Game of Dog Bones

by Laurien Berenson

  “You’re passing up a wonderful learning opportunity.”

  “How do you figure that?” I asked. “You’ve been lecturing me for years. It hardly seems possible you might have more stuff to say that I haven’t heard yet.”

  Aunt Peg looked at me down her nose. “I don’t see why. I learn new things all the time.”

  I juggled the heavy box to one side and pushed the button for the elevator. “Then it’s a good thing Sam will be listening to your entire talk. He’ll be able to fill me in on anything I miss.”

  The elevator door slid open. We fit ourselves inside. “Thank goodness one of my relatives is here to support me,” Aunt Peg sniffed.

  “Yes,” I said, punching the next button with more force than was strictly necessary. “Lucky you.”

  Sam was standing behind Aunt Peg, trying not to grin. He’d always been her favorite. I was used to that by now.

  “I should think you’d want a first-hand report on Victor Durbin’s specialty,” I mentioned. “It’s the Empire Club’s first attempt to stage an event—and in New York City, no less. I wonder if they’ve taken into account all the things that could possibly go wrong?”

  Aunt Peg considered that, then nodded. “You have a point. I suppose you’ll be making yourself useful, after all.”

  It was a small victory, but I’d take it. Especially as it meant I could now attend the specialty with a clear conscience.

  The conference room was open and waiting for us. Rows of folding chairs had already been set in place. There was a slide projector in the back of the room. A dais in the front held an empty table and a podium with a microphone. Behind it, a white screen had been pulled down from the ceiling.

  I put the box I’d been carrying down on the table. A hotel employee came over to make sure that Aunt Peg had everything she needed. Several Paugussett Club members had also been waiting for her arrival. They gathered around too.

  Aunt Peg appeared to be in good hands. That was all I needed to know. I sketched Sam a wave and made a hasty exit before my esteemed relative could change her mind.

  The Poodle show awaited downstairs. Excellent.

  The conference room had been quiet and nearly empty. By contrast, the ballroom on the second floor hummed with activity.

  Dog shows generate their own particular buzz of excitement. Some exhibitors thrive on the winning, and the thrill of competition. Others come to show off the best dogs that their breeding programs have produced. Many treat the shows as social events, since they’re a wonderful opportunity to spend a day surrounded by friends.

  Indeed, the first dog shows were simply gatherings of neighbors who brought their dogs together for the purpose of debating their relative merits. Though the sport has grown tremendously since then, at its core, not a lot has changed.

  Breeders still strive to produce the finest dogs they can, always bearing in mind the purpose for which the breed was intended. And judges and exhibitors still argue over which dog is actually the best. It all makes for a lively exchange. As well as the occasional impassioned dispute.

  A specialty is a dog show devoted to a single breed of dog. On this weekend before Westminster, a dozen different breed clubs were holding specialties in Manhattan. With the top dogs coming to New York for the big show, it made sense for the clubs to capitalize on the influx of out-of-town exhibitors. In various ballrooms around the city, spectators could enjoy watching Boston Terriers, Pekingese, and French Bulldogs all strut their stuff.

  The ballroom I entered, however, held only Poodles. Just what I wanted to see.

  A large rectangular ring had been set up in the center of the room. Though it was currently empty, the perimeter of the floor had already been lined with nonslip mats. The judge’s table was in place. All was ready for business.

  The day’s exhibitors had arranged their setups around the outside of the ring. Crates were stacked. Tack boxes were open. Blow dryers were in use. Dozens of Poodles were already out on their tabletops, being groomed. Thanks to the layout of the room, exhibitors would be able to prepare their dogs and spectate at the same time.

  According to the judging schedule, Standard Poodles would be shown first. They were followed by the Miniatures, then Toys. As the largest variety, Standards took the longest to prepare for the ring. It was no surprise, then, that most tables held the bigger dogs, while the Minis and Toys waited their turn in nearby crates.

  I paused just inside the doorway to the room. It only took me a few seconds to locate my good friends Crawford Langley and his life partner and handling assistant, Terry Denunzio. When I spotted their setup, my eyebrows rose. Even in the crowded ballroom, Terry was hard to miss.

  Which was probably the point, I thought, smothering a laugh.

  Terry has a flamboyant streak a mile wide. Since the last time I’d seen him, he had changed his hair color again. Blond before, he’d now opted for a shade not often found in nature.

  Perhaps he’d been inspired by the Westminster’s own club colors, I realized. Either that or an eggplant. Standing out amidst the beautifully coiffed Poodles with their black, brown, and white coats, Terry’s hair was a brilliant shade of purple. I wondered what Crawford thought of that.

  Probably not much.

  Terry and Crawford were opposites in many ways. Maybe that was why they made such a great couple. In his sixties, Crawford was staid and dignified. The consummate professional, he’d been at the top of the handling game for more years than I’d been going to dog shows. Terry was closer to my age; we were both edging toward forty. He was a blithe, free spirit who took almost nothing seriously. Except his longstanding relationship with Crawford.

  I made my way quickly through the setups that clogged the area between us. Some of the exhibitors I passed were familiar to me, as we were frequent competitors at the local shows. Others had come from all over the country; they were in town now for the Westminster show. Previously I’d only seen their Poodles on the pages of the glossy canine publications. I couldn’t wait to have a chance to admire them in person.

  “Air kiss,” Terry said as I approached. There was a white Standard Poodle lying down on the grooming table between us. He leaned over it and aimed a pair of smooches in my general direction.

  I followed suit. It wouldn’t do to muss his make-up. Then I walked around the table, lifted a hand, and feathered it through his locks. “Really?” I said.

  He batted his eyes. “Don’t you love it?”

  “I don’t know.” I tipped my head to one side and considered the look. “I’m still deciding. What does Crawford think?”

  The older handler was standing no more than four feet away. He must have heard my question. Even so, he didn’t turn around. I sighed and looked at Terry. He frowned, then gave a slight shrug.

  Apparently I still hadn’t been forgiven.

  The previous summer I’d done something that betrayed Crawford’s trust. I knew he was a very private person—and that he wouldn’t appreciate my delving into his past. Sam had warned me not to do it. But at the time the risk had seemed worth taking.

  I’d learned what I needed to know, and Terry had been enormously grateful for the way things had turned out. But despite his efforts to bring about a reconciliation, my relationship with Crawford had been strained ever since.

  “Good morning, Melanie,” the handler said now. He still didn’t turn around. “Standards go in the ring in less than an hour. We’re a little busy here.”

  Well. I guessed that meant I wouldn’t be sticking around to chat.

  “It’s okay,” Terry said quickly. He reached out and laid a hand on my arm so I wouldn’t move away. “I’m a man of many talents. I can talk and brush at the same time.”

  Crawford harrumphed under his breath. I winced. Terry ignored him.

  “So,” he said brightly. “Where’s McDreamy today?”

  He was referring to Sam, of course. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who had a crush on my husband. And no wonder. Sam had slate blue eye
s, a killer smile, and charm to spare. Not to mention that body.

  “You know Sam hates it when you call him that,” I said.

  “Yes, I know. Ask me if I care.” Terry stuck out his tongue. “If he was here, I wouldn’t do it. Hence the question.”

  “He’s upstairs with Aunt Peg. You know, at PPC’s judging seminar?”

  Terry picked up his pin brush and went back to work while we talked. The white Standard on the table had her eyes closed. She was probably asleep.

  “Of course I know about the seminar. Who doesn’t? Margaret Turnbull offering a master class in evaluating a Poodle for the show ring? This weekend, that’s probably the hottest ticket in town.”

  “Don’t let Aunt Peg hear you say that.” I laughed. “Her ego is big enough as it is.”

  “And justifiably so,” Crawford muttered. Still facing the other way, he’d declined to join our conversation. But he was obviously paying attention.

  “Anyway, I don’t know about a hot ticket,” I said. “The seminar is full, but it would have drawn a bigger crowd if Victor Durbin hadn’t scheduled this show to take place opposite it.”

  Terry looked surprised. “You think he did that on purpose?”

  “Don’t you?”

  Terry considered the question. “I knew there was bad blood between them. Peg was on the board when he was kicked out of the Paugussett Club, wasn’t she?”

  I nodded.

  “But that happened years ago. Is he still holding a grudge?” Terry looked around for a misting bottle.

  I plucked one off a nearby table and handed it to him. “You tell me. The date for Aunt Peg’s seminar was announced more than a year ago. The Empire Club could have scheduled their specialty to take place yesterday. But they didn’t. Victor’s the one who created the conflict. It seems to me like he wanted to draw a line on the ground between them, then make people choose sides.”

  I paused to gaze around the room. “Speaking of Victor, I haven’t seen him yet. I assume he must be here somewhere?”

  “Oh, he’s here all right.” Terry smirked. “Last time I saw him, he was strutting around the ballroom like a rooster who thought he owned the barnyard.”

  “That figures.” I sighed. “This place is crammed with Poodles. His specialty drew a terrific entry. Victor must be feeling very pleased with himself.”

  “Points are points, Melanie,” Crawford interjected. “And Victor hired a fine Poodle judge in Louise Bixby. Some of us have to take our opportunities where we find them.”

  Strictly speaking, I knew that wasn’t true. For a handler like Crawford there would always be judges who enjoyed seeing him in their show ring, and who were more than happy to reward the dogs he brought them. Crawford never lacked for opportunities to win.

  To be fair, however, I could also understand the appeal of wanting to nab a nice win now, right before Westminster. All the top competitors were in town. For this one week, the attention of the entire dog community would be focused on New York City.

  A success here would be a big feather in any handler’s cap. Not only that, but a specialty win today would give a dog added impetus to do well in the breed judging at Westminster tomorrow.

  “I’d like to see a topknot in that Standard,” Crawford mentioned pointedly.

  Terry had just finished brushing the Standard bitch. He sat her up on the table. Reaching into the tack box, he grabbed a knitting needle for making parts and a bag of tiny, colored rubber bands.

  “It’s coming right now,” he said.

  “Maybe if your fingers were moving as fast as your mouth, it would already be in place,” Crawford replied.

  I was pretty sure that was my cue to move along. Considering how prickly Crawford had been lately, I had no intention of over staying my welcome. At least not any more than I already had.

  “I’ll see you guys later,” I said. “Good luck! Louise Bixby should love your Mini special. Topper’s been on a roll.”

  Topper was Champion Gold Dust High Top, a sparkling apricot Miniature Poodle with whom Crawford had been tearing up the show ring for the previous three months. A finished champion—also known as a specials dog—he was entered both here and on Monday at Westminster. I knew Crawford and Terry were really hoping that the Mini would win the variety there and go on to compete in the Non-Sporting Group.

  “Shush!” said Terry. “Don’t jinx us.” He glanced at his partner to see if he’d heard me.

  I hadn’t expected that. “Since when did Crawford become superstitious?”

  Terry rolled his eyes as if he was surprised I even had to ask. And maybe he had a point.

  “It’s Westminster week,” he said. “Everyone wants a win here more than anything. That means we’re all on edge.”

  Chapter 3

  The next person I ran into was Bertie Kennedy.

  A tall, striking redhead, Bertie was a professional handler who specialized in the herding and non-sporting breeds. She and I had originally met at a dog club meeting. We’d been friends for several years before she married my younger brother, Frank, and became my sister-in-law.

  Hands down, that was the luckiest day in Frank’s life.

  Not that I don’t love my brother, but trust me when I say that Bertie was by far the better catch of the two. I don’t entirely understand what she sees in him but they are blissfully happy together. Bertie and Frank have two young children, Maggie and Josh. That, added to the fact that they are a two-career family, means that everyone is always busy.

  I don’t get to see Bertie nearly as often as I would like. So running into her here was a nice surprise.

  I threw my arms around Bertie and gave her a hug. “I didn’t know you were coming today. I thought Maggie would have an art class, or kung fu, or an ice hockey game. You know, something on the calendar that would keep you closer to home.”

  Okay, so I was a little hazy on the details. Sometimes it’s hard enough to keep my own kids’ schedules straight without having to remember everyone else’s too.

  “She does, but I skipped out anyway.” Bertie grinned. “I told Frank that since it was Westminster week, he was on his own when it came to child care.”

  “Good for you.” I could just picture the look on my brother’s face when he’d heard that. “You’re not showing today, are you?”

  Bertie was casually dressed in slacks and a turtleneck sweater. Plus, she didn’t have her hands on a Poodle. So I was guessing no.

  “Here? At Victor Durbin’s show? You must be joking. Peg would probably never forgive me.” Bertie wasn’t a member of the Paugussett Poodle Club, but she’d heard the stories. “Actually I’ve been running around the city since first thing this morning. There’s dog stuff going on everywhere. I already checked out the Pug and the Shih Tzu specialties. After I spend some time here, I’ll stop in on Peg’s seminar. Then I’m off to watch the Havanese do their thing.”

  While we’d been speaking, the steward had entered the ring. She began handing out numbered armbands to the Standard Poodle handlers who were gathering at the gate. The woman was tall and wiry. Her short black hair formed a sleek cap around her head. She performed the task quickly and efficiently, and she had a smile ready for each exhibitor.

  “That’s Hannah Bly,” I said.

  “Friend of yours?” Bertie asked.

  “More of an acquaintance. She used to be a member of PPC. Before.”

  “Before Victor, you mean?”

  I nodded.

  Bertie deepened her voice to a low rumble. “Before she went over to the Dark Side?”

  “Precisely.” We both laughed.

  I realized I’d forgotten to buy a catalog and dashed away to pick one up. When I returned, Louise Bixby had arrived to begin her assignment. An attractive woman in her late forties, she looked like a judge who knew what she wanted, and who had every intention of finding it in her ring this afternoon. She was wearing a lovely designer suit, paired with minimal jewelry and sensible shoes. Aunt Peg would have approved
all of her choices.

  Mrs. Bixby took stock of the judging table. She rearranged her ribbons and opened her book. Bertie and I grabbed a couple of chairs and sat down to watch.

  The first classes were divided by sex and open to Poodles who had yet to complete their championships. Entrants were competing for a portion of the fifteen points that were required to become “finished” champions. The specialty show had a large entry, so there were majors—awards of three to five points—available in all three varieties. With that much on the line, the competition was going to be fierce.

  The first class to enter the ring was Standard Puppy Dogs. Four dog-and-handler pairs filed through the gate and lined up along the mat. At first glance, they all looked wonderful. No surprise, considering that it was Westminster week.

  As soon as the Poodle puppies appeared, I put all thoughts of Victor Durbin aside. It was time to sit back and enjoy the show.

  “This should be great,” I said to Bertie. “I’m not even showing and I’m tingling with anticipation.”

  “I know what you mean,” she replied. “Victor may be an idiot, but Mrs. Bixby was an excellent choice to judge his specialty. She drew a terrific entry.”

  The handlers set up their puppies. Louise Bixby stepped to the opposite side of the ring and ran her gaze down the line, studying the dogs as a group. After a minute she lifted her hands, indicating it was time to gait the puppies around the arena for the first time.

  Although we were outside the ring, Bertie and I began to judge the class too. Other spectators around us were doing the same thing. Judging dogs was a subjective exercise and we all had opinions. Mrs. Bixby’s opinions were the only ones that mattered today, but that didn’t stop the rest of us from mentally reshuffling the line into an order that we liked better.

  The brown puppy was plain and lacking in underjaw, I decided. The small black dog was too immature to win in this company. The bigger black puppy was very handsome. I loved his balance and the way he moved. He would be my class winner. There was a white puppy who also possessed many admirable attributes. I decided I would place him second.