't flatten and lose its shape when the dog lies on it. Without Aunt Peg there to stir up trouble, things were remarkably peaceful at the setup.

An hour before the Standard Poodles were due in the ring, the Toy judging began. I was about to head over to get a look at our new judge when Sondra McEvoy, the mother of one of my students, passed by the setup. She was carrying her West Highland White Terrier, GCH Westglen Braveheart—informally known as Kiltie—tucked under one arm. Her other hand clutched a purple and gold Best of Breed ribbon, attesting to the fact that her recent outing in the show ring had ended successfully.

“Congratulations,” I called.

“Thanks.” Sondra angled her path my way. She was a slender woman in her early forties, with a pale complexion and wide-set blue eyes. Her short dark hair was styled in a chic bob. As she approached, Sondra blew out a relieved breath. “I was afraid I might not get him out of the breed today so I'm happy to have that behind me. The Group judge loves Kiltie. From here on in it should be smooth sailing.”

From what I could tell, lots of judges loved Kiltie. The Westie was a regular competitor in the Group and Best in Show rings. Still, though the breed ring could sometimes seem like little more than a stepping stone for the big specials dogs, it didn't pay to take anything for granted. Every judge has a different opinion, and every dog is capable of having a bad day.

“Peg waylaid me when I came out of the ring,” Sondra told me. “She's marching around the show like a woman on a mission.”

“Good,” I said. “That's just what I wanted her to do. She's supposed to be drumming up business for the Howard Academy Christmas Bazaar. Did she tell you about the photo booth?” I reached over and scratched underneath the Westie's chin. “Can't you just picture Kiltie with a big Christmas bow around his neck? He'd look adorable.”