Hush Puppy

by Laurien Berenson

  “An old friend of Sam’s. Someone we haven’t met yet.”

  “She looks like a nice lady.”

  “I’m sure she is,” Aunt Peg said.

  She’d taken custody of Tar from Terry and was now standing by the puppy’s table. Though I knew for a fact that Peg was one of the most curious people on the face of the earth, she’d barely glanced in Sheila’s direction. That alone was enough to make me suspicious.

  “How sure?” I asked.

  “What?” Peg said innocently.

  “You knew about this,” I accused.

  She didn’t deny it.

  “I can’t believe it!”

  “Melanie, don’t be melodramatic. Sheila Vaughn has been showing Pugs for years. Of course, I know who she is. She lives somewhere in the Midwest. Illinois, I believe.”

  Knowing Aunt Peg, next she’d start telling me the names of Sheila’s dogs. “Did you know she was Sam’s ex-wife?” I hissed the words out under my breath. Davey had gone back to coloring in his book, and I’d just as soon he didn’t tune back in to our conversation.

  Aunt Peg opened Sam’s tack box and started unloading Tar’s grooming supplies. “I imagine the topic may have come up at some point.”

  “And you never felt the need to mention it to me?” I asked incredulously.

  “Why should I? It wasn’t any of my business. Something like that was between Sam and you. For all I knew, he’d told you himself.”

  Aunt Peg was a master at minding everyone’s business but her own. Fine time she’d chosen to keep her thoughts to herself. “Well, he hadn’t,” I grumbled.

  “So I see.” Peg picked up a slicker and began to brush Tar’s legs. “I wonder why not.”

  “So do I.”

  Now that the initial shock had passed, my anger seemed to be evaporating with it. Instead I felt numb. How could Sam have something as important as a previous marriage in his past and never feel the need to tell me about it? He knew all about my ex-husband, Bob; the two of them had even met. And if he’d never bothered to mention Sheila, what other kinds of secrets might he also be hiding?

  Brushing a Poodle is a mindless job. The fingers work by rote, parting the hair and smoothing it upward, teasing out the occasional snarl with a wide-toothed comb. Your hands are busy, but your thoughts can be elsewhere.

  By the time I had Faith fully brushed out, I’d pictured Sam with a trio of ex-wives, a gaggle of screaming children, and a felony warrant outstanding for his arrest. I kept trying to see the bright side, but the absurdity of the situation didn’t make me feel any better at all.

  When Sam returned, I had Faith standing up on her table and was scissoring a finish on her trim. Aunt Peg was supposed to be helping me, remember? Instead, with Sam gone, she was working on getting Tar ready. Losing her expert assistance was just one more thing to be annoyed about.

  “Sorry about that,” said Sam, slipping in between the tables and taking the brush and comb from Peg. “I didn’t think it would take so long.”

  Sorry about that? That’s the kind of thing you say when you sneeze, or stumble, or forget to call; not when you get caught hiding a secret that might alter the plans someone thought she’d made for the rest of her life.

  “So that’s Sheila.” I smiled politely. “You didn’t want to bring her over and introduce her?”

  Sam looked confused. Was he wondering why I wasn’t screaming? Funny, so was I.

  “She was in a hurry,” he said. Which did nothing to explain why she’d stopped and talked to him for half an hour. “I’ll tell you about it later.”

  “Yes,” I said. “You will.”

  Since Sam had taken over Tar’s grooming, Aunt Peg came to stand beside Faith’s table. She reached around the Poodle and took the scissors out of my hand. “Just a precautionary measure,” she said pleasantly.

  “If you’re going to hold them, you may as well make yourself useful.” Keeping hold of Faith’s nose to maintain her position, I stepped back out of the way and let Aunt Peg go to work.

  Rockland County was a mid-sized show but the entry in Standard Poodles was strong. Many factors influence the size of an entry, but the most important is the judge. Each arbiter brings his own set of preferences and life experiences to the ring; and the best an exhibitor can hope for is a fair and unbiased appraisal by an experienced hand. Based on what Aunt Peg had told me, Rockland’s judge was such a man.

  Tony Rondella had been a part of the Poodle scene for many years, first as a professional handler, later as a judge. His opinion was highly valued by those who cared about the breed. A win under Tony, usually hard-fought in tough competition, was an event to be celebrated.

  As she worked, Aunt Peg let her gaze roam over the Standard Poodles in Crawford’s setup. There were four, two blacks, a white, and a brown, all waiting on their tables in various stages of readiness. Since Crawford was often the one to beat, I looked up the Poodles in the catalogue and assessed Faith’s chances.

  Two were males, one already a finished champion and there to compete for Best of Variety. The other was an Open dog. That made him Sam’s problem, not mine; until the Best of Variety judging, the classes would be divided by sex. I read Aunt Peg the listings for the two bitches.

  “The puppy’s no threat,” she said. “She’s barely seven months, and a brown besides. That won’t help.”

  Though in theory judging is supposed to be color-blind, in reality it seldom is. In Poodles, certain colors are easier to win with than others. Judges’ prejudice plays a part, as does the fact that those colors are more apt to produce a quality dog. In Standards, blacks and whites reap the majority of the wins.

  “What about the Open Bitch? Dantanna’s Glory Bee?”

  Aunt Peg chuckled. “Glory be, that’s what her owners will be saying if Crawford ever manages to finish that bitch. She’s not a great one. She’s needed her second major for six months at least. Crawford must be feeling desperate to bring her here under Tony.”

  “At least it’s a major,” I said. “That gives her a shot.”

  In order to become an A.K.C. champion, a dog must accumulate fifteen points under several different judges. Major wins, two of which are necessary to attain a championship, are wins of three points or more at a single show, which means that a substantial amount of competition must be present. Only a certain number of dog shows will offer majors in any given year. Which ones will is often determined by the caliber of the judge that’s been hired. Have someone popular on your panel, and the exhibitors will enter in droves. Hire a lesser judge and suffer the consequences.

  In the time that I’d been showing Faith, she’d managed to accumulate seven points. Technically she was halfway to her championship. In reality, however, she had yet to win either of her majors, and the need to do so loomed before me like a major stumbling block. Many factors—time of year, dearth of good judges, dwindling entries— often combined to leave a dog “stuck for majors” for months at a time. The sooner I could get at least one of Faith’s big wins out of the way, the better I’d feel.

  “Nervous yet?” asked Sam.

  I shot him a look. Tar had his topknot in, and Sam was spraying up his neck hair. The puppy really looked good. I was glad I wouldn’t have to compete against him.

  “No,” I said coolly. I was lying, and we both knew it. “You?”

  Sam shook his head. “Tony’s not the easiest person to show under, but as long as Tar behaves himself, we’ll be okay.”

  “What do you mean, he’s not easy?” I asked. Usually Aunt Peg made sure I was informed in advance about judges’ idiosyncrasies. She’d been vague about what I should expect from Tony Rondella, however. Now I wondered why.

  “He used to handle Poodles himself,” said Sam. “And he was one of the best. There’s nothing that annoys him more than seeing a good dog incompetently presented. He’s been known to take a leash out of an exhibitor’s hand and give a handling lesson in the ring.”

  “Great.” I moaned. Someone like
Tony Rondella would probably make mincemeat out of my technique. “Maybe he won’t notice me.”

  “He’ll notice you,” Aunt Peg said firmly. She poked me with the tip of the scissors, hard. “He’ll notice Faith the minute she walks in the ring. She’s a very pretty bitch, and just his type. This is the chance you’ve been looking for, so don’t blow it.”

  That was Aunt Peg’s version of a pep talk. It did nothing to quiet the butterflies that were beginning to leap in my stomach. “You might have warned me,” I mentioned.

  “Pish,” said Peg. “Then you’d have only started getting nervous sooner.”

  “Trust me,” said Sam. “There’s no way to prepare for Tony. You’re better off if his judging comes as a surprise.”

  “Thanks, but I’ve had quite enough surprises for one day,” I said pointedly.

  That shut Sam up.

  Good, I thought. It was meant to.

  As I sprayed up Faith’s topknot and neck hair, Aunt Peg took Davey up to the ring to pick up our numbered armbands. All too soon, they were back, and it was time to go.

  From ringside, Tony Rondella didn’t look too imposing, but I knew how quickly impressions could change once the judging started. The steward called the Puppy Dog class into the ring and Sam walked Tar to the head of the line.

  “He looks good,” I commented.

  “He should look good,” said Aunt Peg. She was Tar’s breeder, and admittedly biased since he came from her Cedar Crest line. But Peg was fair when it came to her Poodles. If she didn’t like the way one had turned out, she would be equally quick to admit that, too. “Fortunately Tar has inherited the best traits from both his parents. You always hope for that, but you don’t often see it happen. He’s young yet, but that won’t matter today. Tony should love him.”

  Her prediction proved prophetic. Tar was quickly awarded the blue ribbon in the puppy class and when he went back in the ring a few minutes later to vie with the other class winners for the award of Winners Dog, he easily won that, too.

  “Just two points,” said Peg, consulting her catalogue. “The major broke. There are a lot more bitches entered, though. It will hold there.”

  I nodded, but I wasn’t listening. The Puppy Bitch class was in the ring, which meant that it was almost Faith’s turn. I pulled a comb out of my pocket and flicked it through her topknot.

  Now that Faith was nearly two years old and fully mature, I had started entering her in the Open class. Open is usually the biggest class and the hardest to win. The professional handlers show there with their best dogs.

  Faith had picked up her previous points at smaller shows. Today, with a major on the line, nearly a dozen Standard Poodle bitches were standing ready at the gate. If Faith were to have a chance of winning in competition this strong, I would have to pull out all the stops.

  “Stop fussing,” said Aunt Peg, batting away my hand. “You’re knocking everything down. Faith looks fine.”

  “No she doesn’t,” I babbled. “She needs more hair. Look at Crawford’s bitch.”

  “She could stand to be trimmed back,” Aunt Peg said, considering. “Of course Crawford doesn’t dare. The best thing about that bitch is her coat. He’s using it to cover a multitude of sins. Tony won’t be fooled. He’s not only seen every grooming trick in the book; I think he invented most of them. I imagine Faith will beat Glory Bee quite handily.”

  Easy for her to say. She wasn’t judging.

  “In you go,” Peg said briskly, as the steward called the Open bitches into the ring. “Have fun, dear!”

  Have fun? I thought grimly as I found a place toward the end of the line. Who was she kidding? This wasn’t fun, it was torture. I had to be crazy. That was the only explanation for how I’d let Aunt Peg talk me into this.

  Tony lifted his hands and motioned for the line of bitches to gait around the big ring. That was relatively easy. All I had to do was keep Faith moving in a straight line and not fall down. Keeping one eye on where I was going and the other on the judge, I watched Tony skim his gaze down the line. It paused a moment when it came to Faith, then moved on. Good, I thought, we’d been noticed.

  I might have been nervous, but Faith wasn’t. She’d been in the show ring a number of times by now and knew what was expected of her. Poodles are very fast learners. Add to that a natural tendency to show off and play to the crowd, and you have all the makings of a first-class show dog.

  When Faith’s turn came to be individually examined, she stood like a statue. Tony liked her head, I could tell. And he lingered happily on her front end assembly. When he reached her hindquarter, I saw the first glimmering of dissatisfaction. He lifted both her hind legs and repositioned them, then had another look.

  So far, so good. There weren’t any deductions for handler error; the only thing that mattered was the quality of the dog.

  The judge finished his examination and asked me to move Faith down and back. I thought she gaited well as we trotted across the ring on the diagonal mat, but before we’d even made it back, Tony Rondella was already shaking his head. “You’re going too fast,” he said. “Take it slower. And I’d like to see her on a loose lead.”

  We tried again. And again after that. No matter what I did, I couldn’t seem to make Tony happy. Finally, in utter frustration, I all but dropped the leash and let Faith find her own way. Amazingly, this time when we returned, he was smiling.

  “Fine,” he said. “Now take her around to the end of the line.”

  Tony quickly examined the rest of the entrants. That done, he walked straight to Faith, pulled her out of line, and sent us to the other side of the ring. The other Poodles he liked followed. “Once around,” he said, then quickly pointed.

  I assume he said, “One, two, three, four,” because they always do, but in truth I’d stopped listening after the first word, because Faith was at the head of the line and his finger was pointing her way. I took the blue ribbon, tucked it in my pocket, and quickly restacked Faith on the mat. She still had to beat the winners of the earlier bitch classes in order to win the major.

  Once again, Faith was great. Since the judge had asked for a loose leash earlier, I continued to let Faith guide herself, offering only minimum input. Clearly she was up to the task, and clearly Tony Rondella appreciated everything she had to offer. He wasted no time in awarding her Winners Bitch.

  “Well done,” Peg whispered in my ear, as I stepped out the gate while reserve winners bitch was judged. “That’s four points. Don’t forget, Sam can use the major, too. Tony prides himself on actually judging the dogs. He doesn’t always share.”

  Sharing the majors is a time-honored tradition, frowned on by the American Kennel Club and beloved of exhibitors everywhere. Since the number of points awarded is dependent upon the number of competitors defeated, it often happens that Winners Dog and Winners Bitch within the same breed will be awarded a different number of points.

  When Best of Variety is judged, the Winners Dog and Winners Bitch also compete against the champions as they have yet to be defeated on the day. In addition, these two are judged against each other for Best of Winners. The one chosen BOW receives the higher number of points awarded.

  Especially when a major is involved, most judges can be counted on to share the points, thus making sure that both entrants end up with the coveted win. Likewise most exhibitors, having already secured the major for themselves, don’t mind holding their dogs back so as to make their competitor look better.

  All I would have had to do to make sure that Tar got the extra points was handle Faith badly. In my case, it wouldn’t even have been a stretch. Tar was a pretty puppy; he deserved to win a major. But on that day, he didn’t get one.

  Sam smiled at me as we filed into the ring. That wonderful, knowing smile that reminded me of all the things we’d shared. He looked like a man who didn’t have a care in the world, and I felt like a woman betrayed.

  I set my shoulders and didn’t smile back, and when Tony Rondella compared his two w
inners, Faith and I put on a dazzling show. Tar was a beautiful Standard Poodle, but Faith had him beaten cold on maturity and conditioning. At nine months of age, there was simply nothing the puppy could do about that.

  Tony judged dogs, and he didn’t share the major. I accepted the blue-and-white ribbon with a greedy grin that probably revealed volumes about my own maturity level and strode out of the ring without looking back.

  Four

  “I guess we need to talk,” Sam said when he’d caught up to me back at the crates.

  “I guess we do,” I agreed.

  The satisfaction I’d felt had been short-lived; already I was beginning to regret my childish display of pique. Even with a good dog, majors were never easy to come by. No matter how annoyed I was at Sam, I shouldn’t have responded by depriving Tar of his shot.

  “So talk,” I said.

  All right, I admit it. I was dying to hear what he had to say. Besides, we even had a modicum of privacy, as Davey and Aunt Peg had gone off together from ringside. It would have been nice to think that Peg was being discreet; but knowing her, it was more likely they’d gone to search for food, preferably something sweet.

  “Sheila is part of my past,” said Sam.

  “I guess so, if she’s your ex-wife.”

  He looked exasperated. “We’re not going to get anywhere if you won’t listen.”

  “I’ve been listening for two years, and apparently it didn’t help because Sheila never came up.”

  I knew I sounded snippy. Worse, I wasn’t even sorry. I hopped Faith up onto her table, let her lie down, and began the process of taking apart her elaborate show ring hairdo. Across the aisle, Sam was doing the same with Tar. I could see him take several deep breaths before speaking again.

  “I don’t know what you’re so upset about,” he said finally.

  He had to be kidding. I peered at him closely. He looked serious enough. I took that as a bad sign.

  “I’m upset because you lied to me.”

  “No, I didn’t. I’ve never lied to you about anything.”