The Dogfather

by Conant, Susan

  "The two of you!” Mary was misting Mr. Wookie’s coat and fluffing him up here and there with a small pin brush that bore his portrait on the back. Mr. Wookie was voicing a highly inflected opinion. Although his vocalizations sounded strangely like the word no, he was clearly expressing his ardent desire to get in the ring and win: “Let’s go!”

  As Mary was replying to Mr. Wookie, I glanced at the judge’s table and saw to my horror that Harry Howland was standing by the gate in conversation with—oh no!— Al Favuzza. Having dispatched the horrible twins and Zap the Driver on errands, I’d finally rid us of Favuzza by sending him off to buy a new show lead. Show leads are thin leashes that come in a zillion styles and materials. The nylon ones are available in dozens of colors. With luck, I’d thought, the vampire would linger over a bewildering display and then be unable to find us because we’d have moved from the grooming area to ringside. Hah! Here he was. Worse, here he was talking to Harry Howland.

  Noting Favuzza, Leah said, “He’s probably asking where we are. He wouldn’t know not to do that. You know, Holly, when I saw him at the Museum of Fine Arts, it was just so sad. He didn’t actually ask me for directions. He asked me how to get in, and finally I realized that he didn’t know that all he had to do was walk in and pay. Can you imagine a person who doesn’t realize that the museum is open to the public? It’s terrible that anyone would feel so disenfranchised.”

  “Disenfranchised!” I didn’t share Leah’s egalitarian interpretation. Favuzza was probably planning to rob the museum. “Leah,” I said, “I don’t like the way he looks at you. Stay away from him.”

  She laughed. “That’s ridiculous! He’s a middle-aged man. All of a sudden, you’re a paranoid snob?”

  “I am not a snob, and I am not paranoid.” Fleeing the repulsive image of Leah as the object of Favuzza’s interest, I changed the subject. “This is one of the puppy classes, right?”

  Male puppies. As I’ve mentioned in passing, the judging of dog-show classes is not coed. The boys go first. I don’t mind: I’ve so used to the system that I expect to arrive at the Pearly Gates and hang around while St. Peter judges the men. Without doubt, I’ll get there with a spray bottle of water in one hand and a brush in the other, and I’ll mist my own hair and pretty it up just as I was now spritzing and stroking Rowdy’s coat. The entry will presumably be larger than today’s malamute entry, which, although small, was decent for our part of the country. The total number of malamutes entered was twenty-two, with ten in the dog classes, seven in the bitch classes, and the remainder, including Rowdy and Mr. Wookie, in Best of Breed. It was unlikely that everyone would show up.

  Unfortunately, the people who showed up in my immediate vicinity were not malamute exhibitors, but the entire crew of mobsters, led by Al Favuzza, who said, “What are you waiting for?” Favuzza’s line of work, I thought, had left him sadly unable to delay gratification.

  “My turn,” I said. “The ones in the ring now are class dogs, meaning that they aren’t champions. They’re competing for championship points. Rowdy’s finished. He has to wait until after the class dogs and then the class bitches are judged. Then there’ll be a sort of grand finale, with the winners from the classes—and the champions. The judge picks his Best of Breed, Best of Opposite Sex, and Best of Winners, which could be... well, let’s just say that at the moment we’re waiting for Kimi’s turn.”

  In case it seems as if I’ve disparaged AKC judges with my talk about the polite fiction of numbered armbands and so on, let me say that judging is hard work. AKC judges have to follow a prescribed protocol, do their AKC paperwork correctly, and keep to a schedule that allots only a few minutes to evaluate each dog. New judges are expected to do twenty dogs per hour; experienced judges, twenty-five. Harry Howland was experienced. And he was good: He was paying attention to every dog while simultaneously moving the judging along in an appropriately efficient manner. Also, his first-place winner in Open Dogs, who also went Winners Dog, was the one I’d’ve picked myself.

  Then he started on the bitches. The one puppy entered was a no-show, and the single Bred-by-Exhibitor bitch obviously had no trouble winning her class. As Leah, Kimi, and the others entered in Open Bitches filed into the ring, one bitch passed close to Mr. Wookie, who for once turned his attention from Mary and showed every intention of following the fetching femme instead. “No girls!” Mary told him. Meanwhile, Favuzza was ogling Leah so disgustingly that I almost issued the same order to him: “No girls!”

  As to the malamute girls in the ring, one of Kimi’s competitors struck me as no competition. She had a snipey muzzle, big ears, and a tight tail, and when she moved, her extra flesh jiggled like Jell-O. Of the remaining three, one was probably going to lose for an unfair reason: She was red. Here in New England, we see very few reds. According to the AKC standard of the breed, color counts for nothing; it’s strictly a matter of personal preference. Still, most judges hesitate to put up a dog that looks radically different from the others in the ring. The other two were gray and white. Both were lighter than Kimi and, in contrast to Kimi, they had “open faces” like Rowdy’s, all white, without bars, goggles, or other markings. In malamutes, markings are supposed to be symmetric. Otherwise, like color, they’re nothing more than interesting variations in a variable breed. What does count? Type: Malamutes should look like malamutes, not like Siberian huskies, collies, or akitas, for example. Soundness: Malamutes should be built to move heavy loads over great and bitterly cold distances. One of the two light gray bitches was, to my eye, delicately pretty, not to mention cow-hocked, but her professional handler, Johnny La-motte, was a wizard. Lamotte could get correct movement from a dog with no legs, so this bitch’s gait looked at least passable. That’s better than I can say about the second light gray bitch, who moved by flinging her hind legs skyward. The hindquarters are supposed to drive the dog efficiently forward; it’s a waste of energy to treat the heavens to a prolonged view of the pads of the feet. Kimi, in contrast, moved beautifully. Furthermore, Leah handled her well. Together, Kimi and Leah created a winning picture. And won the class. As I’ve said, Harry Howland is a good judge.

  As he handed out the ribbons, Mary joined in the applause. I did, too, of course. Favuzza, Zap, and the twin thugs didn’t. Barbarians! Worse, Favuzza jerked his thumb toward the ring in an apparent effort to tell me to get Rowdy in there. As if I needed direction at a dog show!

  “Not quite yet,” I said. “Now the winners from the bitch classes, the first-place bitches, go back in again.” That’s what they were doing, of course. The class is called Winners, and—surprise!—the victor is called Winners Bitch. She and the Winners Dog are the ones who get the championship points. With the wisdom born of experience, the AKC recognizes that snafus occur. Therefore, the judge also selects an RWD and an RWB, reserve winners, the dog and the bitch who earn the points if the WD or the WB is “disallowed,” as it’s said.

  “Kimi’s my Reserve Queen.” I said to Mary. “I could wallpaper a room in purple and white ribbons. People keep telling me to hire a handler, but I really want Leah to be able to finish Kimi herself.”

  “She’s going to win,” Mary said. “Howland loves her. I can tell.”

  Mary was right. Just as I’d taught her, Leah, having accepted the ribbon, was speaking politely to everyone else in the ring instead of rudely ignoring the other handlers while leaping up and down in obnoxious celebration of the win.

  I nervously ran the brush over Rowdy and joined the dogs and handlers lining up for Best of Breed. Rowdy would be competing against Kimi, as well as against the Winners Dog and against the other specials, including Mr. Wookie. As I entered the ring, Harry Howland’s eyes met mine. In this situation, even if the judge is an old family friend, he’s a judge first: Harry Howland wouldn’t stroll up to me to spend twenty minutes chitchatting about how my father was doing and how I liked my new stepmother. On the other hand, nothing in the AKC regulations or guidelines prevented him from wearing a pleasant expression,
and absolutely nothing required him to glare at me and grit his teeth. Instead of focusing on Rowdy, I looked down at Leah’s red blazer and my way-too-informal pants. Just ahead of me, the professional handler of an oversized, ponderous dog slowed way down. Fortunately, I caught the change of pace in time to avoid running Rowdy into the dog.

  After that, I paid attention. Rowdy free-stacks well. I let him pose himself. My tension was already traveling down his show lead, and my trembling hands would’ve given him an alarm message if I’d fussed around in an effort to improve on perfection. But I did bait Rowdy. Bait: show verb meaning to induce the dog to look his animated best by offering a delectable incentive such as liver, beef, chicken, or Mr. Wookie’s favorite, beef-flavored Redbarn roll. My own dogs will bait for dirt, but as the—ahem!—soon-to-be-esteemed author of the soon-to-be-published volume entitled 101 Ways to Cook Liver, I had a freezer full of guess what and was using it. To reiterate, I knew we wouldn’t win. So why bother trying? Pride. The malamute community was my community, and its members were people whose good opinions I valued. Win or lose, Rowdy was going to look good and show well.

  Rowdy did his part. When Harry Howland ran his hands over Rowdy, there wasn’t a growl or a grumble. As perhaps you know, these examinations are quite intimate because the judge has to check for the presence of the two required testicles. A rough judge can teach a dog to hate the show ring. Howland was respectful. Furthermore, when he checked Rowdy’s bite, he had me open Rowdy’s mouth. I just hate it when judges insist on transmitting microorganisms by sticking their increasingly germy hands into the mouths of all the dogs. So, Howland treated Rowdy with consideration. As to his treatment of me, he didn’t grab and squeeze any sensitive body parts or shove his fingers in my throat, but his frozen face suggested that pain and disease were what I deserved. For failing to be Ms. Dog Show Fashion Plate?

  Hurt and mystified, I did a bad job of gaiting Rowdy. My balance felt off. If the mats had been in poor condition, I’d probably have tripped and fallen. After that, I pulled myself together and concentrated on keeping Rowdy happy. He’d done nothing wrong, and I made sure he felt good about himself by doling out liver and sweet talk. When Harry Howland gave Mr. Wookie Best of Breed, I clapped with genuine enthusiasm, and when my lovely Kimi took Best of Winners and Best of Opposite— Best of Opposite Sex to Best of Breed—I was so thrilled for her and for Leah that I momentarily quit wondering what I’d done to offend the judge. Rowdy and I left the ring. In it, Leah was busy hugging Mary and exchanging congratulations, accepting congratulations from other handlers, and in general behaving like the modest, gracious winner she was.

  From inside the ring, Mary waved to me and called out, “See? I told you! Cream always rises to the top!”

  The show photographer was already in the ring. Concerned that Leah might try to spare me the expense of a photo, I went through the gate and started toward Leah to authorize the expenditure. Before I reached her, Harry Howland approached me and silently motioned me aside. It’s common for judges to hand out advice: Take handling classes or Get someone to teach you to groom your dog. I wasn’t worried. On the contrary, I felt relieved that I’d finally get a full explanation for Harry’s uncharacteristic coldness toward me. I expected to be taken to task for dressing in a manner disrespectful to the Sport, with a capital S. What else had I done? Or failed to do?

  I anticipated the justifiable criticism of my attire by saying, “My handler broke her arm this morning. I didn’t expect to be in the ring. That’s why I’m dressed like this. I’m very sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  Harry made one of those sounds on which silver-haired gentlemen seem to hold a monopoly, a sort of baffled, dismissive snort. “There’s one reason I’m not reporting you,” he said, “and that’s your mother. I do not want to see Marissa Winter’s daughter subjected to the public censure you deserve.”

  For wearing corduroy pants instead of a skirt?

  Harry Howland went on. “But if you should ever again attempt to influence me, I will see to it that you are raked over the coals, young lady.” He paused for breath. His whole face was red, and the broken veins around his nose stood out. “Does your father know about these hoodlums of yours?”

  I closed my eyes, opened them, and said, “Harry, I had no idea. None. There has been a horrible misunderstanding. I would never try to influence a judge. Never. I had no idea.”

  It was clear that Harry Howland didn’t believe me. “By the way,” he said, “it might interest you to know that my Best of Breed won strictly on his merits. I will not respond to threats—one way or the other. And another thing. Don’t ever show a dog to me again as long as you live.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Angry doesn’t begin to say it. Nor does mortified. Spotting Al Favuzza, Zap, and the twins outside a nearby ring, I hauled Rowdy over to them and spat out, “We need to talk, and we need to talk right now. Not here. Outside.”

  With the gang of gangsters trailing behind, I led Rowdy through the aisle to the exit, where I dutifully showed his entry form before hurrying through. Technically, the parking lot was on show grounds, but the ground outdoors felt less AKC-hallowed than did the interior of the trade center. The standard penalty for hollering at spectators (“Offense II, Disorderly Conduct, b. Abusive or foul language/verbal altercation”) was a one-month suspension and a $500 fine, far milder than the punishment for attempting to influence a judge, but I didn’t want to run any risks. We went all the way across the asphalt to a narrow, ugly strip of weeds bordering a rusty chain-link fence.

  “Angry doesn’t begin to say it,” I told Al Favuzza, clearly the leader of the pack as well as the one I’d seen speaking to Harry Howland. “This is unbelievable!” As if to illustrate my sentiment, Rowdy lifted his leg on the fence and emptied his full bladder. The deserving object wasn’t the unobjectionable fence. It was Al Favuzza.

  “Some people don’t know what’s good for ’em,” Favuzza said.

  “I know perfectly well what is and isn’t good for me! I make my living in the world of dogs, and it's a damned small living as it is, and what I do not need is to lose my AKC privileges or pay a huge fine or have my reputation ruined forever, and I cannot imagine what you thought you were doing or why you thought you were doing it, but one thing I can tell you is that this is never going to happen again, because I won’t allow it. I have never been so mortified in my entire life. Do you realize that I know just about every person who was in or near that ring today?” Abruptly changing my tone of voice, I said, “Rowdy. I am not yelling at you. You are a good boy.”

  “Hey,” said Favuzza, “it’s only a dog show."

  “ONLY? ONLY? It’s only a place where I know everyone and everyone knows me. I have been showing dogs since before I was born”—true, in utero—“and I intend to keep on showing dogs until I keel over in the ring, and when that happens, I would like it to happen because I’ve died of old age and not because I’ve died of embarrassment and humiliation and goddamned disbelief the way I practically did today.”

  Having been informed that he was not the subject of my tirade, Rowdy took an intelligent interest in it. That’s more than can be said for Guarini’s henchmen. Rowdy’s beautiful almond-shaped eyes focused on me with fascination. In a canine enactment of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, he’d’ve made a brilliant Puck: What fools these mortals be!

  “Do you have something to say for yourselves?” I demanded. “If you’re at a loss for words, you could start by apologizing.”

  To my surprise, it was Zap who replied. “Joey’d uh done a better job.”

  “Of what?” I tried to ask, but Favuzza drowned me out by saying, “Zap, shut up. Joey’s dead. How could he’ve done a better job when he’s dead?”

  The horrible twins shuffled their feet and emitted subhuman grunts apparently intended to express approval of Favuzza’s wit.

  “Yeah, well,” Favuzza continued, “there’s more dog shows. Hey, kid gloves is always a big mistake, so let’s forge
t about today. Next time it’s all going to work out.”

  “Next time? Next time?" I was beside myself. “There is going to be no next time. All of a sudden, I see everything, okay? What we’re having here is a series of miscommunications. I am not upset because Rowdy lost today. For one thing, he lost to a really good dog. It’s no shame to lose to Mr. Wookie. And for another thing, anyone who can’t stand to lose shouldn’t be showing dogs at all because no one wins all the time, and I of all people know that, so what I’m upset about, what I’m, uh, practically speechless about, is that you saw fit to jeopardize my good standing in my sport and my friendship with Mary Wood and my goddamned honesty by threatening an American Kennel Club judge who just so happens to be someone I’ve known my entire life and who is forever after going to think I’m a sleaze and a cheat. And that’s what I’m so-called upset about!”

  “We were only trying to do you a favor,” Favuzza said.

  “A favor? By ruining my reputation? This is your idea of a favor?” After I spoke, it occurred to me that the botched gangland “favor” actually could have been worse than the one I was enduring. Everyone involved was still breathing. Notice that I did not ask what the favor was supposed to be for. Keeping my mouth shut about Joey Cortiniglia’s murder?

  Zap said, “For helping the boss.”

  In an effort to supply a benign explanation of why Guarini owed me a favor, I said, “With Frey.”

  “Because you won’t take no money.” Zap was on the verge of elaborating, but Favuzza, as usual, told him to shut up.

  “That’s a gift,” I said. “If I wanted any kind of payment for it, I’d send a bill. And I want it clearly understood that my dogs and I win or lose on our own. When my dogs win, I want to know that they’ve won because they were the best. Period. And when they lose, all I want is to have a good time anyway.”

  “No dog favors,” Favuzza said.