Chow Down Read online

  “Sounds yummy,” said a voice from the next setup. “Chow Down. What self-respecting dog wouldn’t want to dive right into a bowl of that?”

  The voice, and the arch delivery, belonged to Terry Denunzio. He was partners with one of the top Poodle handlers in the Northeast, Crawford Langley, and the two of them were frequent competitors of ours.

  We often set up next to one another at the shows, as Terry was always entertaining to be around. He’d never seen an occasion he couldn’t turn into a party. Even Crawford, who was quite a bit older and supremely dignified, had finally begun to turn a benevolent eye toward his handsome partner’s shenanigans.

  Bearing that in mind, I wondered what the handler thought about Terry’s current outfit. Usually impeccably dressed, today Terry had veered off the straight and narrow and was heading directly toward camp. His muted plaid shirt was crisply ironed, his silk tie a complementary shade of steel blue. But inexplicably he’d wound a lavender feather boa around his neck.

  Every few minutes a stray breeze would waft under the grooming tent and the feathers would ripple and lift into his mouth. Unfazed, Terry would spit them out and keep grooming. If he wasn’t going to acknowledge the eccentricity of his attire, I certainly wasn’t going to bring it up.

  “I don’t think Faith would actually have to eat the stuff every day,” I said. I’d been feeding another brand of kibble for years and wasn’t looking to make any changes. “All she’d have to do is look as though she likes it when they’re filming.”

  “So much for truth in advertising,” said Terry.

  “Is there truth in advertising?” Bertie raised a brow. “I wasn’t aware of that.”

  “Funny,” I said. “And don’t worry, it’s not going to come up. Faith isn’t going to win. I didn’t even find out about this stupid contest until she was already one of the finalists. The only reason she’s still in it is because it’s too late for us to back out.”

  “I can’t believe you want out,” said Terry. He was running a comb through a small, ice-white Maltese. “I can think of at least a dozen people here today who’d give anything to be in your position.”

  “Really?” That surprised me. “Here?”

  “Why not here? This is a dog show, isn’t it? That’s the whole point of Champions’ new campaign. Chow Down is supposed to be a premium brand, marketed toward breeders and exhibitors.”

  Aunt Peg had said something about that as well. Was I the only one who was oblivious to the latest developments in dog food? I glanced over at Bertie, who shrugged. Maybe it was a Mom thing. We had other stuff to worry about.

  “A couple of our clients entered their dogs in the contest,” said Terry. “We had to scramble around to get them just the right kind of pictures. One even sent a professional photographer over to the kennel to do a photo shoot.”

  “I think Davey emailed a couple of photos he’d snapped of her around the house with his digital camera,” I said with a laugh.

  “Don’t tell that to Allison and Bill Redding. They were promoting their Brittany, Ginger, as a triple threat. You know, conformation and obedience, plus she competes in field trials, too.”

  “Is that all?” I said, still laughing. “Faith can probably keep up. Let’s see . . . She’s a champion, she has her CD in obedience, and I’m pretty sure she’ll jump through a hoop if you hold a biscuit on the other side.”

  “There you are, then,” said Bertie. “She’s a natural.”

  “Marion Beckwith entered Harry,” said Terry.

  My scissoring slowed. “Her husband?”

  “No, Harry the Bernese Mountain Dog.”

  “Now that you mention it, her husband looks like a Bernese Mountain Dog,” Bertie commented.

  “Isn’t his name Harry?” I was still confused.

  “No, he’s Harvey,” Terry told me.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. Harvey’s the one who signs the checks that pay our bills.”

  “And they have a dog named Harry?”

  “And a daughter named Hettie.” Terry sighed. “Don’t even ask.”

  I didn’t and we all went back to work. Poodles were due in the ring in twenty minutes.

  Hardly any time had passed before Terry looked up again. “Speaking of which—”

  “Which what?” Bertie had finished putting in the topknot. Now she was looking around in her tack box for hair spray. “Harry or Harvey?”

  “Neither.”

  “Then we weren’t speaking of them.”

  “Don’t be so literal,” Terry rolled his eyes. He relished the role of drama queen and lived up to the title with gusto. “Is it any wonder I like men better than women? A man would at least let you get an entire thought out before interrupting.”

  “That’s probably because he wouldn’t be listening in the first place,” I said.

  Bertie nodded in agreement. Terry ignored us both.

  “Speaking of husbands,” he said in a chiding tone and directing the question to me, “where’s yours? He didn’t want Tar to add another group or Best in Show to his record?”

  My scissors were moving fast again, snicking tiny bits of hair off the rounded bracelets on the Standard Poodle’s legs. I didn’t pause or turn to look at Terry as I replied, but he knew the drill. He hadn’t expected me to. “Sam’s not here because he didn’t think today’s judge would be likely to appreciate Tar’s better qualities.”

  “I can’t imagine why not. Cruella Melville is a very discerning judge.”

  “Drucilla Melville,” Bertie corrected him without missing a beat. “And she is very discerning. She just happens to judge the wrong end of the lead.”

  Politics. It was a common problem at dog shows, exacerbated by a system that rewarded judges for applying for additional breeds whether they felt qualified to preside over them or not. Judges who had faith in their own abilities rewarded the best dogs. Those who didn’t often relied on an exhibitor’s reputation to guide them to a correct decision. Professional handlers flocked to judges like that; owner-handlers knew better and stayed home.

  “Of course, darling,” said Terry. He and Crawford were among Mrs. Melville’s favorite exhibitors. “That’s why we’re here.”

  “Me, too,” Bertie admitted. “I know it’s not fair but my dogs will get their share, my owners will be happy, and it pays the bills.”

  The reality of dog show life.

  “Sam and Davey are spending the day building a tree house,” I told Terry.

  Bertie glanced over. “I thought they were working on that two days ago.”

  “They were. It’s turning out to be a big project. At this rate, I wouldn’t be surprised if it keeps them busy all summer.”

  “Who’s busy this summer?” asked Aunt Peg.

  I jumped slightly as she came up behind me. Luckily I’d been talking rather than scissoring at the time. You wouldn’t think that a woman who was nearly six feet tall would be so light on her feet. Then again, Aunt Peg has plenty of surprising facets. The ability to keep everyone on their toes whenever she was in the vicinity was merely one of them.

  “Where did you come from?” I asked.

  “Ring six, Tibetan Spaniels. I’m thinking of applying for them next and they had an excellent entry today. It was well worth watching Danny Zimmer sort them out.”

  After decades of breeding and showing her own Poodles, Aunt Peg had applied for and been granted her judge’s license several years ago. Her first breed had been Poodles, of course, then gradually she added other breeds from the Non-Sporting and Toy groups to her roster. Despite her years of experience in the dog show world, she still soaked up knowledge like a sponge. And when Aunt Peg was hired to judge, professional handlers and owner-handlers alike hurried to enter under her.

  “Sam and Davey are building a tree house,” I said in answer to her first question.

  Peg looked at me as though I was daft. “I know that.”

  “It’s why they’re not here.”
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br />   She crossed her arms over her chest and stared. Maybe Terry had been giving her drama lessons. “How about telling me something I don’t know?”

  “Okay,” I said. “According to Terry, half the people who entered that ridiculous dog food contest are here today.”

  “Really?” Her gaze swung his way, eyes passing over the lavender boa without comment. “How do you know that?”

  “I always have the latest gossip.”

  All too true. Terry usually had the best haircut and the smallest waist, too.

  “I presume you called and relinquished your spot as one of the five finalists?” Aunt Peg said to me.

  “I called and tried.”

  “You didn’t succeed?” The notion was as foreign to Peg as it was repugnant. “How is that possible?”

  “Apparently by submitting the entry, I agreed to abide by the contest rules, one of which was that I couldn’t back out.”

  “Except that you didn’t submit the entry.”

  “Semantics,” I said. “Under the circumstances.”

  “Well, then.” Aunt Peg rubbed her hands together. She didn’t sound entirely displeased. “If that’s the way things are going to be, let’s have ourselves a look at the competition.”

  “Terry was telling us about a Brittany named Ginger,” said Bertie. “Did she make the finals?”

  “So I’ve heard,” Terry replied. “Ad nauseum, if you’d like to know.”

  “That would be the Reddings,” said Aunt Peg. She knows just about everybody. “They’ll be hard to beat.”

  “Not a problem.” I’d finished scissoring, now I was spraying up. “I don’t want to win, remember?”

  “Of course you’re going to win, you’re the one with the Poodle.” Aunt Peg didn’t think twice about overriding my objection. She turned back to Terry. “Who else?”

  “Lisa and Larry Kim.”

  Peg looked briefly stumped but Bertie was able to fill us in. “Yorkies,” she said. “Nice ones, too. I’ve shown against them plenty. Larry’s tough, I wouldn’t want to get in his way.”

  Aunt Peg nodded her approval. Toughness she understands. I knew she was handicapping the race in her head and I suspected she was finding her relatives wanting. “And?”

  “Dorothy Foyle and MacDuff.”

  “Hey, wait a minute! I love MacDuff,” I said, surprised. The Scottish Terrier was a relentless and venerable campaigner, winner of countless Best in Shows. He’d been retired with great fanfare the previous year. “You’d think he’d have done enough already. I wonder why he was entered in the contest.”

  “Probably because he’s won everything else but,” Terry sniped.

  “That’s four,” said Bertie, looking down at her watch. “Hurry up, Terry. We’re almost due at the ring.”

  He stopped brushing the Maltese and counted silently on his fingers. Luckily there were only five finalists. “Who’d I miss?”

  “We don’t know,” I said impatiently. Bertie was right, we needed to get the Poodles down off their tables and start heading over to the ring. I saw Crawford threading his way through the other setups, probably coming back to get his own Poodles. “You’re the guy with the gossip.”

  “Shhh, not so loud.” Terry dropped his voice. He saw Crawford coming, too. “It’s Brando.”

  Bertie’s head whipped around. Aunt Peg’s eyes widened. Either response would have gotten my attention. Both, brought me up short.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Brando the Boxer.”

  “Oh dear,” said Aunt Peg.

  “Ditto,” said Bertie.

  That didn’t sound good, did it?

  4

  “What are you doing standing around talking?”

  Crawford asked. “Toy bitches are already in the ring.” He leveled a look at Terry. “Were you going to bring me my specials dog or did you expect Drucilla to come over here and judge him at the setup?”

  “Oops,” Terry muttered. He slid the Maltese into an empty crate and swept Crawford’s Toy Poodle up off another grooming table. Fortunately, aside from the bright pink vet wrap holding the little dog’s ear hair in place, he was ready to go.

  Crawford reached over and plucked the silver Toy out of Terry’s arms. “This late, you’d better bring the Minis. You know Drucilla, she doesn’t waste any time. Hey Peg, nice to see you.”

  The handler spun around and was gone again before anyone had a chance to utter a word.

  “Who put a bee in his bonnet?” asked Bertie.

  “It’s nothing,” Terry said quickly. “Absolutely nothing. All my fault.”

  Interesting, I thought. Terry never voluntarily took the blame for anything; indeed he never needed to. The man was made of Teflon. He’d never seen a sticky situation he couldn’t wiggle out of with aplomb. Something was definitely up.

  I would have asked Aunt Peg what she thought but, ever practical, she was already moving to lend a hand. She slipped between the rows of crates that marked the end of Bertie’s setup and the beginning of Crawford’s. Terry had three Miniature Poodles—all brushed out, sprayed up, and ready to go to ringside—and two arms.

  “I’ve got one,” Peg told him. “Let’s go.”

  That left Bertie and me with her two, the Standard dog I’d been working on, and her Mini entry that was apparently due in the ring shortly. We loaded up gear and Poodles and joined the caravan heading across the grassy expanse between the grooming tent and the rings.

  By the time we reached Drucilla Melville’s ring, Crawford and his silver special were already inside and being judged. He’d been right, we were running late. Quickly I consulted with the steward and picked up our numbered armbands. I was sliding a rubber band up Bertie’s arm to hold the numbers in place when Crawford was awarded Best of Variety.

  Mrs. Melville made short work of her Mini dogs, then it was Bertie’s turn in the ring with the bitch. She beat Crawford to win the Open class, then picked up two points and the purple Winners ribbon. Minutes later, both handlers lost to another pro in Best of Variety.

  Waiting next to the gate, I took Bertie’s Mini when she exited the ring and handed over her Standard dog. Since Bertie had already gotten her share of the winnings in Minis, neither one of us was surprised when her Standard Poodle managed to garner only a low ribbon in his class.

  “How stupid is that,” she said, as we headed back to the setup. “He’s a better Poodle than the Mini. And he was better than the competition he was showing against.”

  “Yes, but Drucilla didn’t know that,” I pointed out. It was easy for me to be sanguine about the outcome. I wasn’t the one who had just lost when I should have won. “All she knows is that if each of the pros who gave her an entry gets something to show for his efforts, everyone will go home happy.”

  Aunt Peg clucked her tongue. Crawford and Terry had gone back to the grooming tent after the Minis had finished, but Peg had stayed behind to watch the Standard judging. “You’re beginning to sound like a cynic.”

  “Make that a realist,” I said. “I didn’t see you showing under her.”

  “You’re right about that,” Aunt Peg admitted. “On the other hand, I hardly show under anyone anymore.”

  Now that Peg was judging more frequently, she was concerned about the perceived conflict of interest in exhibiting under her peers. Instead, agility had become her new love. She and her Poodles had begun to compete in trials all over New England.

  “I shouldn’t complain,” said Bertie. “Gina got two points. Her owners will be thrilled. I’m just sorry my other dog got robbed.”

  Back at the setups, Terry was drinking a diet soda. Crawford had disappeared again. I deposited the Mini I was carrying onto a grooming table and said, “So?”

  Three pairs of eyes turned my way.

  “Brando?” I prompted.

  Surely I shouldn’t have had to remind them. Before Crawford had interrupted us, both Peg and Bertie had looked like impending doom at the mere mention of the Boxer’s name. Our
half-hour break to show dogs—admittedly the reason we’d come in the first place—hadn’t been exciting enough that I would have forgotten that.

  “Oh right,” said Bertie. She was running the end of a comb through the Standard Poodle’s topknot, popping out the tiny colored rubber bands that had held the elaborate structure in place. “Bad news there.”

  “He belongs to Ben O’Donnell,” said Aunt Peg. As if that explained everything. Which of course it didn’t.

  Since my relatives weren’t proving to be much help, I turned to Terry. His Minis were back in their crates. The silver Toy was lying daintily on a folded towel, awaiting his turn in the group. And Terry was plucking at the Maltese again.

  “Who is Ben O’Donnell?” I asked. “And if you want to throw in a little information on Brando, I wouldn’t mind that, either.”

  “Ben’s an actor,” said Terry.

  “He was an actor,” Bertie corrected. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him. Moments in the Sun?”

  “The soap opera?” I asked. “Definitely not my thing. I work during the day, remember? What else might I have seen him in?”

  “There was a corn chip commercial,” said Terry. “And another for a new pickup truck.”

  “That one was a hoot,” Bertie said. “Ben was dressed up in cowboy boots and a big hat, and cows were milling around everywhere. Bear in mind we’re talking about a guy who thinks that suburbs are the wide-open spaces. He looked pretty silly trying to walk bowlegged and pretending he was chewing tobacco.”

  “I saw that,” said Peg. “Ben looked like he was afraid all those cattle might stampede and take him along for the ride. And I don’t think he ever managed to drive the truck.”

  “Okay, so he’s an actor,” I said. “Perhaps not a very good one. And Brando’s a Boxer. There must be more to the story than that. Is Brando a good dog?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Bertie. “He doesn’t have to be. Ben only shows to women judges.”

  “He’s very hetero.” Terry sighed. “More’s the pity.”

  I was beginning to get the picture. “And very good-looking, I assume?”