It took another twenty minutes to get everyone warm, dry, and organized. Amazingly, the floor even got mopped. Once it was dry, the Poodles lay down around us, forming a canine obstacle course for unwary walkers or—if you were Kevin’s size—a fluffy stool on which to perch.
The five of them were Sam’s and my blended canine family. Faith and Eve were a mother-and-daughter duo, originally Davey’s and mine. Faith had been bred by Aunt Peg and gifted to me six years earlier. It was either a reward or an assignment—I’d never been entirely sure which. Raven and Casey were two champion Poodles from Sam’s breeding program that he’d brought with him when he’d moved east from Michigan to Connecticut.
The remaining Poodle was Tar, the only male in the group. Also bred by Aunt Peg, he had been Sam’s specials dog: a champion whom Sam had campaigned to numerous group and Best in Show wins at venues up and down the East Coast. Now retired, he, like the others, wore the close-cropped, easy-to-care-for sporting trim. With two children keeping us busy, both Sam and I were happy to be taking a break from having to “do hair.”
“Finally,” said Aunt Peg when we were seated around the table once more. “Can we now get back to the business at hand?”
“Certainly,” said Sam. “Who wants to begin?”
“Me,” cried Davey.
“Excellent. Someone with initiative.” Aunt Peg stared at me pointedly over the top of her mug. Peg’s sweet tooth is legendary, and her hot chocolate was coated with a layer of mini-marshmallows. “Unlike certain of my other relatives.”
“I resolve to eat fewer lima beans,” Davey said firmly. “And not to lose my homework. And not to call Kimberly Winterbottom ‘stupid,’ even when she is.”
“Good job,” I said. I don’t like lima beans either.
“Kimberly Winterbottom?” asked Sam.
“She thinks she knows everything.” In sixth grade now, Davey was in his first year at Hart Middle School in North Stamford. The move from elementary school made him feel very grown-up. “And she doesn’t. Not even close.”
“Fair enough,” said Peg. “Sam, would you like to go next?”
“Not me,” Sam demurred. He knew better than to get in Peg’s way. “I’m not ready yet. Why don’t you take my turn?”
“I’ll be happy to.”
No surprise there. Aunt Peg had been waiting for this opening since she’d arrived an hour earlier. Now she swiveled her seat around to face me.
“You’ve become boring,” she said.
You know, just in case I’d missed that insult the first time.
“There you go,” I replied cheerfully. “That can be my resolution. Be less boring.”
New Year’s resolutions have never been my thing. I just don’t see the point of vowing on the first day of the year to read more books, lose ten pounds, or run a marathon. Because if I didn’t want to do that stuff before, what are the chances that a change of date is going to make me want to do it now?
“You’re stuck in a rut,” Aunt Peg persisted. My easy acquiescence didn’t even slow her down. “I can help with that.”
“Don’t tell me,” I said. “Here comes the idea.”
“As well it should. Somebody has to shake things up around here.”
Kevin punctuated that thought with a loud bang. Settled on the floor next to the cabinet that Davey had opened earlier, he was engaged in one of his favorite occupations, stacking pots and pans. The leaning tower he’d been erecting had just lost its battle with gravity. Judging by the building skills he’d displayed thus far, Sam and I were guessing that a career in architecture was not in his future.
Aunt Peg didn’t even lose a beat. “Edward March,” she said.
Sam looked up. “What about him?”
“He’s turning in his judge’s license.”
“Wow,” said Sam. “I wouldn’t have thought he’d ever retire. March seems like the type of judge who’d hoped to croak in the Best in Show ring at Westminster as he pointed out the winning dog.”
“Don’t we all,” Aunt Peg remarked. “And Edward does like his dramatic moments. Nevertheless, I believe health issues have gotten in the way. He’s taken very few assignments in the last several years and now seems to think that it’s time to bow out gracefully, and on his own terms.”
“Who is Edward March?” I asked.
Aunt Peg and Sam have both been part of the dog show world for so long that occasionally they forget that I don’t have their wealth of experience and insider information to draw upon. Aunt Peg’s Cedar Crest Kennel, founded decades earlier with her late husband, Max, had produced some of the top winning Standard Poodles in dog show history. Once a successful owner-handler who’d competed in dozens of shows a year, Aunt Peg still kept up the same hectic schedule, now serving as a very much in-demand dog show judge.
Sam’s tenure in the dog show world was shorter in duration than Aunt Peg’s, but no less devoted. His Shadow-run Kennel was a small but select operation. Like my aunt, Sam had spent countless hours studying pedigrees, genetics, and the best available bloodlines. He was also a talented and enthusiastic dog show exhibitor.
Basically, in this group, I was the redheaded stepchild.
“Don’t worry, Mom,” said Davey. “I don’t know either.”
I reached over and plopped a few more marshmallows into his mug to thank him for the support.
“You don’t need to know.” Aunt Peg slanted her nephew a fond glance. “Whereas you”—her gaze shifted in my direction—“could be better informed.”
Nothing new there.
I sipped my cocoa and leaned back in my seat. “Why don’t you tell me what I’m missing?”
“Edward March is nothing less than dog show royalty .”
“Like Prince William?” asked Davey. He had watched the royal wedding on television, fascinated less by the ceremony than by the vintage cars that transported the royal family.
“Not exactly,” Sam explained. “Prince William has a hereditary position. Edward March earned his acclaim. His Russet Kennel was started in the 1960s and soon became the driving force in Irish Setters. He was single-handedly responsible for dozens of champions in that breed throughout the second half of the last century. If there was an Irish Setter in the group or Best in Show ring anywhere on the East Coast, chances are it was a Russet dog.”
“Bob and Janie Forsyth handled all his dogs for many years,” said Aunt Peg. “Surely, you know who they are.”
Of course, I did. The esteemed husband-and-wife team was dogdom’s most famous couple. As handlers, they’d all but ruled the sporting dog and terrier rings for decades before retiring to become highly respected judges. I had shown Eve under Janie Forsyth and picked up two points toward her championship.
“So he’s a man who used to have good dogs,” I said. So far, this all sounded like old news.
“Not just good,” Aunt Peg corrected. “Some of the very best in his breed. And like his handlers, he followed up by becoming a very good judge. His opinion really meant something, and that’s a rare gift. If Edward March put up your dog, you knew you had a good one.”
That was high praise coming from Aunt Peg. She didn’t hand out accolades lightly.
“And?” I asked.
“And what? Isn’t that enough?”
“It’s plenty. But what does it have to do with me?”
“Oh, that.” Aunt Peg sniffed as if the change in topic from dog show royalty to her wayward niece was distinctly uninteresting.
“Now you’ve got me curious too,” said Sam. “So March is turning in his judge’s license. Where does Melanie fit in?”
“Apparently, in celebration of his fifty-some years in the dog show world, Edward intends to write his memoirs. Anyone who’s ever seen his desk could tell you that organization isn’t his strong suit. He’s looking to find a coauthor to help him do the job properly. I told him I knew just the right person.”
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.<
br />
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 1996 by Laurien Berenson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-0-7582-8994-0
Dog Eat Dog Page 28