A Pedigree to Die For (16 page)
Seventeen
Davey had camp on Tuesday morning, so I was covered there. Unfortunately when I dropped him off, Emily Grace came running over to the car. She apologized for the short notice and asked if I could sub.
I hated turning her down, for her sake and mine, too. I could have used the money. But I'd made a commitment to Aunt Peg and especially now, with Sam in the picture, I didn't want to slacken my efforts. The sooner I located Beau, the sooner life could return to normal.
The trip to Barry Turk's kennel in Poughkeepsie took just about an hour. To my surprise, the directions led me into the midst of a heavily populated, residential area. Somehow Turk had managed to squeeze a kennel housing forty dogs onto less than half an acre of land. The sound of their barking hit me like a shock wave when I stepped out of my car. I couldn't imagine how the neighbors let him get away with it.
Barry Turk's house was a dilapidated, shingled ranch. At one point it must have been white, but now it had faded to a weathered shade of gray. The kennel building, visible beyond, was in similar condition. Its roof sagged in one corner; and the short, narrow runs that fanned out on either side to cover every available inch of space looked as though they were held together with bailing twine. Dogs, many of them Poodles, raced up and down within, eyeing me with manic fascination.
I was standing there watching them when the front door to the house opened and Barry Turk emerged. “You must be Mrs. Travis,” he said, holding out his hand. “Beth told me to expect you.”
He was short but powerfully built. His hair was too long, and he was at least two days past his last shave. I took his hand but held it for as short a time as possible.
“She said you had some stud dogs I might be interested in.”
“Could be.” Turk ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it back out of his face. “I'm not going to hand you a line like some people do, saying their dogs are perfect. They may be what you want, maybe not. You'll just have to see for yourself.”
“Fair enough.”
He set off at a brisk pace. With little conviction and even less enthusiasm, I followed. An overgrown path led back to the kennel, which looked worse and worse the closer we came. The idea that Beau might be housed in such a place was thoroughly depressing.
“That was a Standard you were looking for, right?” Turk asked as he held open the screen door.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Outside the kennel was bad enough. Inside, it was appalling. The room we'd entered was a small office, but beyond that I could see the area where the dogs were housed. I'd expected pens like at Aunt Peg's, but instead I saw crates, dozens of them, stacked from floor to ceiling. Although it was a sunny day, inside the building was dark and airless, with a damp, musty smell.
“Wait here,” said Turk. He walked into the kennel room and pulled the door shut behind him.
He was gone only a few moments, but I used the time to walk over and have a look at his desk, whose surface was a jumble of bills, premium lists, and pink-slip phone messages. On top was a bill that looked as though it was ready to be sent out. Three columns listed the shows attended, the charges, and the name of the Poodle shown: Baytree's Mood Indigo.
I loved the name. That's why I remembered so quickly where I'd seen it before. The blue bitch Randall Tarnower had been winning with for the last month was Bay-tree's Mood Indigo. How could two handlers be showing the same dog? I wondered.
As the door to the kennel room opened, I slid my gaze quickly to the top of the page. The bill was going to Richard Beck in Wellesley, MA. I turned away from the desk, but I wasn't fast enough.
“See anything interesting?” asked Turk. He released a huge black Standard Poodle into the room, then closed the door behind him.
Since I'd already been caught, I figured I might as well brazen my way through. “I didn't realize you handled Richard Beck's Poodles.”
“Used to, don't anymore. You want to see any of Beck's dogs, call Randy Tarnower.” Turk crossed the room and shoved the bill away beneath some papers. “Maybe he'll have time to talk to you, maybe he won't. He's pretty busy these days, stealing everyone else's clients.”
“Stealing them? How does he do that?”
“It's easy,” Turk snapped. “When you've got his connections. Now are you going to look at this dog or not?”
“Sure,” I said, but I'd already seen enough. The Poodle in question was in continental, which ruled him out immediately.
Still, I waited while Turk snapped his fingers, and said, “C'mere, Joe, show the lady what you look like.”
Joe, however, had no intention of obliging. Now that he was free, he dashed back and forth across the room, careful to keep himself just beyond the handler's reach.
“This dog's owner spoiled him. When he's been here a little longer, he'll learn some manners.” From the intent look in Turk's eyes, I had little doubt he meant what he said.
“Maybe he doesn't get enough exercise,” I suggested pointedly. The handler just shrugged. Either he was too dumb to realize that his operation had been insulted, or else he didn't care.
Abruptly the side door opened and Beth entered the room. Careening around the desk, Joe took a running leap into her arms. I probably would have been bowled over by having sixty pounds of flying Poodle hit me at that speed, but Beth must have been accustomed to such exuberance, because she recovered nicely, hardly missing a step.
“Joe baby,” she crooned, scratching the dog's muzzle. “What are you doing loose?”
Then she noticed us and her smile faded. She dropped Joe to the ground and led him by the muzzle to where Turk was waiting, hand outstretched.
“Sorry, Barry,” she said as though the Poodle's behavior was all her fault. “I didn't know anybody was in here.”
Turk took the dog without a word and posed him for my inspection. Unable to come up with a quick excuse, I made the expected show of going over him, placing my hands in all the appropriate spots and nodding every so often as though I was making mental notes about the dog's conformation.
“So?” said Turk.
In the short time I'd been going to dog shows and studying the winners, I'd developed an idea about what a proper Poodle should look like. That, combined with Aunt Peg's coaching, had given me a basis against which to make comparisons. Although I probably couldn't have chosen the better between two very good Poodles, I could certainly tell a good one from a bad one.
It was easy to decide which category Joe fell into.
He was big and coarse and overdone. His expression was totally devoid of the ready intelligence so typical of the breed. Tired by his exertions, he was panting heavily, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth. To someone whose knowledge of the breed had been fostered by Poodles with the style and elegance of Aunt Peg's, this dog was an anathema.
“Very interesting,” I said. It was better than the other alternatives I'd come up with. “Do you have any others I can see?”
“A bunch.” Turk nodded, and Beth did, too. Monkey see, monkey do, I thought none too kindly. He handed Joe back to his assistant and said, “Come on this way.”
We left the building and went around the back, where the runs were slightly larger. The first four were filled with Standard Poodles. The two nearest us I rejected on sight as one was white and the other was still in show trim. The other two, however, were definite possibilities, and I moved in for a closer look.
Turk began to expound on the Poodles' good points and I nodded as though I was listening. That was enough to keep him occupied while I examined the dogs themselves. Aunt Peg had warned me not to be fooled by the length or condition of the coat itself. Bearing that in mind, I ignored the fact that these two Poodles looked like a pair of woolly, unkempt sheep. From what I'd seen, it seemed reasonable to assume that six weeks under Turk's supervision could do the same for any dog.
A closer inspection, however, proved disappointing. One dog had much too common a head; and his eyes were several shades lighter than the deep mahogany of the Cedar Crest Poodles. The other was long and low. Either he had too much body or else not enough leg; but the end result was that he lacked the square proportion so integral to a correct Poodle outline.
Satisfied that neither one was Aunt Peg's missing stud dog, I turned back to Turk, who, incredibly, was still talking. “Is this all of them?”
“Yeah,” said Turk. “All that are here right now. It's a pretty good selection, if I do say so myself. I imagine one of them would suit your needs.”
I turned to head back toward the house. Much as I hadn't wanted to find Beau in this situation, the disappointment I felt was acute. “Thank you for taking the time to show them to me. I'll let you know as soon as I've made my decision.”
“Do that,” said Turk.
As we reached the front of the kennel, he sketched a wave then veered off into the office, leaving me to find my own way out. On the other side of the building, Beth was hosing down runs. I strolled over to say goodbye.
“Did you see everything you wanted to?” she asked. When I nodded, she added, “Barry can be kind of a pain to deal with, but he means well.”
A man who meant well wouldn't keep his dogs packed into a dark, airless room like sardines, I decided, but I kept the thought to myself. “You're great with the dogs. They really seem to like you.”
Beth looked up and smiled. “Hey, thanks.”
“So what are you doing here?”
“It's a job.”
“So's McDonald's.”
“At McDonald's I wouldn't learn anything.” Beth finished the run she was working on and moved on to the next. “Here I'm picking up plenty. Another year or so and I'll be able to go out on my own.”
“So you want to handle dogs professionally?”
“Sure.”
“Is there money in that?”
I'd slipped the question in casually, but still it made Beth stop and think. “You'd be surprised,” she said finally.
Turk knocked on the office window and gestured irritably. Quickly Beth turned off the spigot and began to coil the hose. “I gotta go. He hates it when I keep him waiting .”
I left Beth to her work and climbed gratefully into the cool, clean interior of my car. Had Turk really needed her? I wondered. Or had he just not wanted us to talk?
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Davey and I spent the afternoon at the beach, building sand forts and splashing in the mild waves of Long Island Sound. Even wearing sunblock, his skin still turned golden. With his blond curls and chubby thighs, he looked like a cherub, racing down the beach to chase a receding wave.
He'd used up so much energy, I knew an early dinner was called for. We grilled hot dogs on the hibachi out back, then toasted marshmallows when the coals died down. Sometimes it's nice just to kick back and be a mother.
I called Aunt Peg while Davey was in the bathtub, rinsing off the last of the sand from every crack and crevice. She listened as I described Barry Turk's operation, then asked several pointed questions about the dogs I'd been shown. I knew she was frustrated at receiving the information secondhand, especially from someone whose knowledge of dogs couldn't begin to rival her own.
“Was there more to the kennel than you were shown?” she asked.
“A whole other room. I looked in, but that was all.”
“So Beau could have been there.”
“Well yes, but . . .” I dragged a stool over to the counter and sat down. “The whole point is to get Beau bred, isn't it? I can hardly be bowled over by the dog's potential if I don't see him.”
“Hmm.” Aunt Peg was thinking about that.
I took the opportunity to change the subject, telling her what Turk had said about Randall Tarnower. “Why do all the other handlers seem to hate him?”
“Jealousy, mostly. He's new to the East Coast and hasn't had time yet to pay his dues. Worse still, from their point of view, he's good. Really good. Ever since he got here, he's been beating them at their own game and they don't like it a bit.”
“Turk said he steals other handlers' clients.”
“That's how Barry Turk sees it, but I'm sure Randy would say there's another side to the story. He's offering a superior product. His trims are better than everybody else's, and he has a wonderful way with a dog. Watching him show his Poodles, you get a sense he really enjoys what he's doing. No doubt his kennel is cleaner than Turk's, too. If you had to choose, where would you go?”
“Not to Barry Turk, that's for sure.”
“You see? There it is. Turk says he's stealing clients. From Randy's point of view, he's simply offering better value for the client's money.”
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