The Bark Before Christmas

by Laurien Berenson

  The classes are divided by sex and once they’ve been judged, the winners of each class go head to head to compete for the titles of Winners Dog and Winners Bitch. Only those two entrants receive points toward their championships; and the number of points they’re awarded is determined by the amount of competition that they’ve beaten on the day.

  A dog gets one point for beating a small entry and as many as five points for winning over a large one. Included within that fifteen point total, a champion must collect at least two major wins—meaning that he must defeat enough dogs to be awarded at least three points.

  The rule is a good one. It prevents an inferior dog from completing its championship by simply piling up single points against lower-level competition. But the quest for majors can also become a sticking point. Variables like time of year, breed of dog, and even the weather can have an effect on entries. It’s not uncommon for a deserving dog to “single out” and be stuck—and out of competition for several months or more—while he waits for a major entry to appear.

  At times like that, frustrated exhibitors have occasionally been known to give fate a nudge. The practice is called building a major and it involves calling around and cajoling other breeders to help make up the numbers. Dogs that might not be quite ring-ready are pulled out of ex-pens and backyards and entered in the designated show. And on that day, one lucky owner—usually but not always the architect of the entry—goes home with a major win.

  I sidled over to stand beside my sister-in-law.

  “Bertie,” I said softly. “What’s the matter?”

  “I stopped at the Toy ring to have a look at the new judge on my way back from Spitzes. Mr. Perkin was doing Open Dogs, and he’s measuring.”

  “Damn,” Sam said, but he didn’t sound surprised. He’d probably guessed what the problem was five minutes earlier.

  The Poodle breed’s three varieties are divided by height, as determined by measurement at the highest point of the shoulder. Toy Poodles are ten inches or under. Miniatures stand between ten and fifteen inches. Standards are any Poodle taller than fifteen inches.

  The height specifications aren’t just a recommendation. They are written into the breed standard as a requirement. And any Poodle that doesn’t fit underneath the wicket for its variety can be measured out by the judge and disqualified from competition.

  Most experienced Poodle judges simply eyeball a dog’s size. Breed experts often feel that attributes like type, conformation, and temperament are more important than an errant quarter-inch in height. And because bigger dogs stand out in the ring, exhibitors tend to show Toy and Mini Poodles that are “right up to size.”

  It’s not unusual for a slightly oversize Poodle to finish its championship. Experienced exhibitors know which judges are sticklers for size and plan their schedules accordingly. But Bartholomew Perkin—currently wielding his wicket in the Toy ring—had been an unknown quantity. And now Bertie was stuck.

  “It’s not my fault that your dog is too big,” Hannah said sternly. “The major is on the nose. If you don’t show him, we’re all out of luck.”

  “Think about it,” said Bertie. “If the judge measures Doodle out, he’ll be disqualified. Your major will break anyway. Plus Doodle will have a DQ on his record.” Not a trifling consideration, since three disqualifications would knock the dog out of competition permanently.

  “That’s a chance I’m willing to take.”

  “Well, I’m not. The dog is staying in his crate.”

  Hannah pursed her lips in annoyance. She considered for a moment, then tried another line of attack. “We don’t even know that Perkin plans to measure Minis. You might be giving away a major that your dog could have won. And how do you suppose his owner who’s been paying your bills for months, will feel about that when he finds out?”

  Bertie squared her shoulders. “Are you threatening me, Hannah?”

  “Surely not,” Sam said quickly. Ever the peacekeeper, he stepped between the two women. “Maybe we’d all like to take a minute to calm down and think about what we’re saying.”

  Aunt Peg, whose nose for trouble is unerring, chose that moment to reappear. “I’ve just been at the ring,” she informed us breathlessly. “It’s a madhouse up there. Bartholomew Perkin is measuring Toys and the rest of his entry is scattering like leaves in the wind.”

  Fire, meet gasoline.

  Five of us turned and stared. Only Kevin was oblivious. If there’s one thing Aunt Peg always knows how to do, it’s liven up the proceedings.

  After all that, the judging itself was anticlimactic.

  Aunt Peg took herself back to the Poodle ring to watch the drama unfold. Doodle remained hidden in his crate. Sam convinced Hannah to move along. He helped Davey put in Augie’s topknot, and the two of them began to spray the Standard Poodle up.

  Now that there seemed to be little point in checking out the judging for myself, I used the lull in activity to take Kevin for a spin around the coliseum. Even though we were in Massachusetts, I saw plenty of exhibitors from Connecticut and more than a few from Fairfield County. Whenever I spied a familiar face, I stopped and put in a good word for the Howard Academy Christmas Bazaar.

  There’s much to be said for being affiliated with an institution that’s been around for nearly a century. Everyone recognized the name of the school. Some had even previously shopped at the bazaar. At least a dozen exhibitors promised to bring their dogs the following week for pictures.

  Of course, occasionally I was laughed at, too.

  “Greenwich?” a Puli exhibitor said incredulously. “That’s all the way on the other side of the state.”

  “But it’s a small state,” I pointed out.

  “Even so. I’m not driving two hours to go to a Christmas fair.”

  “It took you longer than that to drive here,” I said.

  “For points,” the woman sputtered. “I came here for points!”

  Other exhibitors in the vicinity nodded in agreement. Even I couldn’t argue with her logic. Points are our Holy Grail. We would drive over mountains and through hurricanes if we thought some judge, somewhere, might give points to our dogs. Compared to that, a photo opportunity with Santa Claus wasn’t nearly important enough.

  “Hungry now,” Kev announced. “Want lunch.”

  Heading back to the setup, he and I cut directly across the showroom floor. As we threaded our way through several rows of rings, I saw that the Minis were being judged in the Poodle ring. Bertie’s Open dog was conspicuous by his absence. When she appeared at the beginning of the bitch judging and entered the ring for the Puppy class, Bertie received several dirty looks. By now, everyone was well aware that she was the one who’d broken their all-important major.

  Head down, Bertie concentrated on the task at hand and pretended not to notice the angry glares. I hoped the other exhibitors kept in mind that they weren’t the only ones who’d been hurt by Doodle’s withdrawal. With the change of judge, Bertie’s dog had lost his chance at the major, too.

  “PB and J,” Kevin said, tugging on my arm when he decided that we’d lingered long enough.

  He and I had just enough time to race back to the setup and rummage through the cooler I’d packed that morning. Sandwich and juice box in hand, we turned right back around and followed Sam, Davey, and Augie up to the ring. Aunt Peg was waiting for us near the gate.

  “Forget everything I told you about showcasing Augie’s head,” she told Davey. “Mr. Perkin doesn’t seem to give a fig about a pretty face.”

  “What is he looking for?” asked Sam.

  Aunt Peg frowned mightily. I was glad that, for once, her annoyance wasn’t directed at me.

  “I have no idea,” she said. “I’ve watched everything that man has done for the last half hour. And if he has a consistent thought in his head about what a Poodle ought to look like, it has not yet bothered to make itself known.”

  That didn’t bode well for Augie’s adult debut.

  “In fact,” Aun
t Peg continued, “after Mr. Perkin is finished for the day, perhaps I’ll step inside the ring and recommend that he might want to reacquaint himself with our breed standard.”

  “That will go over well,” I said under my breath.

  Aunt Peg has ears like a bat. “Nonsense,” she replied. “Any judge who isn’t willing to continue learning would do better to find himself another profession. I’m sure Mr. Perkin will find my remarks eminently useful.”

  “Or something,” I agreed.

  Sam watched the byplay with a small smile, but he knew better than to get involved. Instead, he reached out and patted Davey on the shoulder. “It looks like today’s going to be a wash. So just go in and have some fun, okay?”

  “Sure, Sam.” Davey grinned. The politics of exhibiting are meaningless to him. As long as he and Augie were together, he was having a good time.

  Oh, to be twelve again, I thought. When life was just that easy.

  Augie, now mature and ready to take on the best of the competition, had been entered in the Open Dog class. When the puppies were called into the ring for the start of the Standard judging, Aunt Peg produced a comb from her pocket. She leaned over and ran it lightly through Augie’s ears to smooth them down. The rest of us pretended not to notice.

  “Hey, doll,” said Terry, coming over to stand beside me. His partner, Crawford, was handling a handsome, brown puppy in the ring. By my estimation, he would probably win the class.

  I glanced at Terry over my shoulder. His look is an ever-changing, work-in-progress and I never know what to expect when I haven’t seen him for a few weeks. Now Terry’s hair was dark again. It was also gelled and marcelled into waves.

  It was a style few men could carry off. Terry, however, has the panache to make anything look good. With his smooth skin, chiseled features, and baby blue eyes, he could have been a model. Luckily for all of us, Terry had opted for a career in dogs instead.

  “What’s new?” I asked.

  That’s my standard greeting for Crawford’s assistant. Terry always has all the best gossip and he loves to share.

  “Bertie’s in the doghouse,” he said in a low tone. “She broke the major in Minis.”

  “That’s old news,” I sniffed. “What else have you got?”

  “Oh my.” Terry reared back. “We’re snippy today, aren’t we?”

  “You try being assigned to run a school Christmas bazaar on one week’s notice, and see how cheerful you feel about it.”

  “No, thank you very much. I think I’d rather stick to Poodles.” He turned an appraising eye on Augie. “He looks good.”

  “Of course he looks good,” said Aunt Peg. In a roundabout way, Augie was a product of her breeding program. “For all the good that will do him today.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She lifted a brow. “Have you been watching the judging?”

  “No. But we took the variety in both Toys and Minis,” Terry said with a shrug. “Crawford was happy.”

  That pretty well summed of the life of a professional handler. As long as the end results were good, it didn’t much matter how they’d been achieved.

  “Mr. Perkin is all over the map with his placings,” said Aunt Peg.

  As if to prove to her point, the judge pulled a weedy apricot puppy from the back of the line and sent it up to first place. Even the puppy’s handler looked surprised by that turn of events. Crawford and his handsome puppy ended up third out of four.

  “It looks as though Mr. Perkin is spreading things around,” I said to Terry. “And you already got yours in Toys and Minis.”

  “Better than not getting it at all.” He favored us a cheeky grin and hurried away to help Crawford.

  The Bred-By class, with its single entry, was done in a flash. Then it was Augie’s turn.

  “In you go,” said Sam. He gave Davey a small nudge toward the gate.

  The long line of seven, black, male Standard Poodles that comprised the Open Dog class filled one entire side of the ring. Standing among his peers, Augie looked great, I thought. But either the judge didn’t share my opinion, or else he was so overwhelmed by the sight of so many large black dogs in his ring at once that he lost his place early on and never found it again.

  Either way, it didn’t seem to matter to the outcome.

  The four of us stood outside the ring and watched the proceedings with an air of bemusement that gradually morphed into total confusion.

  “I think he’s having trouble telling them apart,” Peg said in outrage when Mr. Perkin reshuffled the group of Standard Poodle dogs for the third time.

  “He looks like he wishes he could pull out his wicket again and sort them out that way,” Sam muttered under his breath.

  Davey and Augie had started the class in the middle of the pack. By the end, that was where they remained. Augie placed fourth out of the seven dogs. He and Davey received a small scrap of white ribbon for their efforts.

  “Well, I’m glad that’s over with,” Aunt Peg said as our pair exited the ring. “It was like watching a train wreck in slow motion. You know you should look away, but somehow you just can’t make yourself do it.”

  Even though he’d been privy to our discussion before the judging, Davey still looked dejected. “I thought Augie was better than that,” he said unhappily.

  “He most certainly is,” Aunt Peg told him. “And if Mr. Perkin couldn’t figure that out, it was his fault not yours.”

  “Think of it as a practice run,” said Sam. “There’s always tomorrow.”

  Dog show exhibitors are optimists. We have to be. Knock us down one day and we still come back the next and do it all again.

  “There’s only one way to salvage this day,” I said. “We’d better stop for ice cream on the way home.”

  I was happy to see Davey’s eyes light up. Kev jumped up and down and landed my foot. It was nice to be the most popular person in the room for once.

  The following morning found us back in West Springfield, preparing to repeat everything we’d done the day before. Despite the disappointing outcome on Saturday, Davey approached the second day’s judging with renewed enthusiasm for his and Augie’s chances. Our judge was the estimable Mr. Harry Hawkins, former Toy breeder and all-around Poodle expert. With luck, Sunday’s assignment would proceed much more smoothly than that of the day before.

  Things got off to a promising start when Bertie finally had the chance to get Doodle into the show ring where he promptly won the spot-on major in Mini dogs. To her credit, Bertie managed not to gloat when Hannah Fort—who was still grumbling under her breath—discovered that Mr. Hawkins didn’t even like her Mini dog enough to award him the Reserve ribbon.

  In deference to the other exhibitors, Bertie deliberately downplayed her dog’s assets during the Best of Variety judging. That enabled the Winners Bitch to be named Best of Winners, thereby “sharing the major” and ensuring that she wasn’t the only Mini exhibitor who went home happy. I hoped that counted for something in the court of public opinion.

  Terry came swanning by the setup a few minutes later. Crawford was in the ring, showing his Toy special in the variety. Terry had a second Toy, who’d already shown and lost, tucked under his arm. We were just about to head up.

  “Crawford’s puppy is scratched,” he told us. “He’s running a temperature. I guess something yucky was going around last night. Anyway . . .” Terry gazed over at Augie. Davey had just hopped the big Poodle down off his table. He stepped back and let him shake. “I’d say that opens the door for your boy.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” I said. Aunt Peg is a great believer in jinxes and lately her superstitions have been rubbing off on me.

  “What?” Terry asked innocently. “I just came over to wish you luck.” He leaned down and said to Davey in a low tone, “Go get ’em, kid. Harry Hawkins should take one look at that dog and fall in love.”

  “I know,” Davey replied. My child is fearless when it comes to competition. I have no idea wher
e he gets that kind of confidence from. It certainly isn’t from me. “Aunt Peg told me the same thing.”

  “Then it’s a done deal,” Terry agreed. “The Almighty has spoken.”

  Luckily for all of us, Aunt Peg was up at ringside. Otherwise we never would have heard the end of that.

  When we arrived at the ring, the Standard Bred-By-Exhibitor Dog was being judged. Sam fastened on Davey’s armband. I checked to make sure he had bait. Kev and Davey bumped fists for luck. Augie did his part: he stood there and looked gorgeous.

  Davey entered the ring first when the Open Dog class was called and took Augie to the head of the line. It was a spot he never relinquished. Showing with poise and skill that belied his age, he deftly showed off all of Augie’s good points and minimized his weaknesses. It helped, too, that dog and handler were best friends. Together they made a formidable team.

  Standing beside me, Aunt Peg sighed. “He’s got the touch. I could turn that child into a star.”

  “Not going to happen,” I told her firmly.

  “So you say. . . .”

  The point wasn’t worth debating. At least not now, when Mr. Hawkins was motioning the line of dogs around the ring for the last time and Augie and Davey were still in front. A minute later, Davey had stuffed the blue ribbon into his pocket and moved quickly back onto the mat to form a new line. The winners of the previous two dog classes reentered the ring and fell in behind him.

  Mr. Hawkins gave this new group a cursory look. He already knew what he wanted. Quickly he sent the Poodles around the ring again. As he pointed to Augie, I leapt in the air and let out a whoop.

  Davey is usually embarrassed by that kind of parental display, but now he was too happy about the win to care. When Augie sensed his handler’s excitement and jumped up too, Davey caught the big Poodle in his arms. He hurried across the ring, and dropped Augie gently down beside the Winners marker.

  “Davey winning! Davey winning!” Kevin cried. A quick move on Sam’s part prevented the excited toddler from running into the ring to stand with his older brother next to the steward’s table.