Melanie Travis 06 - Hush Puppy (3 page)

The Poodle seemed pleased by my speedy performance. I know I was. I packed up my grooming equipment, leaving it ready to go to the show in the morning, then went upstairs and fixed dinner for my son.

 

Saturday’s show was in New York, just on the other side of the Hudson River. Over the years, it has become harder and harder to find locations suitable for holding dog shows; and any venue which proves to be both practical and profitable tends to see a lot of action. Rockland Community College was one such site, and I’d been there several times over the last year.

About a third of the large room where the show was being held had been set aside for grooming. Each entry, from the smooth coated hounds to the labor intensive wire haired terriers, would have been bathed, clipped, plucked, and brushed to the point of perfection. But despite the preparations that were done at home beforehand, there was always something left to do just before entering the ring.

The professional handlers, who travel with strings of dogs and work from dawn ’til dark on show days, had already staked out their space. Aisles were defined by their stacked crates and rows of grooming tables. Making our way through the congestion, Davey and I looked for familiar faces. Usually, Aunt Peg saves me a spot, but today she wasn’t showing a dog. Sam was, but I wasn’t sure he’d be there yet.

“Look!” cried Davey, waving enthusiastically. “There’s Terry.”

Terry Denunzio was assistant to prominent professional handler Crawford Langley. He’d been a part of the dog show scene for less than a year, but he and I were already buddies. I changed course and headed in his direction.

“Air kiss,” Terry said, offering his cheek for a smooch. “I don’t want to mess your makeup.”

“Nor yours.” I cocked a brow. Terry was gay and deliciously good looking. He knew it and he flaunted it.

“Nasty, nasty. Are you looking for the hunk?”

Terry calls them like he sees them, and that was his pet name for Sam. Sam hated it. I thought it was kind of cute.

“Yes, is he here yet?”

“Just unloaded, and went to park his car. That’s his stuff.” Terry pointed to a table and crate at the end of the row. “I’m sure you can squeeze right in next to him. Especially since the two of you like to be cozy.”

“Thanks,” I said, ignoring the innuendo because I knew Terry was dying for me not to.

I set up my things, put Faith in her crate, left Davey under Terry’s watchful eye, and went back outside to park my car. When I returned a few minutes later, Sam was back as well and Aunt Peg had arrived. In my absence, she’d taken the liberty of releasing Faith from her crate and putting the Standard Poodle up on the grooming table.

“Did you actually use a hair dryer on this bitch last night?” Peg asked. “Or did you just blow on her a few times and hope for the best?”

I didn’t even try to mount a defense. Aunt Peg hated excuses, even good ones, which I didn’t exactly have. She’d celebrated her sixtieth birthday in the fall and, to nobody’s surprise, outlasted all of us on the dance floor. She was brash and blunt, and knew everything there was to know about dogs.

“Good morning to you, too,” I said instead.

Aunt Peg harrumphed and gestured toward Sam’s nine-month-old Standard Poodle puppy, who was standing on his table. “Look at Tar. There isn’t a single curl in his coat.”

She was right, there wasn’t. Not much I could do about that. Tuning out the complaint, I walked past Peg and greeted Sam with a kiss.

I had to stand up on my toes because, at six-foot-two, he’s a good eight inches taller than I am. He’s broad through the shoulders, but his chest and hips taper, giving the impression of strength, not bulk. His eyes are cornflower blue, and they crinkle at the edges when he smiles, like he was doing now.

“Maybe Sam had more time,” I said over my shoulder.

“Maybe I had more patience,” said Sam, who knows perfectly well how frustrated I get with the process of correctly straightening the Poodle’s coat with a blow-dryer.

I’d taken a step back, but his hands were still resting lightly on my shoulders, so I felt his reaction when Sam’s body stiffened. He was staring off into the crowd gathered at ringside with the oddest expression on his face.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, turning to have a look.

“Sheila.” The word slipped out on an indrawn breath. I wasn’t sure if it was a prayer or a curse.

By this time, Aunt Peg was frowning, too. Even Terry had tuned back into our conversation. I scanned the faces in the crowd but still had no idea who might cause such a reaction.

“Who’s Sheila?” I asked.

Sam swallowed heavily before answering. “My ex-wife.”

I must have heard wrong, I thought. Sam didn’t have an ex-wife, at least not one that I’d ever heard about. And considering the length and depth of our relationship, it seemed rather late for a tidbit of information like that to be popping up.

“Ex-wife?” I repeated the words aloud to see what sort of reaction they’d bring. I was half hoping I’d get a denial. It didn’t happen. Indeed, Sam didn’t even seem to hear me.

“Sam?”

He glanced at me fleetingly. “Excuse me a minute, would you?” He strode away, cutting quickly through the crowd.

Left behind, Tar paced unhappily on the top of his table. All show Poodles are trained at an early age to stay when placed on a grooming table, but Tar was a puppy, just beginning his career. The combination of his master leaving without a reassuring word and the swirl of activity around him made him nervous.

I wanted to watch Sam and see what happened next. Instead, I found myself catching an armful of flying Poodle when Tar launched himself into the air and attempted to follow Sam into the crowd. Puppy or not, Tar was nearly full grown, and packed with muscle. I staggered backward into a crate and spit out a hank of dense black hair. For his age, Tar had a topknot to be proud of.

“Here,” said Terry, whisking the puppy out of my arms and putting him back where he belonged. “I’ll take care of him. You go do what you need to do.”

Much as I appreciated the thought, I realized I had no idea what to do next. Should I storm after Sam and demand an explanation? Maybe introduce myself to Sheila and invite her to our wedding? Or should I stay here and start brushing Faith as if nothing was wrong and let Sam come back and tell me what was going on when he was ready?

When he was ready? Hah! With news like this he should have been ready a long time ago.

I decided to stay put and picked up a pin brush and comb. Terry looked disappointed; no doubt he’d been hoping for fireworks. I did, however, sneak a peek at Sheila as I laid Faith on her side and started to brush.

Sam’s ex-wife was tiny, so petite I could only see her as the ringside crowd shifted and eddied. She had shiny dark hair bobbed just below chin length and pale, flawless skin. Her full lips were outlined in a rosy shade of pink that matched the one on her long fingernails. As she spoke, she waved a hand gracefully in the air.

Whatever she was saying, Sam seemed mesmerized. I felt my stomach muscles clench. The coffee I’d drunk earlier was suddenly burning a hole in my gut.

“Who’s that?” asked Davey, watching the proceedings avidly from his high perch on top of Faith’s crate.

“An old friend of Sam’s. Someone we haven’t met yet.”

“She looks like a nice lady.”

“I’m sure she is,” Aunt Peg said.

She’d taken custody of Tar from Terry and was now standing by the puppy’s table. Though I knew for a fact that Peg was one of the most curious people on the face of the earth, she’d barely glanced in Sheila’s direction. That alone was enough to make me suspicious.

“How sure?” I asked.

“What?” Peg said innocently.

“You knew about this,” I accused.

She didn’t deny it.

“I can’t believe it!”

“Melanie, don’t be melodramatic. Sheila Vaughn has been showing Pugs for years. Of course, I know who she is. She lives somewhere in the Midwest. Illinois, I believe.”

Knowing Aunt Peg, next she’d start telling me the names of Sheila’s dogs. “Did you know she was Sam’s ex-wife?” I hissed the words out under my breath. Davey had gone back to coloring in his book, and I’d just as soon he didn’t tune back in to our conversation.

Aunt Peg opened Sam’s tack box and started unloading Tar’s grooming supplies. “I imagine the topic may have come up at some point.”

“And you never felt the need to mention it to me?” I asked incredulously.

“Why should I? It wasn’t any of my business. Something like that was between Sam and you. For all I knew, he’d told you himself.”

Aunt Peg was a master at minding everyone’s business but her own. Fine time she’d chosen to keep her thoughts to herself. “Well, he hadn’t,” I grumbled.

“So I see.” Peg picked up a slicker and began to brush Tar’s legs. “I wonder why not.”

“So do I.”

Now that the initial shock had passed, my anger seemed to be evaporating with it. Instead I felt numb. How could Sam have something as important as a previous marriage in his past and never feel the need to tell me about it? He knew all about my ex-husband, Bob; the two of them had even met. And if he’d never bothered to mention Sheila, what other kinds of secrets might he also be hiding?

Brushing a Poodle is a mindless job. The fingers work by rote, parting the hair and smoothing it upward, teasing out the occasional snarl with a wide-toothed comb. Your hands are busy, but your thoughts can be elsewhere.

By the time I had Faith fully brushed out, I’d pictured Sam with a trio of ex-wives, a gaggle of screaming children, and a felony warrant outstanding for his arrest. I kept trying to see the bright side, but the absurdity of the situation didn’t make me feel any better at all.

When Sam returned, I had Faith standing up on her table and was scissoring a finish on her trim. Aunt Peg was supposed to be helping me, remember? Instead, with Sam gone, she was working on getting Tar ready. Losing her expert assistance was just one more thing to be annoyed about.

“Sorry about that,” said Sam, slipping in between the tables and taking the brush and comb from Peg. “I didn’t think it would take so long.”

Sorry about that?
That’s the kind of thing you say when you sneeze, or stumble, or forget to call; not when you get caught hiding a secret that might alter the plans someone thought she’d made for the rest of her life.

“So that’s Sheila.” I smiled politely. “You didn’t want to bring her over and introduce her?”

Sam looked confused. Was he wondering why I wasn’t screaming? Funny, so was I.

“She was in a hurry,” he said. Which did nothing to explain why she’d stopped and talked to him for half an hour. “I’ll tell you about it later.”

“Yes,” I said. “You will.”

Since Sam had taken over Tar’s grooming, Aunt Peg came to stand beside Faith’s table. She reached around the Poodle and took the scissors out of my hand. “Just a precautionary measure,” she said pleasantly.

“If you’re going to hold them, you may as well make yourself useful.” Keeping hold of Faith’s nose to maintain her position, I stepped back out of the way and let Aunt Peg go to work.

Rockland County was a mid-sized show but the entry in Standard Poodles was strong. Many factors influence the size of an entry, but the most important is the judge. Each arbiter brings his own set of preferences and life experiences to the ring; and the best an exhibitor can hope for is a fair and unbiased appraisal by an experienced hand. Based on what Aunt Peg had told me, Rockland’s judge was such a man.

Tony Rondella had been a part of the Poodle scene for many years, first as a professional handler, later as a judge. His opinion was highly valued by those who cared about the breed. A win under Tony, usually hard-fought in tough competition, was an event to be celebrated.

As she worked, Aunt Peg let her gaze roam over the Standard Poodles in Crawford’s setup. There were four, two blacks, a white, and a brown, all waiting on their tables in various stages of readiness. Since Crawford was often the one to beat, I looked up the Poodles in the catalogue and assessed Faith’s chances.

Two were males, one already a finished champion and there to compete for Best of Variety. The other was an Open dog. That made him Sam’s problem, not mine; until the Best of Variety judging, the classes would be divided by sex. I read Aunt Peg the listings for the two bitches.

“The puppy’s no threat,” she said. “She’s barely seven months, and a brown besides. That won’t help.”

Though in theory judging is supposed to be color-blind, in reality it seldom is. In Poodles, certain colors are easier to win with than others. Judges’ prejudice plays a part, as does the fact that those colors are more apt to produce a quality dog. In Standards, blacks and whites reap the majority of the wins.

“What about the Open Bitch? Dantanna’s Glory Bee?”

Aunt Peg chuckled. “Glory be, that’s what her owners will be saying if Crawford ever manages to finish that bitch. She’s not a great one. She’s needed her second major for six months at least. Crawford must be feeling desperate to bring her here under Tony.”

“At least it’s a major,” I said. “That gives her a shot.”

In order to become an A.K.C. champion, a dog must accumulate fifteen points under several different judges. Major wins, two of which are necessary to attain a championship, are wins of three points or more at a single show, which means that a substantial amount of competition must be present. Only a certain number of dog shows will offer majors in any given year. Which ones will is often determined by the caliber of the judge that’s been hired. Have someone popular on your panel, and the exhibitors will enter in droves. Hire a lesser judge and suffer the consequences.

In the time that I’d been showing Faith, she’d managed to accumulate seven points. Technically she was halfway to her championship. In reality, however, she had yet to win either of her majors, and the need to do so loomed before me like a major stumbling block. Many factors—time of year, dearth of good judges, dwindling entries— often combined to leave a dog “stuck for majors” for months at a time. The sooner I could get at least one of Faith’s big wins out of the way, the better I’d feel.

“Nervous yet?” asked Sam.

I shot him a look. Tar had his topknot in, and Sam was spraying up his neck hair. The puppy really looked good. I was glad I wouldn’t have to compete against him.

“No,” I said coolly. I was lying, and we both knew it. “You?”

Sam shook his head. “Tony’s not the easiest person to show under, but as long as Tar behaves himself, we’ll be okay.”

“What do you mean, he’s not easy?” I asked. Usually Aunt Peg made sure I was informed in advance about judges’ idiosyncrasies. She’d been vague about what I should expect from Tony Rondella, however. Now I wondered why.

“He used to handle Poodles himself,” said Sam. “And he was one of the best. There’s nothing that annoys him more than seeing a good dog incompetently presented. He’s been known to take a leash out of an exhibitor’s hand and give a handling lesson in the ring.”

“Great.” I moaned. Someone like Tony Rondella would probably make mincemeat out of my technique. “Maybe he won’t notice me.”

“He’ll notice you,” Aunt Peg said firmly. She poked me with the tip of the scissors, hard. “He’ll notice Faith the minute she walks in the ring. She’s a very pretty bitch, and just his type. This is the chance you’ve been looking for, so don’t blow it.”

That was Aunt Peg’s version of a pep talk. It did nothing to quiet the butterflies that were beginning to leap in my stomach. “You might have warned me,” I mentioned.

“Pish,” said Peg. “Then you’d have only started getting nervous sooner.”

“Trust me,” said Sam. “There’s no way to prepare for Tony. You’re better off if his judging comes as a surprise.”

“Thanks, but I’ve had quite enough surprises for one day,” I said pointedly.

That shut Sam up.

Good, I thought. It was meant to.

As I sprayed up Faith’s topknot and neck hair, Aunt Peg took Davey up to the ring to pick up our numbered armbands. All too soon, they were back, and it was time to go.

From ringside, Tony Rondella didn’t look too imposing, but I knew how quickly impressions could change once the judging started. The steward called the Puppy Dog class into the ring and Sam walked Tar to the head of the line.

“He looks good,” I commented.

“He should look good,” said Aunt Peg. She was Tar’s breeder, and admittedly biased since he came from her Cedar Crest line. But Peg was fair when it came to her Poodles. If she didn’t like the way one had turned out, she would be equally quick to admit that, too. “Fortunately Tar has inherited the best traits from both his parents. You always hope for that, but you don’t often see it happen. He’s young yet, but that won’t matter today. Tony should love him.”

Her prediction proved prophetic. Tar was quickly awarded the blue ribbon in the puppy class and when he went back in the ring a few minutes later to vie with the other class winners for the award of Winners Dog, he easily won that, too.

“Just two points,” said Peg, consulting her catalogue. “The major broke. There are a lot more bitches entered, though. It will hold there.”

I nodded, but I wasn’t listening. The Puppy Bitch class was in the ring, which meant that it was almost Faith’s turn. I pulled a comb out of my pocket and flicked it through her topknot.

Now that Faith was nearly two years old and fully mature, I had started entering her in the Open class. Open is usually the biggest class and the hardest to win. The professional handlers show there with their best dogs.

Faith had picked up her previous points at smaller shows. Today, with a major on the line, nearly a dozen Standard Poodle bitches were standing ready at the gate. If Faith were to have a chance of winning in competition this strong, I would have to pull out all the stops.

“Stop fussing,” said Aunt Peg, batting away my hand. “You’re knocking everything down. Faith looks fine.”

“No she doesn’t,” I babbled. “She needs more hair. Look at Crawford’s bitch.”

“She could stand to be trimmed back,” Aunt Peg said, considering. “Of course Crawford doesn’t dare. The best thing about that bitch is her coat. He’s using it to cover a multitude of sins. Tony won’t be fooled. He’s not only seen every grooming trick in the book; I think he invented most of them. I imagine Faith will beat Glory Bee quite handily.”

Easy for her to say. She wasn’t judging.