Hot Dog (3 page)

As she drove away, I lingered by the side of the yard. Pam had finished tacking up the pony. Davey, wearing a huge grin, was holding Willow's reins and waiting to see what would happen next. After rummaging in the back of her truck, Pam produced a white plastic safety helmet which she fitted to Davey's head. A strap fastened under his chin.

Bob walked over to join me. “He's just going to take a little ride around the block. Then we'll load Willow back up and take her back to the barn.”

Pam looked over at Bob, waiting for permission. “Ready?”

“No!” I cried suddenly. “Wait!”

I ran back to the house and emerged a minute later with the camera, freshly loaded with film. “Okay, now.”

Pam led Davey around the pony's left side and boosted him up into the saddle. He landed lightly and clutched almost immediately for Willow's bushy mane. Pam gave him a minute to get comfortable, then showed him how to fit his feet into the stirrups. Though she put the single rein in Davey's hand, a lead rope snapped to the side of the bit gave her control. I shooed Bob back over to stand beside them and lined up my shot.

“Smile!” I said.

The command was wholly unnecessary. All three looked enormously pleased with themselves. The adults stood on either side of the pony, and when Bob reached a hand around his son's back, Pam did the same. They linked arms, cradling Davey between them. Willow lifted her head and pricked her ears, and I took the picture.

“Be back in a bit.” Pam's braid swung between her shoulder blades as she turned the pony in a small circle away from the trailer.

Bob flashed me a “thumbs up,” then steadied Davey as Willow began to walk. The other kids skipped alongside, forming a neighborhood parade. I thought about going with them, but Pam and Bob, who were now chatting across Willow's back, seemed to have the situation well in hand.

Besides, I could hear Eve barking in the house. The Poodles didn't take kindly to being locked away when there was something interesting going on. Exciting as the new pony was, I had other priorities.

“Davey, wave!” I called.

He did and I snapped another picture. Then I went in the house to see to my dogs.

A
ccording to American Kennel Club rules, Eve wasn't eligible to be shown until she reached six months of age. Since she was a Poodle, however, preparations for her career had begun much earlier than that. For starters, I had to register her with the AKC, which meant coming up with a show name. Because Faith's litter was the first I'd ever bred, it also meant that I needed to choose a kennel name for myself.

A kennel name is a very useful thing to have, even for someone like me who is in all likelihood never going to be more than a small, hobby breeder. For one thing, it makes for easy identification of a dog's origins. Any Standard Poodle owner looking back through his dog's pedigree and finding such kennel names as Rimskittle, Syrena, Alekai, or Graphic can rest assured that his Poodle descends from quality stock produced by breeders who placed a premium on doing right by the breed.

Secondly, affixing your own kennel name to stock you've bred is a matter of personal satisfaction. It announces to the dog show world that these are animals you are justifiably proud to be associated with.

Many people chose prefixes that derive in some way from their own names, or those of their children or loved ones. This tendency accounts for the proliferation of monikers such as Car-bob, Suestan, ShirlRob, and Bren-dawyn. Having tried out a couple of possible combinations, notably Meldave (sounded like the name of a character on
Seinfeld
), Mel-tra (definitely an alien planet), and Samanie (not going there!), I quickly decided to follow Aunt Peg's example and simply opt for a name that sounded agreeable. With high hopes for the future of my small endeavor and a nod toward the joy my two Poodles had already brought me, I chose Elysian. Eve became, in the eyes of the American Kennel Club, Elysian Eve.

Like her dam, Eve was blessed with a profuse, fast growing coat, and when it comes to getting a Poodle ready for the show ring, hair is all important. Poodles are allowed to be shown in three different trims. The continental and the English saddle are the more ornate clips, worn by adult dogs, and familiar to anyone who has ever seen a Poodle being exhibited. At nine months of age, Eve was wearing the puppy trim which allowed for only her face, her feet, and the base of her tail to be clipped. A thick blanket of hair, shaped to follow her outline, covered the rest of her body.

So far we'd been to a handful of shows together. Young as she was, Eve was showing mostly for socialization. The point of the exercise was simply to go and have fun. Unfortunately, that didn't mean I could skimp on the preparation. Saturday night, I gave Eve a bath and blew her coat dry, an exacting process that takes every bit as long as it sounds like it would. I also fielded a quick call from Sam, home at his house in Redding doing the same to his Standard Poodle, Champion Cedar Crest Scimitar, more familiarly known as Tar.

Sam said he was just calling to check in. I thought— but didn't say—that I'd have appreciated the sentiment more if it had taken place during the time at the end of the previous year that he had been missing from my life. Then there hadn't been any phone calls at all.

Once he was back, Sam seemed to think that we should simply take up where we'd left off. Pardon me, but I'm not quite that easy.

I'd resisted; Sam had pursued. Eventually, that bit of yin-ing and yang-ing around had led to the unlikely arrangement we now found ourselves in. We were—once again—dating, and trying to redefine the state of our relationship one step at a time.

All I can say is that it's a sad commentary when your love life has been reduced to an agenda more befitting to recovery.

 

 

Sunday's dog show was being held in Rhode Island. Aside from Eve and Tar, Eve's littermate Zeke, now owned by Aunt Peg, was also entered. As a champion, Tar would be entered for Best of Variety; and since the classes were divided by sex, Eve and Zeke would not compete against each other except in the unlikely eventuality that each of them managed to beat the competition for Winners Dog and Winners Bitch. Optimally, we all had a shot at winning. Practically speaking, however, things never seem to work out that way.

With the excitement of Willow's arrival fresh in his mind and the promise of another ride on Sunday, Davey had opted not to come with me to the dog show. Instead, he'd spent Saturday night with Bob, another of our new arrangements that I'm trying—with varying degrees of success—to act like an adult about. Davey had taken Faith with him to his father's house. I was planning to meet up with the three of them there later that evening.

The car seemed curiously empty as Eve and I followed the thruway up the Connecticut coast. My son is one of those rare children who doesn't mind long car trips, perhaps because he was indoctrinated at an early age. He watches the scenery, plays automobile bingo, and almost always feels compelled to entertain us with warbled renditions of whatever song is his current favorite. He has even been known to induce Faith to howl along.

This car trip was quiet by comparison. I was actually able to hear the radio, and the only other sound was Eve's gentle snoring in the back seat. I'd thought I'd revel in the peace and quiet. Instead the damn trip seemed to take forever. Go figure.

I wasn't running late, but, true to form, Aunt Peg had gotten to the show site early. It was a good thing, too, because the facility was tiny and grooming space was at a premium. I found Aunt Peg and Sam set up together, tucked away in the dark corner of an interior hallway. They'd deliberately spread out their crates and grooming tables over a larger area than the two of them needed, thereby subjecting themselves to the scowls and disgruntled comments of latecomers who were having trouble finding room.

“It's about time,” Aunt Peg said grumpily as I dragged my dolly over and began to unload. “I've turned away half a dozen people in the last fifteen minutes alone. I thought we were going to have a riot on our hands.”

Trust me, there's nothing my Aunt Peg would have enjoyed more. She may be in her sixties, but Peg maintains a schedule and a social life that would run a twenty-year-old ragged. Very little escapes her steely gaze, and she's never been one to leave well enough alone.

All right, I'll be blunt. Aunt Peg is a trouble-maker. She's also one of the smartest, most determined women I've ever met. I'd never admit it to her, but I only hope I'm doing half so well when I reach her age.

“Don't tell me you've been stirring up the Bichon people again.”

“Worse.” Sam came around from behind his grooming table to lend a hand with the unloading. “This time it was a whole contingent of Dachshund exhibitors. They hadn't even asked if there was any room before she sent them packing.”

“Who needed to hear the question? They were eyeing our little corner like it was prime chicken liver. Wet washcloth dogs.” Aunt Peg sniffed, obviously referring to the smooth-coated variety. “What do they have to groom anyway? They could blow on those dogs and walk them in the ring.”

Well, not exactly, but I could see her point. Poodles have to be groomed right before they're shown. Many facets of preparation—brushing, putting in a topknot, scissoring, spraying—can't be done ahead; and indeed, the primping continues even while the dogs are in the ring. It can be frustrating to arrive at a show and find that all the available grooming space is taken up by exhibitors with short haired breeds who've put out a bunch of chairs and sat down to socialize.

“She's been on the warpath all morning,” Sam confided in a loud whisper. He reached around me to set my tack box on top of a crate and managed to give my waist a squeeze in the process. “Now that you're here, maybe she'll settle down.”

A year ago, we would have kissed hello. A year ago, a lot of things would have come more easily.

The one thing that hadn't changed was the frisson of awareness that hummed along my nerve endings whenever Sam was near. During the time he'd been away, I'd almost managed to convince myself that I was over that. I'd hoped that when—if—Sam returned, I'd look at him dispassionately and wonder why I'd ever found his shaggy blond hair and rugged features attractive.

Unfortunately for the sake of my equilibrium, that hadn't happened. Instead, I'd taken one look and tumbled all over again. Mother Nature was enjoying the last laugh at my expense, no doubt.

“I heard that,” Aunt Peg said. “And I am not on the warpath. I am merely annoyed.” Her brow lowered into a frown. “Extremely annoyed.”

“What happened?”

“Judge change,” said Sam. “Mike Zinman didn't make it.”

“Who did?”

“Rachel Lyons.”

That wasn't good. The sole reason that the three of us had made the effort to drive several hours to this godforsaken little dog show was because Aunt Peg had approved of the judge. “Good hands on a puppy,” she said. It was one of her highest accolades.

I knew there would be no such praise accorded Rachel Lyons. The woman was a Dalmatian breeder and a member of Aunt Peg's kennel club. The two had known each other for years, and when Rachel had decided to expand the number of breeds she was approved to judge by applying for the remainder of the Non-Sporting group, Peg had offered to share her vast knowledge of Poodles.

Not to worry, Rachel had replied blithely. She'd been watching poodles from outside the ring for years. Besides, the AKC had a video available. She was sure she already knew quite enough to pass judgment on Peg's chosen breed. My aunt had hidden her outrage well, but I doubted that the two women had spoken since.

“You could go to the superintendent and get your money back,” I pointed out.

“I'm here now.” Peg's tone was heavy with disgruntlement. “The entry fee is the least of my worries. Zeke is bathed and trimmed and I've driven all this way. There's nothing to do but chalk it up to experience.”

All too often, that's showing dogs in a nutshell. Nine parts frustration for every one part elation.

“Is that all your stuff?” Aunt Peg asked. “Where's my nephew?” She peered around the setup as if she expected to find Davey hiding behind Eve or tucked inside a crate.

“Home with Bob. Much to my surprise, we have a new addition to the family.”

“Oh?” Sam, who'd gone back to working on Tar, swiveled to face me, suddenly attentive. “Is Bob getting married again?”

And they say women are catty.

“Not quite.” I smothered a grin.

Now that Bob is back in the neighborhood, there's a definite undercurrent of rivalry between the two men in my life. Sam feels it was underhanded of my ex-husband to put in an appearance soon after he left town. Bob believes that Sam was a cad for leaving Davey and me hanging.

So if my ex's name slips into the conversation a little more often than necessary when I'm talking to Sam, I'm not entirely sure I should be held accountable. Payback's a bitch, isn't it?

“Bob bought Davey a pony,” I said.

“A pony?” Aunt Peg looked up from unwrapping Zeke's ears. “Isn't that lovely? I had a pony when I was a little girl.”

“You did?”

“You shouldn't sound so surprised, Melanie. I'm sure there are scores of things you don't know about me.”

I was certain there were. And equally certain that I was better off not knowing most of them.

Sam and Peg already had their two Poodles brushed out. I patted the top of my rubber-matted grooming table and hoisted Eve up into place, then opened my tack box, got out a bunch of supplies, and quickly went to work.

“Speaking of surprises,” I said. “I had a visit from Aunt Rose yesterday, too.”

“Don't tell me,” said Peg. “She wanted you to take care of that puppy, didn't she?”

“What puppy?” asked Sam.

“A Dachshund. Just like the ones Aunt Peg shooed away so rudely earlier.”

“Aha.” Sam nodded knowingly.

“Now listen here, both of you.” She shook a comb in our direction. “For once, you can't place the blame on me. This problem is all Rose's doing.”

“With a little help from Peter and the puppy's breeder,” I said.

Peg had finished unwrapping Zeke's head and ears. Now she picked up a knitting needle and deftly parted the hair, resectioning so that she could put in the tight topknot he would wear into the ring. “I can't imagine what they were thinking. Anyone with an ounce of sense would know that the very idea of offering a live puppy at a charity auction is perfectly abhorrent.”

“I have to agree,” said Sam. “Where did the puppy come from?”

“I didn't find out,” I told him. “Though Rose said that he was very well bred. Apparently his sire won the variety at Westminster a couple of months ago. I was still trying to get the rest of the facts when Bob pulled up outside with the pony.”

“He brought a horse to your house?” Sam asked incredulously.

“I think that's sweet,” said Peg. “Stupid, mind you, but sweet.”

Eve was lying flat on the grooming table. I reached down and flipped her over so I could line-brush her other side. “Not a horse, a pony. They're the smaller version. Her name is Willow.”

Sam shook his head. “Where are you going to keep this pony, in the garage? The backyard? Maybe you could tie her to Davey's basketball hoop.”

“Actually, she already has a home. Willow's going to be staying at Long Ridge Pony Farm with a woman named Pam who teaches kids how to ride. They just stopped by for a visit.”

“Much like Rose,” Peg said disparagingly. “She had no idea who'd bred that puppy when we spoke, so I called Peter and asked him to check the name on the blue slip. It came from Marian Firth.”