Jingle Bell Bark (17 page)

Because of the variations in trims, Poodles are one of those rare breeds where puppies often beat the adults to take the points. For that reason, both Zeke and Eve had been shown quite a lot as puppies. Zeke, who'd had the benefit of having Aunt Peg at the end of his leash, had already managed to amass almost all the points he needed to complete his championship. One more win would “finish” him.

A championship title is attained by winning a total of fifteen points in breed competition. The classes are split by sex—both one dog and one bitch will take home points in each breed at each show. The number of points awarded varies between one and five and is based on the amount of competition. Along the way, each dog must also secure two major wins, meaning that at least twice he must defeat enough other dogs to be awarded three or more points. Fifteen single points do not add up to a championship.

Eve had been to as many shows as Zeke had during her puppy career, but the competition she'd faced had been stiffer. So far she had seven points to her credit, all of them singles. Today's three-point major, if she could get it, would round out her current resume nicely.

Our third entry was Sam's specials dog, Tar, a.k.a. Champion Cedar Crest Scimitar. Specials are exactly what the name implies—the best of the best. These are dogs that have finished their championships in style and are now being campaigned in the hopes of amassing the coveted Best of Breed, Group First, and Best in Show wins. Tar had been showing as a special since spring. In that time, his record had grown to include eight non-sporting group wins and his first all-breed Best in Show. In short, he'd become a factor to be reckoned with.

Crawford Langley, who was known for the quality of the Poodles he exhibited, had lately contented himself with specialing only a Mini and a Toy at most venues. His Standard special went only to carefully selected shows where he knew Tar wouldn't be present. No professional handler shows to be beaten. The fact that Crawford left his Standard special at home was a sign of his respect for Tar's quality.

By the time Crawford reappeared with the Chinese Crested, Terry had both their Toy Poodles ready to go. The two of them headed up to the ring. Sam went with them to pick up our armbands. Topknot finally in, I finished spraying up Eve's neck hair. Aunt Peg was scissoring Zeke's trim.

Eve's littermate looked wonderful standing on his table. He was tall, well muscled, and beautifully masculine. His eyes were dark and expressive; his coat, an inky black.

“He could finish today,” I commented.

“Shhh!” Peg glared in my direction. She's a great believer in jinxes.

“He would be my first homebred champion.”

“Not if you keep talking about it,” she grumbled. “Don't you have some scissoring to do?”

The question was rhetorical. If we were twenty minutes away from going into the show ring, there was always scissoring to do. I picked up a pair of curved shears and went to work.

Sam returned and we got ourselves organized. Crawford lost with his Toys, then won with his Minis. Seemingly only seconds passed before it was our turn. Time to go do what the Poodles did best.

It was show time.

D
ogs always show before bitches. For some reason, which I have yet to figure out, they also always wear odd-numbered armbands, while bitches are assigned even numbers. Aunt Peg, with Zeke, would be the first of us to go in the ring. She stood near the gate as the Standard Poodle judging started with the Puppy Dog class.

Summoned by the steward, four rambunctious puppies filed into the ring. Two were black, two were white; none, thankfully, looked mature enough to give Zeke a run for his money. Nevertheless, I was delighted to see them. Their numbers, added to those in the other classes, supplied the total that had come up a major.

Aunt Peg had Zeke entered in the Open class. Usually she shows in Bred by Exhibitor; however, since I was Zeke's breeder Peg was ineligible for her favorite class. Instead she would face four other opponents all presented by professional handlers in Open.

As Peg entered the ring, Sam and Tar came to stand beside me.

“He looks good,” Sam said in a low voice. At ringside, everybody listens in. Those who don't want the whole world to know what they're thinking whisper compliments and insults alike.

“I just told Aunt Peg that. She thought I was jinxing her.”

“You probably were. That's how superstitions work. If you believe, you're done for.”

We both watched as Val made her first pass down the line of four. First impressions count for a lot in dog shows. The judge has only a very limited amount of time, usually less than two minutes, to devote to assessing each dog.

Savvy handlers try to grab the judge's attention right away. The really talented ones never relinquish it.

“Good,” Sam said as Val paused for a second look at Zeke. “She knows he's there.”

The judge lifted her hands and sent the entry around the matted ring. Called in catalog order, Zeke was leading the parade. Trotting smoothly, Aunt Peg raised her hand, let out her leash, and hung back ever so slightly. Zeke, striding out in front of her, looked as though he was showing himself and towing her along behind as an afterthought.

A subtle point, well made. Aunt Peg's actions indicated her feelings to the judge:
this dog has so much presence and ability, he can do it all by himself.
Val, a former handler herself, was well able to appreciate the effort. Nor would the effect be lost on her.

“That's it,” Sam whispered when the Poodles had completed a circuit of the ring. “He's got it.”

I reached over and punched him in the arm. “Not so fast. At least give the judge a chance to put her hands on him before you go ahead and make up her mind for her.”

Sam shut up then, but it didn't matter. He was right, just as I'd hoped he would be. When the judge had completed her individual examinations of all four entries, she left Zeke standing at the head of the line and shuffled only those behind him. A minute later, Val Homberg handed Aunt Peg the narrow strip of blue ribbon.

“Almost there,” I said under my breath.

Eve, all but forgotten, waited patiently at my side. One of my hands supported her head; the other lifted her tail. I scratched under her chin absently and watched as the handler of the Puppy class winner brought his Standard Poodle back into the ring. This competition was called Winners Dog, and would decide which of the previous class winners got the points. And the major. Three important and oh-so-coveted points.

For Aunt Peg, Zeke would simply be another in a long line of beautiful Poodles that she had escorted to their titles. For me, however, his championship would be a first. Though I had finished Faith, I hadn't had the distinction of being her breeder. Zeke was a homebred, and that made all the difference.

I'd been there when he was born. I'd broken the sac and dried him off, then helped him find the nipple and take his first drink. I'd seen his eyes open, and watched him take his first wobbly steps. I was the one who'd planned his breeding and brought him into the world. It was an awesome responsibility, one I knew I would never take lightly.

Win or lose, Zeke was my baby. He would always make me proud. But now, watching as the judge once again placed him at the front of the line, my heart began to pound.

“He is going to do it,” I whispered incredulously.

“Told you,” said Sam.

As Val sent the two dogs around the ring for the last time, Sam was already beginning to clap. Though the judge hadn't pointed yet, it was probably just a formality. Nevertheless, I waited, breath caught in my throat, until Val raised her hand and made it official. When she did, I think I might have screamed; thankfully, the moment remains somewhat hazy in recollection.

I wasn't just a fledgling breeder anymore, I realized. Now I was the breeder of a champion. My first, and hopefully, the start of many more to come.

Catching my excitement, Eve bounced up into the air beside me. Only Sam's quick reflexes kept her from landing on, Tar and laying waste to the hours of grooming we'd both done.

Aunt Peg was all smiles as she ushered Zeke over to the marker. She had a few words with the judge and accepted the purple Winners ribbon graciously. Zeke stood like a statue, basking in the smattering of applause from ringside.

“One down,” Peg said happily as she exited the ring and came to join us. “Now it's your turn.”

“My turn?” In all the excitement, I'd almost forgotten that Eve and I were due to show ourselves in just a matter of minutes. “You must be kidding. She won't put both of us up.”

“Why not?”

“Two owner-handlers in a row? I don't think so.”

“Make that three,” said Sam. “Because Tar and I are planning on winning Best of Variety. Besides, she's already indicated that she likes the family.”

Val Homberg had done that, I considered. Faced with a major entry that had some quality to it, the judge had wasted little time in finding Zeke and awarding him the points. Good judges are consistent. they know what they like in a dog, and they look for it time after time. So if Zeke was Val's kind of Standard Poodle, it made sense that his littermate, Eve, would be too.

Inside the ring, the judge was making short work of the puppy bitches. The entry was smaller in bitches than it had been in dogs. With a total of six bitches entered, only two points were at stake.

However, after Winners Bitch had been awarded, Best of Variety would be called into the ring. The three champions in that class would be joined by the Winners Dog and Winners Bitch. Since both were still undefeated in the day's competition, they were also contenders for the higher award. Not only that but the judge would choose between them for Best of Winners. Whichever Poodle received that designation would take home the higher number of points awarded in the classes that day. So if the Winners Bitch beat Zeke for BOW, she too would be credited with a three-point major.

Every handler showing at Worcester understood the way the point system worked. Every single one had come to the show with a covetous eye on that major. They all wanted it just as badly as I did.

I should have been watching the Puppy Bitch class and scoping out the competition. Instead I was busy making hasty repairs to Eve's topknot, combing through her tail, and patting my pockets to make sure they held both a squeaky toy and several pieces of dried liver.

Sam watched my harried and mostly unnecessary preparations with amusement. Cool as ice himself, he'd resigned himself to the fact that last-minute nerves always sent my stomach fluttering. “She looks great,” he said.

I nodded in reply as the two puppies filed from the ring. Now it was my turn.

Eve was the only Bred-by Bitch entered. Some judges rushed summarily though a single entry, since awarding the blue was usually a foregone conclusion. That could work against a nice dog, as it put them in the weaker position of having to go into the Winners class without having beaten any previous competition.

Fortunately, Val took her time and paid attention. Eve showed like the pro she was fast becoming. Her stack was solid. Her movement was straight and correct. When I stopped in front of the judge at the end of the gaiting pattern, Eve looked past the liver I was holding, caught Val's eye and wagged her tail.

The judge was smiling as she motioned us to the marker. Always a good sign.

Then we were back outside the ring again, waiting in the gate as the bitches in the Open class were judged. Aunt Peg studied the entry with a critical eye. An experienced Poodle judge herself, she could determine a Poodle's quality, or lack thereof, at a glance.

“I've seen better Open classes,” she muttered under her breath. “The brown's the best of that lot, but that isn't saying much.”

The brown bitch was in the ring with Crawford. She wasn't the soundest Poodle I'd ever seen. Nor, with her unbecoming light eyes, the prettiest. But Crawford presented her to the judge with all the flourish of an escort at a debutante ball. It was a handler's job to highlight his entry's good points and downplay her faults, and Crawford was a master at it.

Nobody was surprised when he won the class, least of all Crawford. He accepted the blue ribbon, slipped it into his pocket, and then hurried the brown Poodle back to the head of the Winners lineup. I was behind him with Eve, and the cream bitch who'd won the Puppy class followed me.

Val walked to the other side of the ring and stood, feet braced wide apart, hands clasped behind her back. She studied her choices for a long minute, her patient stance serving notice to those who were watching from ringside: this wasn't going to be a quick decision, they'd better be prepared to wait.

Speaking objectively—assuming that was possible under the circumstances—I had to say that Eve was the best of the three Standard Poodles in the ring. Unfortunately, there were other factors the judge would take into consideration. For one thing, she had just put an owner-handler up over the pros for Winners Dog. Did she dare do so again? For another, it was readily apparent that Crawford could handle circles around me. What was, and what he might be able to convince the judge to think, could be two entirely different things.

And then there was the puppy, a pretty cream with a cute face, a nice way of going, and another professional handler at the end of her leash. Remember what I told you earlier? In Poodles, you never discount the puppy.

All of which meant this wasn't going to be easy. Possible, certainly. Doable, maybe. But easy? No way.

Val lifted her hands and motioned for Crawford to lead the line around the ring. Since all of the entrants in a Winners class have just been seen by the judge in earlier classes, picking the winner can often be a cursory effort. Not this time. Val Homberg judged the three Poodles in front of her like she'd never seen them before; examining each and regaiting it, comparing it to the others and considering.

When she sent us around a final time, she hadn't changed our order. Crawford was still at the head of the line. My shoulders slumped ever so slightly. I assumed she'd made her choice and the brown bitch was it. Then I glanced over and realized that Val hadn't taken her eyes off of Eve.

And when she raised her hand and indicated the Poodle she wanted, her finger was pointing straight at us.

“Yes!” I said under my breath.

There was no time to stop and celebrate the win. Nor to recomb Eve. Instead, as the three specials came striding into the ring, I slipped her a piece of liver as a reward. Then we dropped back to take our place at the end of the line. Aunt Peg with Zeke, the Winners Dog, was just in front of us.

“Pay attention now!” she said just loud enough for me to hear. “You've got two points, but you can have three.”

Instead of stacking Zeke and holding him at attention as the other handlers were doing, Aunt Peg stepped away and let the Poodle stand naturally. The pose was more casual than those he'd be compared to, and slightly less eye-catching. Zeke already had the major and he wasn't going to beat Tar for Best of Variety. So if Aunt Peg took the edge off his performance, making him look less like a star than he had in his own classes, nothing would be lost and much might be gained, especially if the judge could be convinced to put his sister up-over him for Best of Winners.

Val Homberg had been around. She knew how the game was played, and she could count points every bit as well as we could. She took her time judging the three specials one by one, but when the time came to compare the two littermates, she simply walked to the back of the line and motioned Eve forward. She didn't have to call us twice.

Tar, who looked magnificent, every inch a champion and a worthy representative of the Poodle breed, was standing at the head of the line. I slipped Eve into the spot behind him. A champion bitch held the third position.

Val Homberg sent us all around the ring one last time and pinned it just that way. Tar won Best of Variety, Eve was Best of Winners, the champion bitch was Best of Opposite Sex.

Showing dogs is often an exercise in frustration. Most exhibitors lose more often than they win, and I was no exception. But a day like that was one to savor. Two major wins, a new champion, and BOV for Tar. In the dog show world, it simply didn't get much better than that.