Chow Down (2 page)

“Oh, pish,” said Aunt Peg. “Stop being annoyed long enough to think things through. Apparently Davey took photographs and wrote an essay that was polished enough to beat out thousands of other silly, ambitious people who were all trying to turn their beloved pets into the next Morris the Cat.”

She had a point. My heart swelled briefly with pride at Davey's achievement. I was still annoyed, though.

“I like my beloved pet just the way she is,” I grumbled. “Happily anonymous.”

“Perhaps you ought to try explaining that to Davey.”

“I suppose I should.”

“After that you can simply call the Champions Company and decline the honor. Let the contest committee choose some other, equally deserving dog to serve as finalist.”

“Good idea.”

“You see?” said Aunt Peg. “Problem solved.”

As always, she made things sound so simple.

I'd been in this spot before, though, and I knew there'd be a catch. There was always a catch.

It was only a matter of time until I found out what it was.

“W
e're home!” Davey sang out as he came barreling through the front door.

As if anyone who lived with a crew of large, attentive watchdogs could possibly have been oblivious to that fact. I hadn't heard Sam's SUV come up the driveway, but the Poodles had. Scrambling to their feet, they'd deserted me without hesitation. No doubt Sam and Davey's return seemed more likely to provide biscuits and other forms of excitement than my talking on the phone had.

“In the kitchen,” I called back.

I'd left the deck and started to follow the dogs toward the front of the house, but Davey was moving faster than I was. Perennially hungry, he must have come inside and headed straight for food. He raced through the doorway as I was putting the phone back on the counter.

My son had shot up two inches in the last year. Suddenly when I looked at him, I saw only lingering echoes of the little boy he'd been. It was hard to believe that in another year he'd be ready for middle school.

“Hey,” said Davey.

His sandy brown hair hadn't seen a comb that morning; his cargo shorts were at least a size too big. A T-shirt from the Norwalk Maritime Center floated, untucked, around his narrow hips. He sketched a wave in my direction, slipped past me, and grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl on the table.

“Hey yourself. How was the shopping trip?”

“Productive,” Sam said. He walked into the kitchen, his Poodle escort trailing along behind. “We got everything we needed. Once we get it all unloaded, we'll be ready to start building.”

Unlike Davey, Sam didn't sidestep around me. Instead he dropped the plastic bags he was carrying onto the counter and folded me into his arms for a quick kiss.

It was a crime that anyone could look that good first thing in the morning. Then again, Sam had the kind of appeal that wore well at any time of the day: shaggy blond hair, direct blue eyes, and a face that only grew more interesting with age and experience. Amazing, I thought, as I leaned into him, that this man was now my husband.

“Sleep well?” Sam asked.

“Umm . . .”

With Davey in the room, I wasn't about to elaborate. But one look at the expression on Sam's face told me I didn't have to. Married for three months, we were still honeymooners. Both of us had been blissfully worn out by the time we'd dropped off to sleep the night before.

I stepped back out of his arms and said, “You're not going to kill yourself climbing around in that tree, are you?”

Sam grinned cheerfully. “I hope not.”

That was reassuring.

“What about Davey? He's my only son and heir, you know.”

Something flickered briefly in Sam's eyes, and I felt a small pang. Both of us were eager for another child. We'd been trying but so far it hadn't happened.

When Sam spoke, however, his tone was light. “Don't worry. Kids his age don't go splat, they bounce.”

“Charming.” I peered into a bag. I saw two boxes of nails, a new tape measure, and a small hammer, the size that Davey could easily wrap his hands around.

“We aim to please,” said Sam.

Davey only giggled. The notion of bouncing—or going splat—apparently held more appeal for him than it did for me.

“I got something interesting in the mail this morning,” I said.

“What was it?” Sam had followed Davey to the fruit bowl. He selected a banana and began to peel it. “Coupons for free pizza? An envelope from Publisher's Clearing House? Did we win a million bucks?”

“Not quite. Though apparently one of our Poodles may be on the fast track to fame and fortune.”

“Faith?” Davey perked up. “Did she win the contest?”

Well, I guessed that answered my next question.

“What contest?” Sam asked, banana poised in the air midway to his lips.

“ ‘ All Dogs Are Champions.' ”

“They are?”

“That's the name of the contest. It's sponsored by the makers of Chow Down dog food.”

“I've heard of them. They're headquartered around here somewhere, aren't they?”

“Norwalk,” Davey said impatiently. “They're in Norwalk. Did Faith
win
?”

“Not quite. But she's been named one of five finalists—”

“Yippee!” my son shrieked. He began to twirl in circles around the room.

“Not so fast, Lord of the Dance. Did it ever occur to you that it might have been a good idea to check with me before you went ahead and entered Faith in a contest?”

“Umm . . . no.”

Davey's exuberant steps never even faltered. I watched him and sighed. I supposed, if nothing else, I had to give him points for honesty.

“Faith is a champion,” Sam pointed out. I don't think he had a clue what was going on.

“That's what I told the people at the booth,” said Davey.

“What booth?”

“The Chow Down booth. They have one at all the dog shows.”

“They do?” I'd never noticed. Then again, when I'm at a show I'm usually busy either exhibiting or getting Eve ready to go in the ring. I seldom spend time browsing the concessions.

“That's where I found out about the contest. The man told me they were trying to get show dogs interested in eating their new kibble.”

“Presumably they were trying to attract the dogs' owners,” Sam said under his breath.

“No,” Davey corrected. “The food is for the dogs. I told the man about Faith and he gave me a brochure and an entry form. There was a web site to go to and I filled everything out online.”

“All without mentioning it to me?” I said again.

“I couldn't
tell
you,” Davey said earnestly. “It was supposed to be a
surprise
.”

“Trust me, it was.”

“Is this the letter?” Sam picked up the sheet of paper from the counter. His eyes skimmed down the page. Midway through, he was biting back a smile. “A personal interview with Faith . . . ? I'd like to see that myself. This sounds like quite an undertaking.”

“It sounds like
fun
,” said Davey. “Faith could be famous. She could make lots of money! She could be on TV, like in commercials and everything. Everyone would know who she was!”

Maybe that seemed like a good thing to an eight-year-old. To me, it sounded like a nightmare. I've never understood the appeal of fame. Fortune, sure. Who doesn't like money? But thanks to a video game Sam had designed years earlier, he and I already had more than enough.

Besides, it was summer. This was supposed to be my time off. I had no desire to shepherd Faith through the final phases of a selection process for a contest I didn't particularly want to win.

“The notification letter was addressed to me,” I said.

For the first time, Davey's eyes slipped away.

“Did you sign my name on the entry form?”

Davey developed a sudden interest in his apple. “Not exactly,” he mumbled.

“Then what did you do?”

“The form was online, so I just typed your name in.”

A small distinction, but at least I didn't have to add forgery to his crimes.

“The owner of the dog was supposed to sign. Faith belongs to me as much as she belongs to you . . .” Davey looked at me for confirmation and I nodded. “Except that . . .” Another pause, then he blurted out the rest. “You had to be over the age of eighteen to enter.”

A rule imposed to prevent an occurrence like this one, presumably.

“Please, Mom!” Davey pleaded. “Just give it a try and see what happens.”

I glanced at Sam, who merely shrugged. This was going to be my decision.

“I'll tell you what,” I proposed. “I'll call the company and find out what the contest is all about, see how much time and effort it would take to continue on with the selection process. But until I have a clearer idea of what's involved, I'm not making any promises—”

“Yippee!” Davey shouted again. “Faith is going to be famous.”

Oh joy.

The phone call to Champions Dog Food went just about as well as the conversation with Davey had.

After Sam and Davey had gone outside to unpack the car, I dialed the number on the letterhead and asked to speak with Doug Allen, the contest chairman.

“May I ask what this is in reference to?” the receptionist inquired.

I considered for a moment, then said, “No.”

Obviously it wasn't the answer she'd been expecting.

“Is it about the results of the contest we're currently running?” she asked after a pause. “Because if it is, I need to inform you that the decision of the judges is final. We at Champions Dog Food are terribly sorry if your pet wasn't selected, but with so many worthy applicants to choose from . . .”

The woman sounded as though she was reading a prepared speech. I wondered if the company had actually been fielding phone calls from disgruntled losers. And more to the point, since I'd found out only that morning, how did the people whose dogs hadn't been chosen already know the results?

“That isn't the problem,” I broke in. “My dog is supposed to be one of the finalists.”

“Oh well that's different, then. Congratulations! In that case, you'll be contacted shortly—”

“I've already been contacted.” It was an effort not to grind my teeth. “Otherwise how would I know she'd been chosen?”

“The preliminary results were posted on our web site last night,” she said helpfully. “And it's been a madhouse around here ever since. Well, frankly, it's been like that ever since the contest started, if you want to know the truth. We hoped the contest would strike a chord but we never expected a response like this. Who would have guessed there were so many people who were dying to get their dogs on television?”

Who indeed? I wondered. Davey was eight. What was everyone else's excuse?

“I'll get Mr. Allen for you right away.”

I was put on hold and left to listen to music that my grandmother would have found boring. “Right away” turned out to be ten minutes. I spent the time watching Sam and Davey unload what looked like enough lumber to build a second garage. Or maybe an addition to the house.

Surely they weren't planning to haul all that up into the branches of the old oak? The tree would probably collapse with both of them in it. And if I was really unlucky, the Poodles, all of whom had gone outside to oversee the project, would be under the tree when it came down. That gloomy thought was interrupted by two quick clicks, then I was reconnected to a live person.

“Ms. Travis?” Doug Allen sounded bright, highly motivated, and more enthusiastic than anyone had a right to be about dog food. “Sorry to keep you waiting! How are you and Faith doing this morning?”

“We're fine but—”

“I'm happy to hear that! And congratulations, by the way. I want you to know, getting this far was no small feat. Not only that, but it's going to be one heck of a competition from here on in.”

“That's what I wanted to talk to you about—”

“Each of our five finalists would make a very worthy spokesdog for Chow Down dog food. Narrowing the selection process down further is going to involve splitting some very fine hairs, if you'll pardon the pun! Not that all our remaining competitors are long-haired dogs, of course. That would hardly be fair, now would it?”

I assumed the question was rhetorical. Good thing because Doug didn't pause long enough for me to answer.

“Of course you would know that by now. I'm sure you've looked on the web site and scoped out the competition. Let me tell you, though, just between the two of us”—his voice lowered confidentially—“I've always been partial to Poodles. I mean, what's not to like about a breed that combines beauty and brains with such panache?”

At least Doug Allen had good taste.

“Nothing,” I said quickly, wedging in the word when he paused for breath. “Poodles are superb, they're wonderful dogs. But they're not pushovers. They have minds of their own. They don't eat just anything that's put in front of them like Labs or Beagles do.”

“Oh, we're not worried about that. All dogs like Chow Down.”

“How do you know?”

Suddenly I found myself picturing an eat-off among the finalists. Five dogs and five big bowls of Chow Down dog food: a race to see who could gobble down their kibble with the most gusto. Eve liked most foods, but Faith was finicky. She liked to take her time and sample new things slowly.

“We've done taste tests, of course! They were an integral part of the development process. Every dog that saw Chow Down lapped it right up.”