Hot Dog

by Laurien Berenson

  Alerted to my arrival by the guard, George was waiting on the third-story landing outside his apartment when I pulled up. He introduced himself as I climbed the stairs and held out a hand when I reached the landing. Marian had seemed wan and fragile; her ex-husband was robust. Not particularly tall, but built on a heavy frame, he had thick features and broad fleshy hands. George’s smile was warm and friendly, though, as he ushered me into his home.

  I stepped inside the foyer and stopped, staring in rapt surprise at the windows that ran the length of the living room. The view was breathtaking. Sliding glass doors opened out onto a balcony that seemed to hang out over the water. The Sound looked close enough to reach out and touch.

  “Great, isn’t it?” George took my slicker and hung it over the back of a chair to dry. “That’s why I bought the place. First time you see that view, it hits you right between the eyes. I see it every day and it still gets to me.”

  “It’s gorgeous.” Drawn irresistibly, I walked over to the window and gazed out. “Do you have a boat?”

  “Not yet. I’m hoping to start shopping around this summer. I don’t want to seem abrupt, but if you don’t mind, I’m in kind of a time crunch here. You said on the phone that you needed some information . . . ?”

  “Right.” Reluctantly, I turned to face the room. “It’s about the Dachshund puppy you donated to Peter Donovan’s charity auction to benefit the Stamford Outreach program—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” George looked bored. And impatient. “What do you need to know?”

  “We’ve heard from your ex-wife—”

  “Marian?” His interest suddenly returned. “She doesn’t have anything to do with this. That puppy is mine, I’m free to do anything I want with it.”

  “I’m sure you are. But as it happens, auction organizers have become concerned about the viability of offering a live animal as one of the prizes—”

  “Mr. Donovan didn’t mention any concerns when I spoke with him about my donation. In fact, he seemed to think the whole thing was a rather nifty idea.”

  Nifty? George Firth didn’t look old enough to use words that had last been in vogue in the fifties. I wondered if his vocabulary had had anything to do with the reason Marian had divorced him. Or maybe it was that time crunch thing.

  “Yes, well, Mr. Donovan has since been in touch with several dog breeders who have registered an objection to the proceedings—”

  “Marian put them up to it, didn’t she?” George scowled. With his heavy jowls and wide body, he looked like a Bullmastiff in a serious snit. “That’s what this is all about. All those dog people know each other, and they stick together, too.” He peered at me from beneath bushy brows. “I guess that means you’re one of them?”

  “Well, yes, but that’s not why I’m here—”

  “I assume you’ve spoken to my ex-wife?” Before I could reply, George was already moving on. “I’m sure she told you her side of the story. I’m not the kind of guy to go airing my dirty laundry in public, but since you’re already in the middle of this, let’s lay out a few facts.

  “Number one, Marian left me. I was perfectly happy with the status quo, she was the one who wanted out. So if she’s changed her mind now about the way things turned out, I hardly see how that can be my fault, can you?”

  “No, but—”

  “Number two, this arrangement with the dogs was perfectly legal. Marian wanted to keep all the dogs, even the ones that were worth money, that might have been considered assets from the marriage.”

  I’d been in the dog show world long enough to know that very few dogs, even top winning ones, were worth enough money to be viewed as assets. George, however, was on a roll.

  “The judge decided to let things go her way. Marian retained sole ownership of all the dogs. All I got . . .” He paused, then repeated the phrase for emphasis, “All I got was the promise of one puppy to be delivered sometime in the future.”

  I glanced around the posh apartment. “I wouldn’t say that was all you got.”

  “Hey.” George threw up his hands. “So I make good money. I’m not apologizing for that. I work hard for it. Truth be told, that’s probably why my marriage fell apart. Maybe I’m a bit of a workaholic. But you know, there are worse things in the world than a guy who spends too much time at the office. Like a wife who’s running around with someone else behind the guy’s back.”

  “Oh.” Of course, there were two sides to the story. There always were.

  “Yeah,” George said. “Oh. Now I hear the schmuck she dumped me for has left her high and dry, so I guess there’s some poetic justice in that. But if Marian thinks I’m going to give up all this to go back to a house filled with dogs and a wife who did nothing but complain, she’d better think again.”

  He sounded pretty sure of himself, but as far as I knew, Marian had thought again. When Peg and I had spoken with her she hadn’t mentioned anything about wanting to get back together with George. Indeed, if I remembered correctly, she’d wished him dead, which hardly sounded like a prelude to reconciliation to me.

  “And by the way,” said George, “since we’re on the subject, did Marian tell you how long it took her to deliver that puppy that I’d been promised?”

  “No.”

  “It was more than a year. First she said that Donna was missing her seasons. Then she said the stud dog she’d picked was unavailable. Okay, maybe I’ll let that slide once, but more than that? No way.”

  A pair of seagulls, gliding past the window in unison, caught my eye. Gracefully buoyant, they swooped down over the Sound, fishing for lunch. I watched their progress for several seconds before turning back to George. “Considering that you gave the puppy away as soon as you got him, I can’t say that I see why you were in such a hurry.”

  “It was the principle of the thing.”

  “And the Dachshunds were nothing more than an asset from the marriage, like a house or a car.”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth,” George grumbled. “And don’t go trying to paint me as some sort of dog hater. I always liked the dogs just fine. The dog shows, now, they were pretty stupid. But the dogs and I got along.”

  “If that’s the case, why did you give the puppy away?”

  George shrugged. “You get a divorce and your life changes. Even if you think things are mostly going to stay the same, they don’t. By the time Donna finally had her litter, I was settled here. And guess what? Everything’s all spelled out in the purchase agreement. No dogs allowed. Not little ones, not cute ones, not puppies that don’t take up much space. No dogs, period. So what else was I going to do?”

  That was easy. “You might have left him with your ex-wife.”

  “You’re kidding me.” George stood up. He was shaking his head incredulously. “Tell me you’re kidding. After what she put me through? Not a chance. Marian owed me that puppy, and by God, I was going to see that she paid.”

  13

  It was a good thing Aunt Peg hadn’t been the one to go see George Firth. Though I’d blithely dismissed her fears of getting stuck in traffic, I ended up sitting on the approach to the George Washington Bridge for nearly an hour. By the time I arrived at the location in Elizabeth, New Jersey, Poodles were nearly due to go in the ring. Aunt Peg would have been having a cow.

  And then, of course, I couldn’t find a place to park. Kennel clubs devote untold hours debating how best to attract spectators to their shows. Well, I’m here to tell them that the answer is simple: make attending your event an inviting experience. Don’t expect that casual sightseers will do what I did, circle the block three times and end up parked in a supermarket lot a quarter mile away. It isn’t going to happen.

  At least the rain had tapered off. Jogging back to the building where the show was being held, I merely got damp, not soaking wet. I was standing in line waiting to pay admission when a hand grasped my shoulder.

  “Hey,” said Bertie. “I’m glad I saw you come in. Are you busy?”

 
Bertie was my new sister-in-law; she and my younger brother, Frank, had gotten married over Christmas. She was also a professional handler with a thriving business and a growing string of good dogs.

  “Just waiting to pay.” There seemed to be a hold-up at the front of the line.

  “Screw that. I’ll tell them you’re my assistant. Besides, you don’t want your hand stamped. That damn ink never washes off.”

  Since Bertie wasn’t much given to profanity, I gathered she wasn’t having a good day. This impression was further reinforced when the tall redhead used her hold on my shoulder to yank me out of line. “Come on, let’s go. I’ve got three Bichons due in the ring in five minutes.”

  Shedding my jacket as I went, I trotted along behind her. The room where the show was being held was small. Rings, grooming, and concessions all battled for the same limited amount of space. Bertie’s setup was near the front of the building. No wonder she’d seen me come in.

  I tossed my coat on top of a stack of crates and threw my purse inside the bottom one. “What do you want me to do?”

  “When I made these entries, I thought I’d have help today. I hired an assistant,” Bertie said, frowning. “She lasted a week and a half. I’ve got three Bichon bitches, one puppy and two in Open. If I pull any of them, I’ll break the major.”

  For dogs that have yet to finish their championships, majors are the Holy Grail of showing. In order to become a champion, each dog must have at least two major wins, meaning that they must beat enough competition to pick up three or more points at a single show. Depending on the time of year and a breed’s popularity, finding major entries can be an exercise in extreme frustration. Nobody breaks a major if they can possibly avoid it, especially not a hardworking pro who depends on the goodwill of the other professional handlers to make her life a little easier.

  “I need you to hold for me at ringside, then show one of the Open bitches.”

  Bertie already had all three Bichons groomed and ready to go. She grabbed a rubber band out of her tack box. Automatically I stuck out my arm. Bertie ran the band up over my wrist and elbow then used it to anchor a numbered armband in place. She handed me a comb and stuck several pieces of dried liver in my pocket.

  It was all happening so fast I never had a chance to even think of saying no. Pre-ring nerves, however, only took a second to appear, and I did feel obliged to mention one thing. “You know, I’ve never shown a Bichon before.”

  “There’s nothing to it,” Bertie said quickly. “It’s just like showing a Poodle, except the tail goes over the back instead of up.”

  Yeah right. Bichon experts, I was sure, would beg to differ. Every breed has its little idiosyncrasies, its own distinctly different style of presentation. Just from watching at ringside, I’d learned that.

  Most sporting dogs have their collars removed while the judge examines them. Working handlers tend to toss their bait until their rings become littered with it. German Shepherds gait at the speed of light, while Pekingese are slow as snails. The variations are endless.

  “You’ll do fine.” Bertie handed me one of the Bichons, then picked up the other two, tucking one under each arm for the trip to the ring. “Just follow me and do what I do.”

  She made it sound so easy.

  That advice might have actually worked if anyone had consulted the Bichon I was showing about the plan. Her name was Rhonda, and, as I quickly discovered, she had a mind of her own. Rhonda knew Bertie; she’d never seen me before. Within thirty seconds of our acquaintance, she’d decided to make it her mission in life to escape from me and return to the handler with whom she thought she belonged.

  I reasoned with Rhonda while Bertie was in the ring showing the puppy. I argued with her as Bertie found someone sitting ringside to hold the puppy while she prepped her bitch for the Open Class. I pleaded for a little cooperation when our class filed into the ring. All to no avail. Rhonda was a small, white, whirling dervish on the end of my leash.

  I had no idea how Bertie had decided which of the two bitches she would handle in the class. It’s not unusual for pros with large strings to have more than one entry in Open. Often one dog is entered as a backup. One will be shown if the entry draws a major, the other if it doesn’t. With a major on the nose, however, everyone has to go in the ring.

  In a case like that, the dog with less seniority will usually be handed off to an assistant. Or alternatively the handler will show the dog he thinks is most likely to win under a particular judge. Sometimes he’ll opt to stick with the one that belongs to his biggest and most powerful client.

  Some show dogs become jaded. They’ll go in the ring and perform for anyone. Others need the “human connection” of showing for the person with whom they’ve bonded. Unfortunately for me, Rhonda belonged to the latter group. We’d been in the ring less than a minute before she’d sized me up and decided I was second string.

  Following Bertie’s lead was out of the question. Getting anywhere near her was a recipe for disaster. The only thing I could think to do was put as many of the other Open bitches between us as possible while distracting Rhonda with bait from the supply that had been shoved in my pocket.

  Bertie went to the front of the line. I aimed for the back. Rhonda spun in circles and nipped at my ankles. Her displeasure couldn’t have been made more clear if she’d written a sign and posted it ringside.

  Busy with her own entry, Bertie shot me encouraging glances. They turned to worried frowns as the judge made his first pass down the line. I was kneeling on the floor beside Rhonda holding her in place. One hand gripped her firmly beneath the chin, the other supported her hindquarter. Still she managed to wiggle and snort.

  The judge looked amused. In case you’re wondering, that’s not good.

  Okay, so I’m not the best handler in the world. Except for those few lucky individuals who seem to possess a magic touch, handling dogs—and especially a dog you’ve just met—is a skill that can take years to master. Not only had I not yet put in the time, but so far the bulk of my show ring experience had been with my own dogs, dogs I had trained to my specifications. Dogs that wanted to listen to me.

  Rhonda was the Brave New World of handling for me, and she was doing her best not to be discovered.

  When it was our turn for the individual examination, I led her up to the table. Just like showing a Poodle, Bertie had said, obviously overlooking the fact that I showed Standards, not Minis or Toys. I’d never presented a dog on a table before.

  I tried to lift Rhonda as I’d seen the other handlers do: grasping her in such a way that the hair was mussed as little as possible. Of course, that method didn’t give me the most secure hold. Not only that, but the fluffy white Bichon was a lot heavier than she looked.

  Rhonda landed on the table with a thump. The scathing look she sent my way was meant to insult my technique, and quite possibly my heritage. Ignoring the Bichon’s fit of pique, I stacked her, placing her short legs squarely under her body in a stance calculated to accentuate her good points.

  The pose would have worked to better advantage if Rhonda hadn’t taken one look at the approaching judge and launched herself into the air. Fortunately, forewarned by the bitch’s earlier antics, I hadn’t let my guard down. I leapt around the front of the table and caught her mid-leap, staggering slightly beneath the unexpected load.

  “Nice catch.” The judge smiled kindly.

  “Thanks,” I mumbled, hurrying to get Rhonda back into position so she could be examined. Once again the Bichon wasn’t cooperating.

  “This must be her first show. Don’t worry, she’ll get used to it.” The judge was obviously an old hand at getting the job done. He calmly worked around my restraining hands, performing the examination quickly and gently.

  When he was finished, I lowered Rhonda to the floor and attempted the triangle gaiting pattern I’d seen the judge request from the other entries. The only reason the Bichon stayed within three feet of me was because we were attached by a strip of leat
her and I outweighed her. Even stooping over to dangle a piece of dried liver in front of her nose—the donkey-and-carrot theory—didn’t help. Rhonda planted her feet on the rubber mat and dared me to make her move. Short of straying into the realm of highly objectionable show ring behavior, there was nothing I could do but acknowledge defeat.

  To no one’s surprise, Rhonda didn’t get a ribbon. I bent down, picked her up, and scuttled from the ring like the loser I was. Bertie, meanwhile, had won the class. I waited by the gate, watching as the winners of the other bitch classes went back in to vie for Winners Bitch and the coveted major points.

  “Give her to me,” a voice said from behind me. The man sounded impatient and more than a little annoyed. Before I could respond I was poked, rather rudely, on the shoulder.

  “Excuse me?” I turned to find a young couple standing close behind me.

  Husband and wife, from the looks of them; both were scowling ferociously. Dimly, I noted that Rhonda’s tail had begun to wag. Finally something had made her happy.

  The man held out his hands, encircling mine. “I said let me have her.”

  I tried to step back and found my legs braced against the side of the ring. Rhonda was wiggling again; obviously she recognized the pair. It didn’t matter, I couldn’t hand her over without permission.

  I slid a desperate glance in Bertie’s direction. Not unexpectedly she hadn’t noticed my dilemma. All her attention was focused on the competition in the ring.

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that. As soon as Bertie is finished—”

  “I’ll give her a piece of my mind,” the man growled. “In the meantime, she’s my dog, and especially after the idiotic display you put on in there, I don’t want you holding her. Hand her over.”