Game of Dog Bones

by Laurien Berenson

  “In the ring?” Sam said, surprised.

  “Nearly. They were standing by the in-gate. I can’t imagine what Victor was thinking.”

  “Nor can I.” Olivia’s lips pursed in annoyance.

  “What were they talking about? Surely it couldn’t have been Topper’s win. He’ll be one of the favorites in tomorrow’s group. Today should have been a cakewalk for him.” Sam had posed the question, but the other two women were curious too. All three leaned in to hear the answer.

  “You would think,” I told them. “But it seems as though nothing about the judging has gone as expected so far. Unfortunately, I was too far away to hear what Victor and Mrs. Bixby were saying.”

  “It serves Victor Durbin right if his specialty has to take a few lumps,” Mattie said stoutly. “When I heard that he’d purposely scheduled the show to conflict with Peg’s seminar, all I could think was, ‘Isn’t that just like Victor?’ I didn’t know him long—he left PPC only a few months after I joined. But I remember that he liked to ride roughshod over people. He always thought that what he wanted mattered more than anyone else’s wishes.”

  “You’re quite right,” Olivia agreed. “Victor Durbin is not an honorable man. Peg took much of the heat stemming from the decision to expel him from the club, but she and I were both on the board at the time. I believed just as strongly as she did that Victor had to go. Indeed, the vote was nearly unanimous.”

  “I was a newbie back then, so I wasn’t privy to much of what was going on,” said Mattie. “His expulsion had something to do with his breeding practices, didn’t it?”

  “It did,” Sam confirmed. “As we all know, PPC is a club dedicated to the preservation and betterment of the Poodle breed. It’s baffling how Victor ever thought he could remain a member in good standing while engaging in a practice our charter expressly forbids—allowing his Mini dogs to be used as studs to create mixed breed puppies for sale to pet stores.”

  “Victor claimed to have repented after we kicked him out,” Olivia told us. “But that was a bald-faced lie. The man has always been a bit of a cad, but now I’m afraid there isn’t a decent shred of moral fiber left in him. If anything, his behavior has only gotten worse.”

  I hadn’t heard about that. Probably because Aunt Peg remained mostly mum on the subject of Victor Durbin since news of their scheduling conflict had first become known. Now I had no qualms about pumping Olivia for information.

  “Are you referring to his specialty?” I asked. “Or is there something else?”

  “With Victor there’s always something else.” Olivia issued a small, ladylike snort. “My Lord, I’ve known that man since he was barely old enough to wear long pants. In those days, I admired his persistence. He was always busy, always on the lookout for new opportunities. I thought those traits would serve him well. And they would have, if he hadn’t turned around and headed in the entirely wrong direction.”

  “Victor’s gotten some things right,” Sam mentioned. “His Victory Haven Kennel produced some nice Miniature Poodles through the years.”

  “Yes, it did,” Olivia allowed. “But that’s not enough to make me want to forgive his other transgressions. His newest venture is a puppy café in Tarrytown. Have you heard about that?”

  I shook my head. “Is it one of those coffee shops that has puppies running around for customers to play with while they drink their lattes? I once read about something like that, but it was in another country.”

  “I believe the idea started in Japan,” Mattie interjected. “But kitty and puppy cafés are getting to be all the rage here too.”

  “So of course Victor was interested,” Olivia continued, frowning. “As I understand it, some café owners offer adoptable pets as playmates for their clientele. But Victor took a different approach. The puppies that entice dog lovers into his café are for sale. He brags that the Doodles and Schnoodles he has are better than the usual designer dogs because his are sired by champion Poodles.”

  “That’s pretty low,” I said.

  Sam and Mattie nodded.

  “It gets even worse,” Olivia told us. “Victor doesn’t bother to check out his puppy buyers to make sure they’ll make good homes. He just takes their money and lets them walk out the door with a dog. Nor does he do any genetic testing on his stock, because the pet market doesn’t demand it. As for the puppies’ dams, anything goes as long as the breeder—and I use that term loosely—is willing to give Victor half of the resulting litter to sell in his café.”

  “You’re very well informed about what Victor’s been up to,” Sam said.

  “There’s a reason for that.” Olivia sighed. “Victor’s mother is one of my dearest friends. Which makes his behavior even more disappointing. It’s gotten so that Bonnie and I can barely hold a decent conversation anymore. I find myself cringing every time she brings up his name.”

  “I don’t blame you,” I said.

  “Me neither,” Mattie retorted.

  Olivia gave us a small smile, then turned away. She was ready to change the subject. “It looks like Peg’s about to get things rolling again. Let’s find our seats, shall we? I can’t wait to hear what other treats she has in store for us.”

  Chapter 5

  Isat down next to Sam as Aunt Peg resumed her talk. Half an hour later, Bertie came up from downstairs and slipped in beside us.

  Aunt Peg had come prepared with a plethora of good information to convey to her audience. And demo dog, Riley, kept us entertained with his Poodley antics. But I’d spent much of my recent life being lectured to by Aunt Peg. So I didn’t find the experience of sitting through yet another lesson to be nearly as stimulating as the other participants did. When she finally began to wind down an hour and a half later, I was ready to move on.

  Although Aunt Peg had finished her talk, she continued to field questions from the audience. Sam and I gathered our things. I prepared to stand up. Actually I was preparing to make a beeline out the door.

  “Someone had better go up there and stop her,” I told Sam under my breath. “You know Aunt Peg. She could talk about Poodles all day and night.”

  “There goes Olivia now.” Sam gestured toward the older woman. “She’ll take care of it. Besides, Peg has a meeting with the network people this afternoon. She wouldn’t want to be late for that.”

  Oh, right. I’d forgotten. Seven groups plus Best in Show would be judged on Monday and Tuesday nights at Madison Square Garden. All eight prime-time judges were getting together with representatives of FOX Sports this afternoon to talk about their schedules and responsibilities.

  Previous years’ judges had told Aunt Peg that the network liaisons had mostly stressed the need for efficiency and dispatch in selecting the winners. Television wasn’t a leisurely medium. And the time slot for the Westminster show was only so long. Anyone who fell behind left his fellow judges with the unwelcome task of making up the lost time.

  I wasn’t worried about Aunt Peg. She was usually two steps ahead of everyone else when it came to making decisions. Lack of speed wasn’t going to be a problem for her.

  Unless she decided to pause and bask in the moment, I thought with a sigh. Much as she was doing now.

  Up at the front of the room, Olivia Wren was working on extricating Aunt Peg from the audience members who’d come forward and crowded around her. Olivia graciously thanked everyone for attending the symposium. She praised Aunt Peg for taking time out of her busy schedule to offer aspiring Poodle judges such a wonderful learning opportunity.

  The last bit was followed by an enthusiastic round of applause. Aunt Peg smiled and took a small bow.

  “Annnd we’re done,” said Bertie. She stood up and stretched. “I still have another specialty or two to check out, but I’ll see you guys tomorrow, right?”

  Monday was the first day of the Westminster show. Everyone would be there.

  “Of course,” Sam and I said together.

  After Bertie left, Aunt Peg appeared beside us. She’d alread
y put on her coat. Aunt Peg almost never wore hats, but now she had a cloche pulled down low over her eyes.

  “I am going to leave this room, go directly down to the lobby, then exit the hotel and walk straight to Madison Square Garden for my meeting,” she said. “I intend to look at my feet the entire time. This whole area of Manhattan is chock full of dog people. Mindful of my assignment tomorrow night, I don’t want to even see anyone who might want me to stop and socialize.”

  Judging the Non-Sporting Group at Westminster would be the highlight of Aunt Peg’s career. I could well understand why she didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize the perception of her impartiality. Even so, I hoped she didn’t bump into a lamp post.

  “Now I have jobs for each of you,” she added.

  Of course she did.

  “Sam, can you retrieve the grooming table and make sure it makes its way back to the car?”

  “Certainly.” Since he’d brought the table in, I was pretty sure Sam had already figured he was taking it back out.

  Aunt Peg nodded toward the dais behind her. “Melanie, I need you to return Riley to the specialty. I promised Crawford I’d have the dog back in his setup before the end of the show.”

  “Easy peasy,” I told her.

  We agreed to meet at the parking garage in an hour. Flanked by several PPC board members, Aunt Peg hurried out the door. She was still talking. It figured.

  The conference room was still more than half full. None of the attendees seemed in any hurry to leave. Numerous dog fanciers had come from other parts of the country for the Westminster show. The events surrounding it were all about networking and socializing.

  Sam and I made our way to the front of the room where Riley was lying on his table waiting for us. As we approached, an African American man walked toward the big Poodle from the other side. The man held out his hand. Riley lifted his head and sniffed the extended fingers. The Poodle’s tail began to wag.

  The man looked up and saw us coming. He had pleasant features framed by a pair of glasses with thick, black frames. “That’s a nice looking dog. Friendly too. Is he yours?”

  “No, but he belongs to a friend of ours,” I said. “We’re about to return him to the dog show downstairs.”

  “You mean Victor’s show.” The man smiled. “The Poodle show, right? I’m Clark Donnay. I don’t know a thing about dog shows, but Victor and I are partners in a café in Tarrytown. It’s called the Pooch Pub. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

  Sam and I shared a look.

  “We have,” Sam told him.

  Clark’s eyes lit up. “That’s great. Have you ever been there?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “We live in Connecticut.”

  “That’s not far,” Clark assured us. He stuck a hand in his pocket and pulled out a card. “Let me give you a coupon for a free coffee. Get your first visit off to a good start. Believe me, if you’re a dog lover, it’s worth the trip.”

  “Thanks.” I took the coupon and tucked it away without making any promises about its future use. I figured Sam and I were about as likely to visit the Pooch Pub as we were to see the Great Wall of China. But you never knew.

  “Nice meeting you both.” Clark started to leave, then turned back. He gestured toward Riley. “If your friend ever wants to stud out his dog, tell him to get in touch with Victor. I’m sure he can find some mates for him.”

  Sam looked struck dumb by the suggestion. We both knew there was no way in hell that was going to happen.

  But Clark looked so pleased with himself for making the offer that I found myself saying, “We appreciate the thought. It was nice to meet you too.”

  “We appreciate the thought?” Sam repeated when Clark was out of earshot. “Really?”

  “I was trying to be polite,” I said. “You heard what Clark told us. He doesn’t know anything about dog shows. I’m sure he has no idea that any reputable breeder would be insulted by his offer.”

  “That being the case”—Sam stared after Clark thoughtfully—“what do you suppose he was doing here at a seminar for aspiring judges?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he was killing time while Victor is busy downstairs.”

  At any rate, it wasn’t my problem. I had a Standard Poodle to attend to.

  I introduced myself to Riley, then opened up his tightly wrapped leash and hopped him down from the grooming table. The big black dog had no idea who I was, but in the way of all Poodles everywhere, he was delighted to make a new friend.

  Having been shown earlier, Riley was still fully done up for the ring. That had suited Aunt Peg’s purposes perfectly. But now that we were going to be on the move, Sam fished a couple of small rubber bands out of his pocket. I looped them quickly around the dog’s copious ear fringes to keep them out of the way. Terry would finish breaking down the Poodle’s hair-sprayed topknot and coat downstairs. Sam quickly folded up the grooming table and we were good to go.

  Down in the ballroom, the specialty show was almost over. Best of Breed was being judged. In the ring, the three variety winners were lined up in size order. A black Standard Poodle was at the head of the line. Crawford was next with Topper, the apricot Mini. A silver Toy Poodle brought up the rear.

  All three dogs looked fantastic. Each was being shown by a top professional handler. Crawford was local, but the Standard was from Texas and the Toy was a West Coast dog. All the heavy hitters were in town this week.

  Sam set down the folded grooming table just inside the door. I hustled Riley over to Crawford’s setup, where Terry was waiting. His eyes never left the activity in the ring as he lifted the Standard Poodle onto a table.

  “Topper looks great,” Sam said.

  Terry nodded. “So does the Toy, Sterling. Mrs. Bixby hasn’t taken her eyes off him since he walked into the ring.”

  That wasn’t a good sign. Mrs. Bixby had judged all three variety winners earlier. So when they returned to compete for the top award, presumably she should already know which one she favored.

  From my vantage point at the setup, I studied the three Poodles in the ring. I had disagreed with some of Mrs. Bixby’s previous choices. But now, looking at her three finalists, I couldn’t find fault with any of them. They were all deserving winners.

  The judge gaited the trio together one last time. They were still in size order. The Standard Poodle commanded attention at the head of line. His long stride ate up the length of the ring. Behind him, Crawford and Topper were flying along. The Mini was ahead of his handler, moving all on his own at the end of a fully extended lead.

  Sterling’s handler wisely made no attempt to keep up with the other two. Instead he let his much smaller Toy dog find his own best speed. Head cocked to one side, his attention focused on the judge, Sterling trotted around the ring as if he owned it.

  The entire crowd at ringside seemed to be holding its breath as we waited for Mrs. Bixby to make her choice. Finally she did, motioning the silver Toy over to the Best of Breed marker. The spectators erupted in applause. Sam and I joined in.

  Terry did not. I heard him sigh, then he turned away from the ring. “Oh well. At least Topper was beaten by a good one.”

  Sam nodded in agreement. “If Sterling shows like that tomorrow, he’ll be a threat in the group.”

  “The Toy Group.” Terry brightened at the thought.

  Standard and Mini Poodles both competed in the Non-Sporting Group. So Sterling and Topper wouldn’t cross paths again except in the unlikely eventuality that both Poodles won their respective groups and met in the Best in Show ring.

  Sam and I had to leave, but we waited for Crawford to return to the setup so Sam could congratulate him on his earlier BOV win. Crawford was philosophical about Topper’s loss for Best of Breed.

  “Tomorrow will go better,” I told him. Tomorrow Aunt Peg would be judging. I didn’t add that.

  Crawford slanted me a sharp look. “There’s no need to placate me, Melanie. Today was plenty good enough.”

  I snapped my mouth s
hut. I probably shouldn’t have opened it in the first place. I’d had no idea that my friendship with Crawford was built upon such a fragile foundation. Now I desperately wanted things between us to go back to the way they’d been. The problem was, I had no idea how to make that happen.

  “It’s time for us to go.” Sam grabbed my hand and turned me around. We headed for the door.

  “Don’t you dare say I told you so,” I muttered.

  Sam shook his head. “I’m not that dumb.”

  * * *

  When we reached the parking garage, Aunt Peg had Sam’s SUV waiting in the entrance with the motor running and the heat turned on full blast. I briefly wondered how she’d managed that since Sam still had the claim ticket in his pocket. Then I dismissed the thought. It was Aunt Peg. She’d simply made it happen.

  It wasn’t just cold on the city street, it was blustery too. The sun had disappeared behind the tall buildings to our west and wind gusts were whipping down the cross streets. I slid gratefully into the warm backseat as Sam stowed the grooming table in the rear.

  “I hope you thanked Crawford for the use of his Standard,” Aunt Peg said once we were on our way.

  Oops, I’d forgotten. “I’ll do it tomorrow,” I told her.

  Aunt Peg frowned. She wasn’t impressed by that promise. She pulled out her phone and sent the handler a text. If she was going to do that, why had she even asked?

  “Is Crawford still mad at you?” she inquired when she was finished.

  Now it was my turn to frown. She knew the answer to that. Sometimes it seemed like everybody knew the answer to that.

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “You never did tell me what you did to get on his wrong side,” she prodded.

  That was because it was a secret. Crawford’s secret, not mine. I hadn’t told anyone but Sam. And he knew how to keep his mouth shut.

  When I didn’t reply, she added, “Whatever it was, I’m sure you deserved his censure.”

  “She did,” Sam agreed.

  “Hey,” I piped up from the backseat. “That’s a matter of opinion.”