Because of this, Poodles usually need time to mature into their new trims. Only Toys, which stand ten inches or under at the shoulder and are the smallest of the three varieties, resume showing in the adult classes almost immediately. Miniatures, whose height is between ten and fifteen inches, often take off a month or two. For Standards, the kings and queens of Poodledom, the wait for a dog to be fully mature can take up to a year.
I had shown Faith about a dozen times when she was a puppy. On each outing I’d been a little less nervous, and Faith had been a bit better trained. As an older puppy she’d usually won her class quite handily, but she had yet to win any points toward her championship.
At every dog show in each breed or variety there are six classes that a dog may be entered in: Puppy, 12—18 Months, Novice, Bred-By-Exhibitor, American-Bred, and Open. The classes are divided by sex, and each of the class winners is brought back into the ring to vie for the awards of Winners Dog and Winners Bitch. Only these two receive points, with the number of points awarded being determined by the number of dogs shown.
The lowest number of points awarded, with competition, is one. The highest is five. It takes fifteen points to make a dog a champion, with the additional qualification that each dog must also win at least two majors, that is, he must pick up at least three points at a single show, a proviso that ensures he has beaten a number of competitors.
Now Faith was seventeen months old and, ready or not, I was itching to get her back in the show ring. On the day she gave her to me, Aunt Peg had made me promise that I would finish Faith’s championship. But as much as I enjoyed going to shows, I found I was spending entirely too much time on coat care. The sooner we started showing again, the sooner we’d have a chance to win some points.
Though there were two shows in the area over the weekend, Faith was only entered on Sunday. Aunt Peg had inspected the premium lists mailed out six weeks in advance and declared Saturday’s Poodle judge to be an old fool. Practically speaking, that was likely to mean that he’d never put up Aunt Peg’s dogs in the past. Sunday’s judge was determined to be a fair and knowledgeable man and the entries were made.
The dog show was run by the Ramapo Kennel Club and was held at an indoor location in Suffern, New York, just on the other side of the Tappan Zee bridge. Hard core exhibitors think nothing of driving hundreds of miles to seek out the best venues or most accommodating judges. I’d seen Aunt Peg pick up and leave home for an entire week when there was a circuit of shows in progress. Not me. As far as I was concerned, the closer, the better.
I pulled the Volvo into the unloading zone beside the big building and got out, leaving Davey and Faith to guard each other for a few minutes while I took my equipment inside. Since Davey had spent the entire trip entertaining us with increasingly louder renditions of “Itsy Bitsy Spider,” it was a relief to enter the dog show through a side door. Amazingly, with fifteen hundred dogs present, the large room was quieter than my car had been.
The near end of the building had been set aside as a grooming area for exhibitors who needed to make additional preparations to their dogs before taking them into the ring. Even with all the work I’d already done on Faith at home, she, like all the other Poodles in attendance, still fell into that category. I walked along the wide strip between the handlers’ area and the rings, my portable grooming table tucked under one arm and a bag of supplies slung over the other. It didn’t take long to spot Aunt Peg.
It helped that she’s nearly six feet tall and was wearing a red dress. I threaded my way down a narrow aisle bounded on either side by stacked crates until I reached the area she’d staked out. Her grooming table was already set up and a large metal crate was beside it. Inside, I could see Faith’s littermate, Hope, snoozing happily.
“You must have gotten here early,” I said. Hope was already brushed out, which meant that Aunt Peg was way ahead of me.
Aunt Peg looked up from the catalogue she was perusing. “I assumed you’d want me to work on Faith’s trim. If she hasn’t been scissored since I saw her last month, it’s going to take some time.”
Scissoring is an exacting job. Not only do the lines for the trim have to be set in just the right spot to maximize each Poodle’s good points, but the finish of the hair must also be smooth and rounded. It isn’t an easy skill to perfect. I’d been practicing for a year now, but I was still happy to let Aunt Peg supply the finishing touches before Faith went into the ring.
I set down my grooming table, kicked its legs into position, then placed it right side up. “Of course Faith’s been scissored. I did it myself.”
“Heaven help us all.”
Peg has been a Standard Poodle breeder for longer than I’ve been alive. She and her husband, Max, founded the Cedar Crest line based on the theory that knowledge, hard work, and a bit of luck could lead to excellence. The success of the Cedar Crest Standard Poodles in the ring over the ensuing decades has proven them correct.
Max had died of a heart attack just about the time that the litter Faith had come from was born. Now Peg was carrying on alone and she was equal to the task. She’s smart, she’s shrewd, and she’s not above engaging in shameless manipulation if the need arises.
She also has an insatiable sweet tooth, which was why Davey and I had a box of doughnuts in the car. Aunt Peg was right, Faith did need scissoring. And she wasn’t the only family member who’d figured out how to get what she wanted.
I went out and parked the car, then Davey and I walked Faith back up the hill to the show site. He was carrying the doughnuts. I had his bag of books, crayons, and drawing paper. With luck, the supplies would distract him long enough for me to get Faith put together and into the ring.
When we returned, Hope was out on her grooming table. The Poodle was lying quietly while Aunt Peg cut the bands holding her topknot hair and brushed through the long strands to straighten them. Like all of Peg’s dogs, Hope is very well trained, but when Faith walked into view, her tail began to thump up and down and she whined excitedly under her breath.
“Oh, all right,” said Aunt Peg. “Say hello to your sister and get it out of your system.”
She stepped back and Hope leapt to her feet. Faith jumped up and placed her forepaws on the rubber-matted tabletop. The two of them touched noses while their hind feet danced in place. Both tails whipped back and forth.
“They say that dogs forget,” Peg said, watching the reunion. “But mine always seem to know their own family.” Her gaze shifted to Davey and her eyes lit up. “Did somebody bring me doughnuts?”
“We did!” Davey held out the box. “Mom said they were a bribe.”
There’s nothing like the innocent honesty of a six year old to keep you on the straight and narrow.
“Is that so?” Aunt Peg lifted the box top and peered inside. “If you’ve got a Bavarian cream in here, it just may work.”
When Davey was younger, I used to perch him on top of the big metal crates, because it seemed the best way to keep him in one place. Now that he’s old enough to climb up and down, he’s decided he still likes having the highest perch for a seat. I handed him his bag of toys, which he dug into eagerly, then hopped Faith up onto her table, laid her down on her side, and began to brush through her coat. Beside me, Aunt Peg went back to work on Hope’s topknot.
“Have you heard about Frank’s latest scheme?” I asked as I rooted through my grooming bag looking for a greyhound comb.
Peg, who keeps her supplies neatly sorted in a proper wooden tack box, made sure I saw her look of disdain for my less than efficient arrangement. “Heard about it? My dear girl, he’s been to my house and shown me blueprints. I’ve even been asked to make a contribution.”
“Frank brought you blueprints?” It was easy to see where I fit in on the scale of important relatives.
“He most certainly did. Presumably your brother figured that you’d be easier to convince.”
She was probably right. Since our parents had been killed in a car accident six y
ears earlier, every downturn in Frank’s fortunes had brought him to my doorstep.
“Well, I wasn’t.”
“So I heard.” Aunt Peg picked up a spray bottle of water and spritzed the flyaway ends of Hope’s coat. “He insisted on telling me the whole sad story. By the time the boy got to me, he’d already tried hitting up the entire family.”
It couldn’t have taken him long. There aren’t that many of us.
“Rose and Peter, too?”
Peg nodded. “He thought they might be understanding, I guess, considering their background.”
Aunt Rose, my late father’s sister, had until recently been a member of the Sisters of Divine Mercy. She’d left the convent and married Peter, who’d resigned from the priesthood at the same time. They were living in New London now, where Peter was teaching college and Rose was doing social work. By all accounts, they were very happy.
“I’m sure they were understanding,” I said, laughing. “But they still don’t have any money.”
“Nobody ever said your brother was the brightest bulb in the box. I gather he tried Bob next and that didn’t pan out, either.”
“I told him it wouldn’t.”
“So that only left me.”
“I hope you were gentle. Did you at least look at his blueprints before you turned him down?”
“I looked at his blueprints,” Aunt Peg confirmed. “And then I lent him the money he needed.”
I’d been using a pin brush to sweep long strokes through the hair. Now my hand stilled. “You didn’t.”
“Indeed I did.” Peg was putting in the tight topknot that Hope would wear into the ring. Using a knitting needle to make parts, she banded the hair into a row of ponytails, starting just behind the Poodle’s eyes and working back to her occiput.
“Why on earth would you do something like that?”
“Why not? How old is Frank now, twenty-seven? He can’t keep wandering in circles forever. Could be all he needs is a point in the direction and a good shove. Maybe this will get him started.”
I didn’t believe that for a minute. I wondered if she did. “More likely it will end up costing you your investment.”
“Now, Melanie. Frank told me just yesterday that you’d been by to have a look at the place. He said you thought things were coming along quite well.”
“Did he tell you I was there to help mop up two inches of standing water?”
“No,” Aunt Peg said thoughtfully. “I don’t believe he mentioned that.”
Of course not. Frank never wanted to be the bearer of bad news. “Did he happen to mention that he’s gone into business with Marcus Rattigan?”
“Now that he did tell me.” Aunt Peg frowned. “He seemed rather proud of the association. I can’t imagine why.”
“Do you know him?”
“I guess you’d say I know Marcus slightly, although it’s been years since we’ve spoken. Like everyone else, I read about his current exploits in the newspaper. A decade ago he was involved for a short time in showing dogs.”
“He was? What breed?”
“Several, actually. He wasn’t a breeder, he was a backer.”
“Like Cy Rubicov and Austin Beamish?” I asked, mentioning two men she and I had had dealings with over the last year.
Aunt Peg nodded.
According to the American Kennel Club, the purpose of a dog show is to select the best breeding stock for producing future generations of each breed. And in the purest sense, that’s still what takes place. Dog shows are also a competition, however, where big money can produce big results.
Many of the top winning dogs, the ones parading around the group rings at Westminster and traveling the country to rack up a record of Best in Show wins, are sponsored by wealthy patrons. Breeders like Aunt Peg do the hard work behind the scenes: studying pedigrees, testing for genetic problems, and whelping litters of puppies, but they often don’t have the money to showcase a really outstanding dog. That’s when a sponsor is sought to lease a dog or take a co-ownership.
The backer provides the financial support to pay for handling fees, advertising, and travel costs. In return, they receive the satisfaction of being associated with a winner. Having met Marcus Rattigan, I could readily imagine that he would have enjoyed that kind of involvement.
“He had quite a good Pointer,” said Aunt Peg. “And an excellent Bearded Collie. But the dog that really put him on the map was Winter.”
I kept on brushing and waited for Aunt Peg to continue. When it comes to dogs, past and present, she’s a walking encyclopedia. Not that that surprises me. Week after week, that’s what people do at dog shows; they gather together and talk dogs.
Davey looked up from his coloring book. I hadn’t even realized he was listening. “Winter’s a season,” he said firmly. “Not a dog.”
“Not in this case. Winter was the name of a a gorgeous Wire Fox Terrier bitch. Champion Wirerock Winter Fantasy. She was number one all breeds, about ten years ago. Everybody knew her.”
I looked at Davey and shrugged. Obviously we were out of the loop.
“Big deal,” he said and went back to his coloring.
“Considering he wasn’t around very long, Marcus was lucky to have ever gotten his name on such a good one,” Aunt Peg sniffed. In her mind, anyone who didn’t have an abiding love affair with dogs was considered suspect. “I believe the breeder was somebody local, and if I remember correctly, their luck ran out later. Winter was only able to have a single litter of puppies.”
“Do you know why Rattigan stopped showing?”
“No, people come and go all the time, you know. I suppose he just lost interest. I do know that he wasn’t the most popular man around. I doubt that anyone was sorry to see the last of him.”
“Because he’d been so successful?” I’d encountered enough jealousy among exhibitors to make the guess a likely one.
“That was probably part of it, but only a small part. Lots of people have top dogs, but some of them handle it more graciously than others. Marcus was the type who liked to gloat. He couldn’t resist lording it over people every time he won. Dog shows are really a rather small community. The same people see each other week after week, and that kind of behavior gets old very quickly.”
“Hey, look!” said Davey. “There’s Sam.”
I stopped brushing and turned around eagerly. Faith, sensing my mood, lifted her head to see what was going on. Sam Driver, my friend and lover, was making his way toward us down the congested aisle. Trotting at his side was a gawky four-month-old Standard Poodle puppy. All legs, feet, and curiosity, the youngster stopped to sniff every table and crate they passed, slowing Sam’s progress considerably.
“He’s got Tar with him!” Davey slithered off the crate top and ran to meet them.
I watched as Sam opened his arms and Davey ran into them for a hug. The two of them were great friends, and had been almost from the moment they’d met. Sam was terrific with children. Actually, Sam was terrific in a lot of ways.
Sometimes I thought of my life as a road filled with twists and bumps. In that context, Sam was the best smooth patch I’d encountered in years.
His blond head bent low over Davey’s darker one as the two of them shared a secret. Then Davey leaned down to ruffle his hands through Tar’s coat. At the same time, the puppy jumped up to lick his face. Davey straightened too fast, then overbalanced. Boy and puppy went down together, rolling end over end until they landed at my feet in a heap.
“Everybody still alive?” I heard giggling and saw the puppy’s tail wag, so I guessed I had my answer. “I thought you had to work this weekend,” I said to Sam.
“So did I, but I managed to get things wrapped up last night.”
Sam drew close, slipped an arm around my shoulder, and greeted Peg, Faith, and Hope in turn. He has his own line of Standard Poodles, and though he lacks Peg’s longevity, he’s a true dog man in the best sense of the word. For years, he’d kept and shown only bitches. Tar was his first
male. Looking to find an outcross that would nick with his own line, he’d purchased the puppy from Aunt Peg over the summer.
As a baby puppy, Tar had been stunning; enough of a stand-out that even a relative novice like myself could see and appreciate his quality. Now, half grown and beginning to teethe, he was all mismatched pieces and parts. He extricated himself from Davey’s grasp, grabbed the middle of the leash in his mouth, and began to tug on it, growling fiercely.
“Is that how you plan to socialize my puppy?” Aunt Peg inquired. “By letting him pull on his lead?”
“Funny thing about Tar.” Sam reached down and removed the leash from between the puppy’s teeth. “He’s very stubborn. I think he takes after his breeder.”
Aunt Peg has a tendency to intimidate people, but not Sam. For one thing, he’s one of the few people around who’s actually taller than she is. For another, he’s equally adept at verbal sparring. But just because she can’t push him around doesn’t stop her from trying.
She lifted a brow as Tar leapt up and down in place, his long ears rising, then flapping down around the sides of his head. Faith was already on her feet. Now Hope stood up to get a better view of the proceedings and her just completed topknot flopped to one side.
The puppy was wearing out his welcome, and Sam was quick to realize it. “You two have work to do. How about if Davey and I take Tar for a spin around the building?”
“Sounds perfect,” I said gratefully.
“We’ll come back before judging. If you need anything before that, just holler.”
I watched the three of them walk away, Davey proudly holding Tar’s leash, his other hand tucked into Sam’s much bigger one. Sam’s jeans were old and their fit was snug. No doubt about it, it was a pleasure to watch him move.
“We haven’t got all day,” Aunt Peg pointed out. “Can’t you moon over him and brush at the same time?”
I picked up my comb and went back to work. It’s not that romance is dead these days, just that mostly we’re too damn busy to care.
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