Authors: Laurien Berenson
Dog Eat Dog (16 page)
Twenty-two
Saturday's dog show was in Elizabeth, New Jersey.
By Aunt Peg's reckoning it was a local show, meaning that although I would have to drive through three states to get there, I wasn't going to spend the night. Like most of the exhibitors I've met, Peg travels all over the east coast in search of good judges to show her Poodles to. She doesn't think anything of hopping down to Delaware for the day, or signing up for a circuit in Maine. I enjoy showing my puppy, but I'm not a fanatic. Elizabeth seemed like enough of a hike to me.
Bob stopped by at eight o'clock Saturday morning and picked up Davey. He'd planned a trip to Mystic Seaport and wanted to get an early start. I was just finishing loading the Volvo when he arrived.
Bob peered in through the window and saw my folded table, the metal tack box that held grooming supplies, Faith's big crate, and a stack of towels, all piled on the back seat. “What's going on?” he asked. “It looks like Gypsies have been camping in your car.”
“I'm taking Faith to a dog show. I told you that.”
Bob has a convenient way of forgetting things that don't seem important to him. “Oh yeah.” He laughed. “You all get your dogs duded up in ribbons and bows and parade around in a circle, right?”
“Wrong.”
My tone was enough to make him reconsider his next jibe. Instead he asked, “You win anything at these shows?”
“A ribbon. Maybe some points toward Faith's championship, if we're lucky.”
“No money?”
“No money.”
“Hardly seems worth it to me.”
How could I explain, when I was only beginning to find out for myself how engaging the sport of showing dogs could be? There were many things I enjoyed about going to the shows and sometimes, the few minutes Faith and I spent in actual competition was the least of it. I liked the camaraderie of exhibitors as we all got ready to go in the ring; the challenge of learning how to groom a Poodle so that my puppy could compete on equal footing with the pros; and I really enjoyed the time spent working directly with Faith.
While I was trying to figure out how to condense that all into a short, easy to digest answer, Bob moved on. “Where is the show?”
“New Jersey.”
He stared. “You're driving all the way to New Jersey in
that
car?”
that
car?”
“Do I have a choice?” Deliberately, I glanced over at the Trans-Am. I wondered if he'd gotten all the sand out of the seats yet.
“Sorry,” Bob said quickly. “I promised Davey we'd see the ships. You know how it is.”
I did know. Besides, keeping my son happy at a dog show was hard enough. The notion of having to entertain child and man-child both, was more than I wanted to get involved with.
Still, it felt a little odd ten minutes later when I finally got on the road, with only Faith for company. In the last five years, Davey and I had spent so much time together that I had come to take his companionship for granted. Now I wasn't sure whether to feel free, or bereft.
The New Brunswick Kennel Club holds their spring show indoors at the Dunn Sports Arena. It's a small venue, so the entry is limited. The rings take up the center of the room and preparation of the dogs goes on around the sides. Even though it was early when I arrived, the grooming area was already just about full. I saw a small space over near Bertie's set-up and dragged my dolly that way.
She had a gold and white Lhasa Apso out on a table and looked up as I approached.
“What do you think?” I asked. “Can I fit?”
“How much stuff have you got?”
“One dog, with a table and crate.”
“Sure.” Bertie was already moving to rearrange her things into tighter formation. “I think I can squeeze you in.”
“Thanks,” I said gratefully. This was the first time I'd been to a dog show as an exhibitor without Aunt Peg. I'd been half afraid I'd find myself tucked off in some dark corner, all alone.
I finished unloading, parked my car, then walked Faith back into the building and hopped her up on the table. Bertie and the dog had vanished. Presumably Lhasas were being judged. I laid Faith down on her side and began line brushing through her hair. Bertie reappeared ten minutes later.
“Did you win?”
She shook her head as she opened the door to a wooden crate and placed the Lhasa inside. “Best Op.”
That was shorthand for Best of Opposite Sex. The top award for most breeds is Best of Breed. Other breeds have divisions based on size, or coat color, or texture. Poodles, for example, come in three sizes; and for them, the top award is Best of Variety. If Best of Breed or Best of Variety is won by a dog, then Best of Opposite Sex must be awarded to a bitch. If a bitch is chosen to win the breed, then BOS goes to the best dog.
For me, winning Best of Opposite Sex would have been cause for celebration. But for the professional handlers who entered hoping to win the breed and then go on to compete in the group, it meant coming up second best.
“Too bad. Did you get beaten by something pretty?”
“Pretty enough.” Bertie grimaced. She opened another crate, took out a Tibetan Terrier and dropped him lightly onto the table. “Actually, I shouldn't say that. The dog that beat me
was
a nice Lhasa. Probably better than mine. Doesn't mean I didn't want to beat him though.”
was
a nice Lhasa. Probably better than mine. Doesn't mean I didn't want to beat him though.”
In showing dogs, as in any sport, it takes drive and determination to succeed. From what I could see, Bertie had plenty of both. In time, with hard work and practice, she could probably overcome a lack of innate talent.
Unless something got in her way.
Or someone. Like a nosy club secretary with a penchant for finding out other people's secrets. I wondered what sort of juicy tidbits someone like Bertie might have tucked away in her background.
“Do you mind if I ask a few questions while we brush?”
Bertie rolled her eyes. “Are you still snooping around trying to figure out what happened to Monica?”
“Yes.”
“Are you getting anywhere?”
“Yes.” In a manner of speaking.
“So who did it?”
“I don't know.”
Bertie turned away to fish through her tack box before coming up with the leash she wanted. “Doesn't sound to me like you've learned too much.”
“I've learned that Monica was good at finding out things people didn't want her to know.”
“That's no surprise. Monica was always poking her nose in where it didn't belong. What else did she have to do with her life? She was still living at home with her mother, for Pete's sake. If I was stuck doing that, you can bet I'd be looking for a little excitement, too.”
“Is that what you think she was doing, looking for excitement?”
“Maybe.” Bertie thought for a moment. “That, and power. She liked playing head games with people.”
“People like you?”
“People like anybody.” Bertie's tone was casual, but she didn't meet my gaze.
“I've heard she was in the habit of sending messages to club members. She enclosed notes in their monthly newsletters.”
Bertie developed a sudden interest in the catalogue. She opened it up and flipped through the pages to the judging schedule in the front. “What?”
I knew perfectly well she'd heard what I said. “Did Monica ever send you any notes? Maybe something signed with a sketch of a Beagle?”
“No.” Bertie looked up and snapped the catalogue shut. “Of course not.”
“You're sure?”
She picked up the Tibetan Terrier and tucked him under her arm. “Sorry, gotta go. I'm late.”
She scooted between two crates and disappeared into the crowds surrounding the rings. I stared after her for a moment, then reached over and picked up the catalogue she'd left on the table. The Tibetan Terrier judging was coming up all right, but it wasn't due to start for fifteen minutes.
Maybe Bertie wasn't as smart as I'd thought.
Â
Without Aunt Peg's guidance, getting Faith ready to go in the ring seemed to proceed at a snail's pace. I had shown the puppy before. I knew all the mechanics of preparation, but somehow the fine details eluded me.
I was prepared for my scissoring to lack Aunt Peg's polish. What I hadn't expected was that the top-knot would go in crooked on the first two attempts. Or that I'd be putting hair spray in the neck hair before I remembered I hadn't put on Faith's collar. It was the little things. In the end, they added up to a huge difference.
I was so nervous about being late that I got up to the ring early. Then I had to wait while the winners in the breeds scheduled before us had their pictures taken. Ten minutes passed before the other Standard Poodles even began to assemble outside the gate.
In the classes, dogs are judged first, followed by bitches. As the Poodle judging started with the Puppy Dog class, Crawford arrived ringside with a stunning black bitch. He came over and stood beside me.
“Nervous?” he asked.
“Does it show that much?”
“You look like a deer caught in oncoming headlights.”
“Great. That will really impress the judge.”
“What's your number?”
I glanced down at my arm where the numbered armband should have been. It wasn't there. All that extra time and I'd forgotten to pick up my number. Crawford, whose Open class entry went in after Faith's puppy class, was of course already wearing his.
“I don't know,” I said, panic rising. “I forgotâ”
“Don't worry, the steward will know. Stand right here. And for God's sake, take some deep breaths.”
I did. While Crawford went and consulted with the ring steward I held Faith's leash and concentrated on breathing in and out. It didn't seem to help.
Crawford returned with the cardboard number and a rubber band to hold it in place. I held out my left arm and he slipped it on.
“Good thing you're so nervous,” he said casually.
“Why?”
“It makes my job easier. Aside from my bitch and your puppy, there's not much else here, is there?”
As we were standing in the middle of a decent sized entry of Standard Poodles, I assumed he wasn't talking numbers. That meant he was talking quality. By ranking her as his chief competition, he was paying her a compliment.
“Really?” I said. “Do you think so?”
“I'm certain of it,” he said, as the dog judging ended. “Now get in there and make sure the judge sees what a nice puppy you have.”
Without his urging I probably would have slunk into the ring and gone to the end of the line. But Crawford wasn't having any of it. Every time I was tempted to let down, he leaned over the partition and glared at me. With him glowering like that, I didn't have any choice but to forget about my fears, get down to business, and show the puppy.
It helped that Faith was a natural ham. It also helped that, thanks to Aunt Peg's fine breeding program, she was indeed a very pretty Poodle. There were only two other puppies in the class, but I was delighted to win it.
“Don't go anywhere,” said Crawford, as he passed me on his way into the ring. “You have to go back in.”
There were six bitches in the Open class, but Crawford's black took the blue ribbon easily. The steward called my number and I led Faith back into the ring to try for the title of Winners Bitch and the points. It was over quickly, with Crawford's bitch prevailing. But when the judge motioned Faith over to the marker for Reserve Winners, I found I couldn't stop smiling.
“See?” said Crawford. “I told you so.”
“Congratulations. And thank you.”
“Don't thank me,” Crawford said briskly. “It was the puppy. She gave you all the help you needed.”
Not quite, but he was gone before I could argue the point.
I took Faith back to the set-up and put her back on the table. Bertie was away again, probably either showing a dog or trying to drum up more business. I laid Faith down, sprayed conditioner into her neck hair to break up the hair spray and was about to wrap her ears when somebody tapped me on the shoulder.
I turned and saw Paul Heins, looking very dapper in khaki pants and a cashmere sweater. Beside him, Darla was covered in flowers; the motif repeated in the pattern of her dress, the embroidery on her cardigan, and the clasp of her wicker purse.
“Hello,” I said. “It's nice to see you again.” They both looked well. I hoped that meant that my visit hadn't caused them any distress.
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