Chow Down (3 page)

“Were they hungry?”

“Pardon me?”

“Were the dogs hungry when you fed them? Had they missed a meal or maybe two?”

Doug seemed surprised by the question. “Well I should think so. That would be the whole point, wouldn't it?”

Or perhaps the point was that a dog that was hungry enough would eat almost anything. Rather than mentioning that, however, I steered the conversation back to the topic I'd meant to discuss.

“What I wanted to ask about is how much of a time commitment I'd be looking at. You know, in terms of Faith continuing on with the selection process.”

“Pretty extensive, I'd say. Choosing just the right spokesdog to represent our product and our company isn't something we take lightly. It's important for us to see the dog as it will appear in a variety of challenging situations. First on the agenda will be the personal interviews. And then all of you will be vetted by our PR department and focus groups. We've booked an appearance on the
This Is Your Morning Show
, which will be followed by a press conference . . .”

Doug kept talking, but I was so stunned by the enormity of what he was proposing that his words had stopped registering. Focus groups? Appearance on a morning show? Those didn't sound like the kinds of things I needed to have on
my
agenda. Especially not when I was supposed to be enjoying a lazy summer with my new husband and my darling child who—at that moment—I could cheerfully have strangled.

“Listen, Doug,” I said. Amazingly he stopped speaking. “I'm not really sure that any of this is going to work for me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I don't think Faith is the dog you're looking for.”

“Of course she is! Or at least,” he quickly amended, “she might be. You're just feeling overwhelmed by the enormity of the opportunity. Believe me, her chances of being chosen are as good as anyone's. Better than some, though I shouldn't say that—so let's just keep it between us. Several members of our committee loved Faith, adored her, in fact. She was a very, very popular choice.”

“Thank you,” I said firmly, “but I'm afraid she needs to be unchosen.”

There was a long moment of silence. Then Doug said slowly, “That's not possible.”

“Sure it is. You're right, this is an honor and a wonderful opportunity. But for somebody else, not us. We respectfully decline. Go get your number six pick and bump them up.”

“We can't do that. The announcement's already been made on the web site. The media's already been notified. Faith's picture was included in all the material that went out. Changing things now would undermine the integrity of what we're trying to accomplish and I'm afraid we can't allow that to happen. People who have been following the contest will expect to see a big black Poodle eating Chow Down dog food.”

“Maybe I didn't make myself clear,” I said. “I'm withdrawing my entry.”

“Maybe I was the one who wasn't clear,” Doug shot back. “You can't do that.”

“I hardly see how you can stop me.”

“When you submitted the entry form, you were making certain warranties about the ownership and availability of your pet. You entered into a binding contract. All of that was spelled out on the web site and in the brochure. Didn't you read the fine print before entering the contest?”

I hadn't read
any
print, that was part of the problem. Admitting that, however, would only get Davey in trouble, so I didn't bother.

“Let me read it to you,” said Doug. “Wait a minute, I have it right here.

Doug continued reading but once again I'd stopped listening. It was beginning to look like Faith would be remaining a finalist whether I wanted her to or not.

That part was bad enough. Even worse was the fact that, left to her own devices, Faith was a formidable competitor.

If I wasn't lucky, she might just go ahead and win the whole damn thing.

“L
et me get this straight,” said Bertie. She was trying hard not to laugh. And not entirely succeeding, I might add. “Davey entered Faith in a dog chow contest and now you have to spend your summer chauffeuring her around to auditions?”

“Something like that.” The prospect didn't sound any more appealing now than it had two days earlier when I'd finished speaking to Doug Allen.

Bertie was a dear friend and my sister-in-law, having married my younger brother, Frank, two years earlier. She was also a professional dog handler and mother to six-month-old Maggie. Like most women I knew, she was habitually overcommitted and overworked, and occasionally underappreciated.

Bertie, however, multitasked with aplomb. Now she was combing out the topknot on a Miniature Poodle, looking over the day's schedule that was taped to the inside of her grooming box, and making fun of me. Simultaneously.

Oh, did I forget to mention that we were at a dog show? Well, we were. It was Saturday and we were gathered at the Mid-Hudson Kennel Club event in Dutchess County, New York, where Bertie had a dozen dogs entered in nearly as many different breeds. As for me, I was hanging out and helping her groom. Though Eve still needed a major to finish her championship, I had elected not to show her.

One of the good things about being an owner-handler is that if you don't approve of a judge's knowledge or credentials, you can decline to enter. Professional handlers don't have that luxury. They show—rain or shine, week in and week out—exhibiting their clients' dogs in front of experts and buffoons alike.

Some days they look like heroes. Other times they go home with almost nothing to show for a long day's hard work. It was a tough way to make a living, but Bertie thrived on the competition. Plus she was very good at what she did.

When Bertie and I met several years earlier, Aunt Peg and I were showing Standard Poodles and Bertie was showing almost anything but. Like many of the terrier breeds, there are exacting requirements for the upkeep and presentation of Poodles' coats. They're a specialized breed, not for those who lack patience or artistic talent.

The previous summer, however, Bertie had attended the Poodle Club of America national specialty, fallen in love with the breed, and decided that Aunt Peg and I were going to teach her everything she needed to know about Poodle hair. Along the way, that had evolved into our current situation, where I was working as Bertie's part-time assistant at the shows, and Aunt Peg was overseeing our efforts with her usual imperious elan. Fortunately, for the sake of our relationship and my sanity, I refused to take my position as underling very seriously.

“So how good is this Chow Down stuff anyway?” Deftly Bertie parted the hair on the Mini's head with a knitting needle and began the process of putting in the tight, show ring topknot. “I've never even heard of it.”

“It's a brand new product.” I was working on a Standard Poodle that belonged to one of Bertie's clients, scissoring the long hair in his mane coat as he stood atop a rubber matted grooming table. “I don't know if anybody's tried it yet, except the groups they've test-marketed it to.”

“Sounds yummy,” said a voice from the next setup. “Chow Down. What self-respecting dog wouldn't want to dive right into a bowl of
that
?”

The voice, and the arch delivery, belonged to Terry Denunzio. He was partners with one of the top Poodle handlers in the Northeast, Crawford Langley, and the two of them were frequent competitors of ours.

We often set up next to one another at the shows, as Terry was always entertaining to be around. He'd never seen an occasion he couldn't turn into a party. Even Crawford, who was quite a bit older and supremely dignified, had finally begun to turn a benevolent eye toward his handsome partner's shenanigans.

Bearing that in mind, I wondered what the handler thought about Terry's current outfit. Usually impeccably dressed, today Terry had veered off the straight and narrow and was heading directly toward camp. His muted plaid shirt was crisply ironed, his silk tie a complementary shade of steel blue. But inexplicably he'd wound a lavender feather boa around his neck.

Every few minutes a stray breeze would waft under the grooming tent and the feathers would ripple and lift into his mouth. Unfazed, Terry would spit them out and keep grooming. If he wasn't going to acknowledge the eccentricity of his attire, I certainly wasn't going to bring it up.

“I don't think Faith would actually have to eat the stuff every day,” I said. I'd been feeding another brand of kibble for years and wasn't looking to make any changes. “All she'd have to do is look as though she likes it when they're filming.”

“So much for truth in advertising,” said Terry.

“Is there truth in advertising?” Bertie raised a brow. “I wasn't aware of that.”

“Funny,” I said. “And don't worry, it's not going to come up. Faith isn't going to win. I didn't even find out about this stupid contest until she was already one of the finalists. The only reason she's still in it is because it's too late for us to back out.”

“I can't believe you want out,” said Terry. He was running a comb through a small, ice-white Maltese. “I can think of at least a dozen people here today who'd give anything to be in your position.”

“Really?” That surprised me. “Here?”

“Why not here? This is a dog show, isn't it? That's the whole point of Champions' new campaign. Chow Down is supposed to be a premium brand, marketed toward breeders and exhibitors.”

Aunt Peg had said something about that as well. Was I the only one who was oblivious to the latest developments in dog food? I glanced over at Bertie, who shrugged. Maybe it was a Mom thing. We had other stuff to worry about.

“A couple of our clients entered their dogs in the contest,” said Terry. “We had to scramble around to get them just the right kind of pictures. One even sent a professional photographer over to the kennel to do a photo shoot.”

“I think Davey emailed a couple of photos he'd snapped of her around the house with his digital camera,” I said with a laugh.

“Don't tell that to Allison and Bill Redding. They were promoting their Brittany, Ginger, as a triple threat. You know, conformation and obedience, plus she competes in field trials, too.”

“Is that all?” I said, still laughing. “Faith can probably keep up. Let's see . . . She's a champion, she has her CD in obedience, and I'm pretty sure she'll jump through a hoop if you hold a biscuit on the other side.”

“There you are, then,” said Bertie. “She's a natural.”

“Marion Beckwith entered Harry,” said Terry.

My scissoring slowed. “Her
husband
?”

“No, Harry the Bernese Mountain Dog.”

“Now that you mention it, her husband looks like a Bernese Mountain Dog,” Bertie commented.

“Isn't his name Harry?” I was still confused.

“No, he's Harvey,” Terry told me.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I'm sure. Harvey's the one who signs the checks that pay our bills.”

“And they have a dog named Harry?”

“And a daughter named Hettie.” Terry sighed. “Don't even ask.”

I didn't and we all went back to work. Poodles were due in the ring in twenty minutes.

Hardly any time had passed before Terry looked up again. “Speaking of which—”

“Which what?” Bertie had finished putting in the topknot. Now she was looking around in her tack box for hair spray. “Harry or Harvey?”

“Neither.”

“Then we weren't speaking of them.”

“Don't be so literal,” Terry rolled his eyes. He relished the role of drama queen and lived up to the title with gusto. “Is it any wonder I like men better than women? A man would at least let you get an entire thought out before interrupting.”

“That's probably because he wouldn't be listening in the first place,” I said.

Bertie nodded in agreement. Terry ignored us both.

“Speaking of husbands,” he said in a chiding tone and directing the question to me, “where's yours? He didn't want Tar to add another group or Best in Show to his record?”

My scissors were moving fast again, snicking tiny bits of hair off the rounded bracelets on the Standard Poodle's legs. I didn't pause or turn to look at Terry as I replied, but he knew the drill. He hadn't expected me to. “Sam's not here because he didn't think today's judge would be likely to appreciate Tar's better qualities.”

“I can't imagine why not. Cruella Melville is a very discerning judge.”

“
Drucilla
Melville,” Bertie corrected him without missing a beat. “And she is very discerning. She just happens to judge the wrong end of the lead.”

Politics. It was a common problem at dog shows, exacerbated by a system that rewarded judges for applying for additional breeds whether they felt qualified to preside over them or not. Judges who had faith in their own abilities rewarded the best dogs. Those who didn't often relied on an exhibitor's reputation to guide them to a correct decision. Professional handlers flocked to judges like that; owner-handlers knew better and stayed home.

“Of course, darling,” said Terry. He and Crawford were among Mrs. Melville's favorite exhibitors. “That's why we're here.”

“Me, too,” Bertie admitted. “I know it's not fair but my dogs will get their share, my owners will be happy, and it pays the bills.”

The reality of dog show life.

“Sam and Davey are spending the day building a tree house,” I told Terry.

Bertie glanced over. “I thought they were working on that two days ago.”

“They were. It's turning out to be a big project. At this rate, I wouldn't be surprised if it keeps them busy all summer.”

“Who's busy this summer?” asked Aunt Peg.

I jumped slightly as she came up behind me. Luckily I'd been talking rather than scissoring at the time. You wouldn't think that a woman who was nearly six feet tall would be so light on her feet. Then again, Aunt Peg has plenty of surprising facets. The ability to keep everyone on their toes whenever she was in the vicinity was merely one of them.

“Where did you come from?” I asked.

“Ring six, Tibetan Spaniels. I'm thinking of applying for them next and they had an excellent entry today. It was well worth watching Danny Zimmer sort them out.”

After decades of breeding and showing her own Poodles, Aunt Peg had applied for and been granted her judge's license several years ago. Her first breed had been Poodles, of course, then gradually she added other breeds from the Non-Sporting and Toy groups to her roster. Despite her years of experience in the dog show world, she still soaked up knowledge like a sponge. And when Aunt Peg was hired to judge, professional handlers and owner-handlers alike hurried to enter under her.

“Sam and Davey are building a tree house,” I said in answer to her first question.

Peg looked at me as though I was daft. “I know that.”

“It's why they're not here.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and stared. Maybe Terry had been giving her drama lessons. “How about telling me something I don't know?”

“Okay,” I said. “According to Terry, half the people who entered that ridiculous dog food contest are here today.”

“Really?” Her gaze swung his way, eyes passing over the lavender boa without comment. “How do you know that?”

“I
always
have the latest gossip.”

All too true. Terry usually had the best haircut and the smallest waist, too.

“I presume you called and relinquished your spot as one of the five finalists?” Aunt Peg said to me.

“I called and tried.”

“You didn't succeed?” The notion was as foreign to Peg as it was repugnant. “How is that possible?”

“Apparently by submitting the entry, I agreed to abide by the contest rules, one of which was that I couldn't back out.”

“Except that you didn't submit the entry.”

“Semantics,” I said. “Under the circumstances.”

“Well, then.” Aunt Peg rubbed her hands together. She didn't sound entirely displeased. “If that's the way things are going to be, let's have ourselves a look at the competition.”

“Terry was telling us about a Brittany named Ginger,” said Bertie. “Did she make the finals?”

“So I've heard,” Terry replied. “Ad nauseum, if you'd like to know.”

“That would be the Reddings,” said Aunt Peg. She knows just about everybody. “They'll be hard to beat.”

“Not a problem.” I'd finished scissoring, now I was spraying up. “I don't want to win, remember?”

“Of course you're going to win, you're the one with the Poodle.” Aunt Peg didn't think twice about overriding my objection. She turned back to Terry. “Who else?”

“Lisa and Larry Kim.”

Peg looked briefly stumped but Bertie was able to fill us in. “Yorkies,” she said. “Nice ones, too. I've shown against them plenty. Larry's tough, I wouldn't want to get in his way.”

Aunt Peg nodded her approval. Toughness she understands. I knew she was handicapping the race in her head and I suspected she was finding her relatives wanting. “And?”

“Dorothy Foyle and MacDuff.”

“Hey, wait a minute! I love MacDuff,” I said, surprised. The Scottish Terrier was a relentless and venerable campaigner, winner of countless Best in Shows. He'd been retired with great fanfare the previous year. “You'd think he'd have done enough already. I wonder why he was entered in the contest.”