Worst In Show: A Jamie Bravo Mystery

by Layce Gardner

  Frankie laughs and pats my shoulder. “Of course you do, Jamie. As long as you say yes.”

  “Yes,” I say. “I’ll do it.”

  What the hell have I gotten myself into?

  Thirty-One

  “He looks mean,” I say. “Like he could devour my ankles faster than a school of hungry piranhas.”

  Travis and I are at the Animal Shelter. We’re shopping for a dog. I mistakenly asked the woman who worked here to show me the small dogs, thinking they wouldn’t be as ferocious and would be easier to train. What she shows me is this diminutive, hairless thing. He’s chocolate brown with white spots. He has a white tuft of hair that falls across his face. It makes him look like the lead singer in that band Flock of Seagulls. He’s panting so I can see his pearly whites. He has good teeth. I can’t stop thinking that he bears a striking resemblance to Gollum in Lord of the Rings.

  Travis kneels down before the wire cage and makes smoochie noises at this thing that is supposed to be a dog.

  “And he’s ugly, too,” I say.

  “He’s a Chinese Crested,” Travis says, like that gives the dog an ugly pass.

  “What happened to him? Was he abused? Does he have mange? Was he hit by a train? Caught in a house fire?”

  “Nothing happened to him,” Travis explains. “That’s his breed. He’s a very fine specimen of a Chinese Crested.”

  I look at him in surprise. “You mean he’s this ugly on purpose?”

  The dog growls and snaps at me.

  “I think he’s cute,” Travis says. He wrinkles his nose in the dog’s direction and says, “Who’s a cutie patootie? Who’s the cutest doggie in all the world?”

  The dog wags his worm-like tail and dances over to Travis. Uh oh, they’re bonding.

  “I’m going to name him Ivan. As in Ivan the Terrible,” Travis proclaims.

  “Maybe we should look at some more dogs. Maybe we can find one who has some fur.”

  “All the other dogs are too big,” Travis says. “Small dogs are more manageable than big ones.”

  He has a point. I could hide this dog if I had to. He’d fit nicely inside my trench coat.

  Ivan must have seen the indecision written on my face. He sidles up next to the fence and looks at me with his big, suddenly sensitive eyes. He’s so pitiful looking. Those pleading eyes will haunt me in my sleep if I do the wrong thing here. Against my better judgment, I stick my fingers through the wire cage and Ivan gives them a good lick.

  “See, he likes you,” Travis says.

  I have my doubts. “I had bacon for breakfast. He’s licking the bacon residue off my fingers.”

  “You said that I get to be the groomer and handler, right? So I should have the biggest vote. I think Ivan is perfect for the dog show. I won’t have to brush him because he doesn’t have hair. He already has a built-in Mohawk. And he’s really sweet.”

  “How do you know he’s sweet?”

  “I can tell. Look at those eyes. He reminds me of me.”

  I look at the dog. I look at Travis. They do seem like soul mates.

  The animal shelter lady walks up behind us. “I see you’ve chosen wisely.”

  “We haven’t chosen yet,” I correct.

  Her name tag identifies her as Alice. She’s short and boxy, like one of those Lego people. “He’s been through obedience class. And he’s quite intelligent. He got the highest marks in the class.”

  “How old is he?” I ask.

  “He’s three. He’s been neutered and he’s house trained,” Alice says.

  “What’s he in for?”

  “He bit the husband and wouldn’t let him come near his wife.”

  “Aha! So he is a biter,” I say. “That’s a deal-breaker.”

  “There’s more to the story,” Alice says. “The husband was beating his wife. So badly, in fact, that he almost killed her. This little guy not only bit the husband and corralled him into the bathroom, he put his paw on the victim’s phone and dialed 911. The wife ended up in the hospital with a broken arm and nose, broken ribs and internal bleeding. Had it not been for the courage of this little fellow, she would’ve have died that fateful night.”

  Damn, this lady’s good. She makes Ivan sound like a real American hero.

  Travis chimes in, “He ended up here in doggie prison, when he should’ve been given a medal.”

  Alice continues her sales pitch, “You can foster him for a week. See if he’s a good fit. You can always bring him back if you decide you don’t love him.”

  “I dunno,” I say.

  Ivan, Alice and Travis all look at me with big, pleading eyes. I sigh. I know when I’m outnumbered. I squat down and give Ivan my sternest look. “Ivan, we have a mission for you if you choose to accept it.”

  Travis jumps up and down and claps his hands. “We have a little fur baby!”

  “Yeah, if he had any fur. Which he doesn’t,” I say. “We’re only going to foster him,” I add in a futile effort to put the brakes on Travis’s enthusiasm.

  “That’s understandable, but I think you’ll find that he’ll worm his way into your heart,” Alice says, winking at Travis. She opens the door to the cage. Ivan leaps into Travis’s arms and gives his face a slobber bath. You gotta hand it to the dog, he knows where his bread is buttered.

  “I love him already,” Travis squeals with joy.

  I know right then and there that Ivan would end up staying.

  Thirty-Two

  “Why, of course I can show you how it’s done,” Mrs. Hildegard says, delighted. She’s only been home from the hospital one night and except for the black eye and taped ribs, she’s acting normal. She’s living proof that they used to make people a lot stronger. If I had cracked ribs I’d still be in bed popping pain killers.

  “I’ve won the Lakeland Dog Show more than anybody else,” she brags. “You’ve come to the right place for help.”

  Travis looks relieved. We had spent the day watching every video of the Westminster dog show that we could find. We even watched the Christopher Guest movie Best in Show. I loved that movie, funny as hell, but not overly informative. That’s why we came to Mrs. Hildegard for help. Her dog, Matty, was the Best in Show winner of the Lakeland dog show numerous times. If anybody knew the inner workings f dog shows it would be her.

  “Whatever did you do to the little fellow’s hair?” Mrs. Hildegard asks. “Put him up here for me, please.” Travis picks up Ivan and puts him on her coffee table. “I’ve never seen a back comb on a dog.”

  Ivan growls.

  “Don’t growl at the nice lady. She’s here to help you,” Travis says, scratching Ivan right above the tail.

  “He doesn’t like to be called little,” I explain. “He’s very sensitive about his size.”

  “Oooh, I see. He has a Napoleon Complex,” Mrs. Hildegard says.

  “There’s nothing wrong with Ivan,” Travis says protectively. He picks up Ivan and hugs him to his chest.

  I’m no psychiatrist, but it seems to me that Travis is having some displacement going on with the dog. He’s starting to think like Ivan. He’s even starting to feel what Ivan feels. Like everything that happens to Ivan is also happening to him—if that makes any sense. For instance, I accidentally sat on Ivan twice today and Travis yelped both times. I think Travis might be an empath.

  “A Napoleon Complex simply means that he thinks he’s big when in actuality he isn’t. Ivan tries to convince people he’s bigger than he is by acting bigger. Napoleon did the same thing. You’d never guess from his pictures that Napoleon was only four feet ten inches tall,” Mrs. Hildegard says. “He did manage to invade most of Europe despite being…height challenged.”

  “Oh, I see,” Travis says, somewhat pacified.

  Mrs. Hildegard puts her hand out palm down so Ivan could sniff it. He must have deigned to think her okay because he licks her fingers noisily. Either that or she had a hot dog for lunch.

  Mrs. Hildegard takes Ivan out of Travis’s arms and murmurs in hi
s ear, stroking his back. Ivan pants happily. It looks as if Mrs. Hildegard and Ivan are well on their way to being great pals.

  “His skin is very dry. He needs to be moisturized,” Mrs. Hildegard says. “I have some Avon Skin So Soft that should do the trick. It also keeps away the ticks and mosquitoes, a good thing to remember come summer. And then we’ll do something with his hair.”

  “I like his hair,” I say. He looks cute—in a B-52’s kind of way.

  “Well, the judges are looking for a certain thing, that’s all, and an afro isn’t really what they have in mind,” Mrs. Hildegard says.

  It’s not an afro, but I decide not to press the point. After all, we do need her help.

  “Hey, Jamie, remember when we were in second grade and you got that perm?” Travis asks.

  “Shut up,” I growl.

  “And everybody said you looked like a Q-tip?” he continues.

  “Shut up,” I say louder.

  Travis sticks out his lower lip in a pout. “Ivan’s not the only one who has a complex.”

  Mrs. Hildegard comes to the rescue. “We’ll get to the hair later. First we’ve got to get the show walk down. Lord knows, I’ve done enough of it.” She looks sad.

  I pat her hand. “We’re going to get Matty back. I promise you.”

  “Thank you, dear. I just miss her so much. I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t give a rat’s patootie about dog shows anymore. There’s more to life than blue ribbons. I just want my baby back. If it hadn’t been for my desire to win, my poor little baby wouldn’t have gotten snatched in the first place.” She silently weeps.

  Ivan whimpers and nuzzles Mrs. Hildegard’s neck. It’s so sweet, I’m in danger of leaking a few tears of my own.

  Travis pulls out a handkerchief, dabs at his face and blows his nose. As if by mutual agreement, we all sit and have little cry. I think this is what’s called having a moment.

  Mrs. Hildegard is the first to recover. She straightens her back and says in a firm voice, “All right, let’s get cracking. How about it, Ivan?”

  Ivan leaps from her lap like a flying squirrel, runs around the coffee table twice and barks.

  Mrs. Hildegard laughs. “I think that means he’s ready. We’ll start with the proper stance and walk.”

  “Here’s his leash,” Travis says, holding out the blue leash encrusted with rhinestones that Travis insisted he had to buy because it brought out the blue in his eyes. And by his, I mean Travis’s eyes, not Ivan’s.

  Mrs. Hildegard says, “No, you can keep that. I’ll go get my Martingale. I don’t believe we’ll need a choke chain, Ivan’s much too eager to please.”

  At the sound of his name, Ivan barks in agreement.

  “How can you tell he’s eager to please?” I ask. There must be some kind of subliminal canine thing because all I see is a hyperactive dog with no fur.

  “Because all dogs want to please. It’s hard-wired into them. Don’t worry, he’ll do what you want,” she says. She leaves the room.

  “What’s a Martingale?” Travis asks.

  “You got me. But it sounds like a type of bird.”

  “If she brings out a bird, I’m leaving. That parrot scarred me for life.”

  Mrs. Hildegard returns with a slip chain leash. “This is a Martingale. You slip it over Ivan’s head like this.” She demonstrates. “Now, I’m assuming that Travis is going to be the trainer?”

  “Of course,” Travis says puffing out his puny chest.

  “He thinks he has the look,” I say, doing air quotes around the word look.

  “Well, dear, watch enough shows and you’ll know he’s right.”

  Travis smiles his million-dollar smile in my direction. I roll my eyes.

  “So Travis, what you’re going to do is hold the leash waist high and roll the extra into your hand, so it doesn’t hang down and look messy. It’s all about the details.”

  Travis complies perfectly. He raises one eyebrow, pooches out his lips and juts out one hip. He looks like an emaciated supermodel in the pages of a glossy magazine.

  “Too much,” Mrs. Hildegard warns. “Ivan is doing perfectly, but you’re adding too much oomph of your own, dear.”

  Travis drops the eyebrow.

  “Less,” Mrs. Hildegard says.

  Travis puts his lips back where they belong.

  “Much better. Now for the walk. It’s quick. Almost fleeting. Don’t worry about Ivan, he’s a natural, he’ll follow you.”

  Travis prances across the floor.

  “Less on your part, Travis. Remember, you’re not the one on show. You want the judges focusing on Ivan. You should be invisible,” Mrs. Hildegard says.

  Travis morphs his prance into a gentlemanly stride.

  “Perfect!” Mrs. Myers says. She looks to me. “What do you think of our boys, Jamie? Aren’t they grand?”

  I shrug. They both looked pretty good, but I don’t want to say so and give Travis the big head. He’s hard enough to live with as is. “They’re doing okay, I guess. After all, the goal isn’t for us to win the dog show, we just don’t want to get kicked out of the show before we find out what happened to the dogs.”

  Mrs. Hildegard pats Ivan on the head then pats Travis on the shoulder. “Now I want you to practice, practice, practice, dear,” Mrs. Hildegard says. “Do this for an hour twice a day and one hour at night just before bed so it will implant itself in both your brains and both you and Ivan will be show-ready.”

  Next, she looks at me and rubs her hands together. “Now I’ll introduce you to Mr. French.”

  “Mr. French? As in Jody and Buffy and Mrs. Beasely? That Mr. French?”

  “No,” she answers. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

  I look to Travis, but he shrugs. Unbelievable. The most popular TV show of 1971 and she’s never heard of it? I can’t possibly be the only person awake at three a.m. and watching Nick at Night.

  Mrs. Hildegard continues, “Mr. French is my secret weapon.”

  This is getting good. Like a James Bond movie.

  Mrs. Hildegard picks up her cell phone and punches one number. I view the fact that she has his number on speed dial as a good thing.

  Mr. French must be able to smell money over the cell phone because Mrs. Hildegard gets us an appointment right away. We drive to Mr. French’s hair salon on the ritzy side of town. I’m surprised to learn that Mr. French is not a dog groomer. He’s a human groomer. He specializes in hair couture for the mature woman. I gather all this from his catchy logo hanging on the wall that states: “Mature couture.” In other words, lonely old ladies let him fawn over their hair and they give him big tips when he says they are beautiful.

  As soon as we arrive at French’s Salon he bustles us through a thick cloud of White Diamonds perfume and into the back room. I get the feeling he doesn’t want his clientele to know he’s styling a dog.

  “Let me see your canine friend,” Mr. French orders. By the way, he’s nothing like what I thought he would look like. I was picturing a tall, skinny, effeminate man. Instead, he’s short, squat and hairy. Like a mini-Sasquatch.

  I pull Ivan out from my trench coat and hold him at arm’s length.

  The first thing Mr. French does is scream. In fact, he screams so loudly that he could give Jamie Lee Curtis a run for her money in the original Halloween. Somehow though, I don’t think this was what Hollywood meant when they coined the term ‘Scream Queen.’

  Once Mr. French catches his breath, he claps his hands to his fleshy jowls and whispers hoarsely, “What have you done to this poor little boy?”

  Ivan growls.

  “Oh my!” Mr. French says, taking a step back out of the way of Ivan’s sharp little teeth.

  “He doesn’t like to be called ‘little,’” I say.

  “Don’t I know the feeling,” Mr. French says. He looks to be about 5’2. He could be Danny Devito’s long lost brother. If you were to dress him in knickers he’d fit right in with the Lollipop Guild in the Wiz
ard of Oz.

  I don’t remark on Mr. French’s vertical challenge. I know how sensitive old queens can be. And like Ivan they can snap your finger off in a single bite.

  Mr. French points one well-manicured finger at Travis, saying, “Are you responsible for this?”

  I jump in and say, “No. It was me. It was a home job. I was trying to make Ivan pretty. He wants to be pretty. He, uh… told me so.” That’s a lie. Ivan can’t talk and even if he could talk I don’t think he gives a crap if he’s pretty or not. The only reason I said that was because I want to appeal to Mr. French’s artistic side. The side where he thinks everybody always wants to be pretty even small, hairless, boy dogs.

  My evil plan must’ve worked because Mr. French gingerly takes Ivan out of my arms and perches him on top of a stainless steel table. He walks around the table with one finger tapping his chin as he studies Ivan from every conceivable angle. “So, you’re putting him in a dog show?”

  “That would be correct,” I say.

  “He doesn’t have to dance does he?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” I say. “It’s not that kind of show. This is the Lakeland Dog show.”

  “I see, I see,” Mr. French says. “I have helped many a Best in Show winner with the Lakeland show.”

  “Yeah, Mrs. Hildegard said you are the best there is,” I say. No harm in stroking the old queen.

  Travis adds, “All Ivan has to do is walk and sit and look pretty.”

  “Boring,” Mr. French says with an exaggerated yawn.

  “The most exciting thing that happens is when the judge lifts the dog’s tail and stares at his butthole,” Travis says.

  Mr. French chuckles. “Reminds me of my first boyfriend.”

  Travis laughs, too. Great. The two of them have some type of gay boy symbiosis going on and I’m left out in the cold.

  “Do the judges really look at buttholes?” I ask. Because if so, I’m thinking we might want to bleach it. I’ve heard that butthole bleaching is all the rage right now. Personally, I don’t want to have anything to do with it. I figure if I can’t see it, it doesn’t exist.