Dead and Doggone Page 4

  hound gloves, flea powder, ear powder, grooming spray, grooming shears, St. Aubrey Coatasheen,

  Ax-A-Dent Buster (Cools Off Heat), free samples of Bil Jac, Eukanuba, Nutro MAX, Old Mother

  Hubbard, Science Diet, Martin Techni-Cal, and Natural Life. In case you’re looking for nostalgia,

  you’ll find the same hamburgers, pizza, and tuna sandwiches your high school cafeteria used to

  serve. Just as the song says, the coffee’s good for cuts and bruises, and tastes like iodine. When you

  go to a dog show, never forget your own lunch. And don’t forget your own folding chair. Your head

  will swim and you’ll need to sit down. A big dog show runs on a tight, ordered schedule, but it still

  feels like the most chaotic show on earth.

  The Masconomet show’s big top was the Bayside Exposition Center, just off the Southeast

  Expressway. In November, there’s always a four-show cluster there, and, in the spring,

  Masconomet is the last indoor show of the season. When I pulled the Bronco into the parking lot at

  eight-thirty, mist was still rising from the harbor, but the show had already been open to the public

  for half an hour ad open to exhibitors since six a.m. The parking lot held the usual collection of

  Winnebagos and other big RVs and van with plates from New York, New Jersey, Virginia, Vermont,

  everywhere on the east coast and a few from far away — Ohio, Minnesota. To dog show people,

  distance means nothing. Some of the RVs had been parked there all night, and some had been

  driven all night. People leave work at five on Friday, drive all night to a Saturday show, spend all

  day there, then drive all Saturday night to make a Sunday show, drive home, and go to work

  Monday morning. They drive in comfort. You see few compacts, and you never have to wonder

  what’s inside those RVs, vans, and big American station wagons. The rear that said “Caution: Show

  Dogs,” and all around and above the caution, bumper stickers with pictures of Doberman s and

  Dobie-chauvinist proclamations — “Love Is A Doberman Pinscher,” “Happiness Is a Dobie,” “I Love

  Dobermans,” and, simply, “Doberman Pinschers.”

  I was, for once, dogless. Faith had insisted on keeping Rowdy from Friday on to get him ready.

  Despite his objections, I’d always kept him clean, but I won’t fuss over grooming the way she does.

  If I’m going to spend two hours working with a dog, I can always find something better to brush up

  than his coat. I’d gone to Faith’s on Saturday to do one last training session. Masoconomet, I should

  add, was not Rowdy’s first obedience trial. At the first one, he lay down at the end of the long sit, an

  automatic disqualification. At the second one, his long sit was perfect, and he stood up at the end of

  the long down — in other words, about five seconds before he would have got the first leg of C.D.,

  his first obedience title, Companion Dog.

  Nobody expects anything of malamutes in obedience, but Vinnie, my last golden, got her C.D.

  with an average score of 196 (highest is 200) in three straight shows and went on to earn her C.D.X.

  and her U.D., and she wasn’t my first Utility Dog, either, just my best. My dogs are carefully rained

  for obedience. They don’t break on sits and downs. But Rowdy’d done it at two trials, and almost

  everyone I knew had been watching. I wanted that leg at Masconomet.

  I showed my admission ticket at the door and got my hand stamped with purple ink. I expected

  to find Faith in the main handlers’ area near the entrance, but I had to make my way through the

  crates, the grooming tables, the hair dryers, the handlers, and the hundreds of dogs into the main

  hall where the rings are, past the cafeteria, and down to the grooming area at the far end before I

  spotted her.

  Under a loose white grooming smock, Faith was dolled up in a soft, fuzzy pale gray sweater and

  darker gray tweed skirt. A matching tweed suit jacket in a dry cleaner’s plastic bag hung from one of

  the stacked-up crates nearby. For as long as I’d known her, Faith had looked in her forties. Her hair

  was blond going white and cut to require little grooming, but curly and soft around her face. She

  wore pearl stud earrings and had on pink lipstick and a trace of blue liner to highlight her eyes. In

  addition to handling Rowdy for me, she was handling someone’s Siberian bitch that day, and she’d

  dressed to match the two silvery gray and white dogs. She looked super.

  The Siberian was I her crate, and Faith had Rowdy on a grooming table, where she was using a

  vegetable brush to rub French chalk white into his feet to clean them for the show. In front and in

  back of Faith and Rowdy, to their left and right, were dozens of other handlers, dogs, grooming

  tables, tack boxes, and crates of all kinds — metal mesh cages, fiberglass crates, airline-approved

  polypropylene crates, Vari-Kennels, Kennel Cabs — lined up in rows and stacked on top of each

  other like a children’s village of giant blocks. The white on Rowdy’s coat was, as the ads say, whiter

  than white, and Faith’s praticed hand had fluffed up his coat so it stood out everywhere and shone

  as if it would glow in the dark.

  “Jesus,” I said. “How’d you do that?”

  “Professional secret.” When she smiled, the dimples in her cheeks appeared.

  Rowdy was evidently delighted with himself, thrilled with Faith’s attention, and pleased to see

  me, too. From the top of the grooming table, he gazed around like a potentate surveying his nation.

  I made a fuss over him, and His Highness condescended to give my face a wet lick.

  “He’s looking great,” I said to Faith. “You’re done enough. I need him for a run-through. I’ve got

  to warm him up.”

  “Give me ten minutes. He’s also got to be exercised.” That’s a little euphemism among dog

  people. She didn’t mean a five-mile run.

  “Sure. I need to check in, anyway, and I’d better say hello to my father.” He’d arrived the day

  before, as planned, but we’d taken separate cars to the show because he wanted to be there at seven

  to set up his exhibit. Also, Rowdy would be riding home with me. Although he and Clyde got along

  well, Rowdy lacked the emotional maturity to share a car with another dog, or that’s what Rita said.

  “Oh, no,” I said suddenly, glancing over Faith’s shoulder. “Did you see her when you set up here?”

  “Who?”

  “Sissy Quigley. Down on your left.”

  “She must’ve just got here.” Faith was using a metal comb to touch up the fur on Rowdy’s

  forelegs, which the breed judge would carefully check for heavy-boned strength. “Loudmouth

  gossip. I wish someone would shut her up. You should hear the awful things she says about me.

  Anyway, ignore her. She’s vicious, but she doesn’t actually bite.”

  “It’s just that I’d rather Rowdy doesn’t see Max. they aren’t exactly good friends. They got into

  something the other day, you know. Anyway, she looks weird, but she doesn’t seem all that bad. I

  should probably say hello to her later.”

  ”She’ll give you an earful about me if she knows I’m handling Rowdy. And keep an eye on that

  good lead.”

  “Why?”

  “Didn’t you know?” Faith had begun pulling a wire slicker brush through the long fur of Rowdy’s

  tail. “She won’t take your wallet or your purse, but she’ll take a good show lead, brushes, stuff like

  that. Everyone knows she do
es it.”

  “I didn’t know. She trains with us sometimes, and no one’s ever said anything. Everyone leaves

  stuff around. Are you sure? Doesn’t she get caught?”

  “She’s sneaky about it. She’s careful.”

  “I’ll watch out,” I said. “Anyway, the important thing is I’d really like Rowdy not to catch sight of

  Max, if you can manage it. I don’t want him all worked up. I’m nervous enough already.”

  “Take a deep breath, blow it out, and relax. What is this, anyway? Your eight-hundredth show?”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t know. I’m not normally this way. How would you like to go and distract

  Buck while I’m in the ring?”

  “Sorry,” she said. “I’ve got Lilly, too.” She waved the brush at the Siberian’s crate.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’m going to check in. when do you need Rowdy for breed?”

  “Eleven. Ring Two.”

  “No problem. We’ll be done long before that.”

  I passed Sissy’s part of the grooming area on my way to the obedience rings. Max was on top of a

  crate, and she was brushing him, a cigarette dangling out her mouth, red curls and tufts springing

  from her head. As the loudspeakers kept blaring out, smoking was forbidden in the grooming areas

  and everywhere else except the cafeteria. According to American Kennel Club regulations, it’s also

  forbidden to exhibit dogs that have been “changed in appearance by artificial means.”

  Unfortunately, the rule doesn’t apply to handlers. Sissy was as garishly made up as she’d been last

  time I saw her.

  By then, it must have been somewhere around nine, because that’s when judging starts. Linda

  McNally was one of the Novice B stewards, and she wished me luck when I checked in.

  “Why are you so nervous?” she asked. “You look green.”

  “My father’s here,” I said as I fastened on my armband. “I hate showing when he’s around. I know it’s nuts, but he makes me nervous.”

  “Relax,” she said. “Remember, it’s only a dog show.”

  Only the Last Judgment.

  I said hello to a lot of other people — obedience people are my people — and I started to feel a

  little better, proud that Rowdy looked so snazzy, glad to be a part of things even with my father

  watching. On the way back to find Faith and Rowdy, I noticed something I hadn’t taken in before,

  that Sissy had set up with a lot of other people. Partly as a carryover from the wonderful old

  benched shows, where all the dogs of each breed are benched together, partly just because they

  know each other, some people still tend to set up near other people showing the same breed. But

  Sissy and Mimi? I made my way toward them, through the narrow aisles between the crates and the

  grooming tables. I wanted to say hello to Mimi, and it seemed like a good idea to wish Sissy well,

  especially while Rowdy was out of sight. I make my living in the world of dogs, and I don’t need

  enemies.

  Although it was only the second time I’d met Mimi Nichols, I understood even then that she

  moved through life preceded, accompanied, and followed by retainers. The brawny young guy

  who’d escorted her fro the meeting stood right next to her, arms folded across his chest, face

  impassive, as if literally to retain her, prop her up in case she fell. She wore a beige suit of

  something I thought might be raw silk or maybe something called shantung. It reminded me of

  grass cloth. Even in the harsh lights of Bayside, no wrinkles, lines or expression showed on her face,

  but her voice was animated. She was talking to Libby Knowles, who looked, as always, young —

  twenty-give? — strong, healthy, and, if you admire Rottweilers, handsome. She had the muscular,

  compact, vigorous body of the breed, straight black hair, darkly tanned skin, a solid face, and a

  Rottie’s eager, energetic expression. As usual, I resisted the urge to march up to her and say, “Hey,

  Libby, has anyone ever told you you look just like a Rottweiler?”

  Instead, I marched up to Mimi, who held a show lead at the end of which pranced a pointer that

  would give Max more than a little competition, a sleek, shiny dog with a dark brown head, a large

  brown patch on each shoulder, and mostly white body with the small brown spots called ticks. The

  correct way to describe his color is “liver and white ticked,” but that sounds ugly, and he was far

  from ugly — stunning, in fact.

  “Unbelievable dog,” I said. With no tension on his lead, he held his head high and proud.

  Practically every American Kennel Club breed standard says that the ideal specimen looks

  intelligent, alert, and noble. This dog really did.

  “Thank you,” Mimi said warmly. “Holly Winter. From Cambridge Dog Training.” You see? Not a

  real dog person. She remembered my name, and if she’d met Rowdy, she’d have forgotten his.

  Libby, a true dog person, said, “Hi, there. That’s Sunshine.” She nodded toward the pointer and

  smiled. His pride was contagious. “Where’s Rowdy?”

  Like Faith, Libby was dressed up and even had on thin plastic gloves to protect her manicure. I

  was spiffed up, too, sweater with no dog-nail snags, a denim skirt, and brand-new white Reeboks to

  match Rowdy’s French chalk white paws.

  “He’s with Faith Barlow,” I said. “she’s handling him in breed. I’ve got him in Novice B myself.”

  “Good luck,’ Libby said to me, then stopped rearranging the brushes, scissors, sprays, and

  miscellaneous grooming paraphernalia in her tack box, turned to Mimi, and added, “Novice b is for

  people who’ve already gotten a C.D. with a dog before. Holly used to have goldens.”

  The implication, not lost on me, was that if I’d always had malamutes, I’d have spent my life not

  qualifying in Novice A.

  “Is that the second one?” Mimi asked me.

  “Second?”

  “C.D. — the second title in obedience?”

  “No, it’s the first,” I said. “C.D. is the first obedience title. There are three classes, or really, levels

  — Novice, Open, and Utility. And there’s a title at each level: C.D., then C.D.X., then U.D.” As it was

  in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be. “There’s also Obedience Trial Champion, of course.”

  World without end, amen.

  “Companion Dog,” Libby explained to Mimi. “Companion Dog Excellent. Utility Dog.”

  When ordinary rich people like doctors ad lawyers decide to take up show dogs, they read

  everything and pretend to know what they’re talking about Not Mimi. She didn’t pretend to know

  anything, and she wasn’t embarrassed about Libby’s public tutoring.

  “How many legs have you got?” Libby asked me.

  A few more questions like that, and Mimi’s face would’ve regained some flexibility.

  “None,” I said. ‘Yet.”

  “I don’t know why you’re bothering, with a malamute.”

  “I’m trying to think of it as a challenge.” For Mimi’s benefit, I added, “A leg means you’ve

  qualified at one show. You need three legs for a C.D. And the others, too. You have to qualify at

  three shows under three different judges. We’re trying for our first leg today.”

  Sissy heard me and moved in. she wore a flouncy, ruffled turquoise dress in a material I had no

  trouble identifying as polyester. Miniature enamel pointers were clipped to both of her ears.

  Another enamel pointer hung from a chain around her neck.

  “I thought yo
u were trying to show in breed,” she said loudly. Ignorant snob. Trying, indeed.

  What she meant was that obedience is for dogs not good enough to show in breed, that it’s a

  second-class sport for second-rate dogs. You hear that stupid myth all the time.

  “Faith Barlow is handling him in breed,” I said.

  Two men moved in to flank Sissy. One was a hapless-looking young guy, the other, her

  companion from dog training. His age was as unguessable as hers, but where she was glaringly

  colorful, made up like a badly embalmed corpse, he was an entirely dark nonentity. If she looked

  like the deceased, he looked like the undertaker. When I’d seen them together at class, I’d never

  been able to decide whether he was her husband or her son. The hapless one, I now saw, must be

  her son. The nonentity, I assumed, was the husband — the pharmacist, Mr. Quigley.

  I suspect that Mimi sensed some tension and, lady that she was, decided to smooth the social

  waters by introducing everyone to everyone else.

  “I’m Mimi Nichols,” she said, extending her hand to the older man.

  “Austin Quigley,” he said. “My son, Pete.”

  “I already know her, Dad,” Pete said ungraciously. “I did a room for her. At her house.”

  “Baby, shut up,” Sissy told him.

  Although it’s probably not what Sissy meant, Pete Quigley did have a baby face, and when he

  glared at his mother, he looked like a resentful infant about to hurl a rattle at her.

  Mimi ignored the interchange. “Yes, of course,” she said. “I think you know Libby Knowles. And

  this is Reggie Cox,” she added, stepping aside and evidently expecting the bodyguard to move in

  and say, “How do you do?”

  All he did was nod his head in acknowledgment. To my surprise, Sissy moved a step forward, and

  I had the impression that she was about to say something, but over her shoulder I caught sight of

  Faith gesturing to me.

  “Sorry, I’ve got to run,” I said. “Faith wants me. I said I’d exercise Rowdy.” Mimi probably

  thought I’d picked a strange time to take him for a run.

  As usual, my fastidious Rowdy refused to use the designated exercise pens, which he had always

  considered dirty and public. After I broke the show rules by taking him out to the weeds by the

  harbor, I returned him to his crate and then went to look for my father. I heard his voice even