Chow Down (5 page)

I waited until Ben was out of earshot, then said, “That didn't go too badly.”

Terry snorted. “The man wiped the floor with you.”

“He did not.”

“He came close.” Bertie was shaking her head. “You're going to have to ramp it up a notch if you want Faith to beat Brando.”

“Not to mention MacDuff and Ginger and . . .” Aunt Peg turned to Bertie for guidance. “What's the Yorkie's name?”

“Yoda.”

“Don't yell at me. I didn't name her. I think it's an ear thing. You know.”

“No, I don't.” Aunt Peg didn't sound like she particularly wanted to, either.

The three of them spent the rest of the afternoon plotting—unsolicited, mind you—my potential plan of attack for the contest. I spent the rest of the afternoon mostly ignoring them. Bertie and Crawford showed their other dogs. Then, for the first time I could ever remember, Crawford and Terry packed up and headed home before Bertie was done for the day.

“Doesn't that seem odd to you?” I asked Bertie, as the Bedford Kennels van drove slowly away from the grooming tent, bumping from rut to rut as it crossed the grassy field.

“What?” She was busy prepping a Cocker Spaniel to go in the last group of the day.

“That Crawford and Terry have left and you're still here.” With Poodles having finished, Aunt Peg had left, too, but that didn't strike me as being nearly as strange as this did.

“Maybe they were showing fewer dogs than they usually do.”

“That's my point. That's unusual, too. Crawford didn't have any Standard Poodles entered. Think about it. Crawford's Standard Poodles are his showcase dogs. He loves showing them. When was the last time you saw him at a show and he didn't have
any
entered?”

“I don't know.” Bertie shrugged. She was relatively new to Poodles. She probably hadn't noticed.

“Today he only had little dogs. Easy dogs. Not only that, but he was awfully crabby, didn't you think?”

“For Pete's sake, Mel. Crawford's always crabby when Terry doesn't keep his mind on business. Where are you going with this?”

“I don't know,” I said. “I guess I'm just thinking out loud.”

“Well, for once, try thinking a little less, okay?”

Advice worth living by, if only I could ever manage to do it.

I
t was a good thing it was summer, otherwise it would have been dark by the time I got home. As it was, Sam and Davey were able to show me the progress they were making on the tree house. A foundation of beams had been laid across the span between two sturdy branches, and most of the floor was in place.

For the time being, a ladder was providing access to the project. Sam had left it leaning against the trunk of the tree and while I examined their handiwork from the ground, Davey scrambled up and maneuvered himself out the thick branch and onto the partially completed frame.

My first, automatic response was to call him back down; but then I reconsidered. Years spent as a single mother had honed my protective instincts to a fine point. Maybe too fine, I thought, noting that Sam—busy wresting a tennis ball from Raven's mouth so he could throw it for the canine crew to chase—seemed totally unconcerned by the fact that Davey was all but dangling in the air. Now that my son finally had a solid, reliable male relationship back in his everyday life, maybe I didn't always have to be the one who decided what was best.

“Don't worry,” said Sam under his breath. He tipped back his arm and let fly with the ball. Five big black dogs went sprinting away across the yard. “Davey's been all over that tree for the last week. He climbs like a monkey.”

“Am I that easy to read?”

He swallowed a bark of laughter. “Yes.”

“Oh.” Now I was miffed.

“Come on.” Sam looped an arm around my shoulder and pulled me close to his side in the gathering dusk. “I love your transparency.”

Like that was a good quality?

His hand began to roam, inching downward. “Almost as much as I love your breasts.”

“I appreciate the thought,” I said. “But your timing stinks.”

His hand was still moving. Now the other one had joined it. One by one, the Poodles came trotting back. This time, Tar had the ball. He dropped it at Sam's feet. Sam kicked it hard and they raced away again.

“Nah, this is just a little warm-up for later.”

“Kind of like a pregame show?”

“Careful now,” Sam murmured, his lips close to my ear. “Men get turned on by sports metaphors.”

I insinuated my hips into his. “I thought you were already—”

“Hey, Sam-Dad, look!”

We jumped apart like a pair of guilty teenagers. Sam's hands fell away. He cleared his throat, yanked on his waistband. We both looked up.

Then abruptly I realized what Davey had said.
“Sam-Dad?”

“Yeah.” Davey grinned. He was lying on the boards, looking down at us over the rim of the tree house floor. “Sam said I could call him that.”

“He did, huh?”

I glanced sideways, my eyes suddenly moist. Sam was looking away—perhaps purposely—his eyes following the trajectory of the ball he'd just lobbed again. A minute earlier I'd felt desired, but now my heart swelled with emotion. I couldn't imagine ever loving a man more than I loved Sam right that moment.

When I didn't speak right away, he looked back. “Maybe I should have asked you first . . . That's okay, isn't it?”

“It's better than okay,” I said with a sniffle. “It's perfect.”

Now he looked embarrassed. “It's no big deal.”

“It's a huge deal.”

“It's a name,” Davey said practically, still watching from above us. “I couldn't call him Dad because . . . you know . . .”

Davey's real father lived only a couple of miles away. After being mostly absent for the first five years of his son's life, Bob was now making a concerted effort to play a role in Davey's upbringing. In fact, the house we were now living in—a spacious colonial on two acres of land—had belonged to my ex-husband before we'd traded homes in the spring.

“So I thought of this instead,” Davey said.

“It's a great name,” I agreed, trying not to sound too watery.

“So when you guys finally get around to having a baby—”

“Davey!”

“What?” He slid back from the edge of the floor, disappearing briefly before popping, legs first, out onto the branch. He shinnied back to the ladder and was on the ground before I'd even managed to formulate an answer. “Sam said that someday I'm going to have a little brother or sister, but in the meantime I just have to be patient.”

“Really?” My conversational skills seemed to be deteriorating rapidly.

“Really,” Davey confirmed. “I told Sam-Dad I wanted a brother and he said he was trying as hard as he knew how.”

“Good to know,” I said.

“So . . .” Davey fixed me with a level stare. “I hope you're trying, too.”

“Trust me,” I said, “it's a joint effort.”

“Well, hurry up.”

I'd heard much the same thing from Aunt Peg, Bertie, and just about everyone else I knew. Sam and I had been married only three months, for Pete's sake. On several occasions, I'd been sorely tempted to mention that upping the pressure didn't increase fertility. But not to my eight-year-old son.

Instead I looked at him and smiled. “I'll do my best,” I said.

 

When I finally got around to opening my email I found out that the reception Ben had told me about was scheduled to be held at the Champions Company headquarters in Norwalk on Monday morning. Though the event was billed as a social occasion, a chance for everyone involved to meet one another, it seemed pretty clear that this would be the first step in the judging process.

With that in mind, I spent Sunday evening clipping, bathing, and scissoring Faith, devoting as much time to her coiffure as I would have had we been heading to a show. The effort left me feeling like the poster child for ambivalence. I certainly hadn't intended for Faith to remain a contestant, but now that she had, it had become a matter of pride that she appear at her best before the judges. My Poodle might not win the grand prize, but we weren't about to give the game away, either.

The Champions Dog Food Company was housed in a large, boxy brick building located in an industrial zone down near the water in Norwalk. According to the information I'd gleaned from the web site, both manufacturing plant and offices were contained within, though the building's drab exterior looked more in keeping with a factory than a posh company headquarters. The parking lot out front was surrounded by a chain link fence, its gate manned by a bored attendant who waved me inside without bothering to inquire why I was there.

Faith and I entered the building through a double set of glass doors, and found ourselves in a reception area that was surprisingly light and open. Potted ferns wafted gently in the breeze created by the air-conditioning. One wall held a waterfall where streams of water trickled down a backdrop of unmatched rocks and pooled in a basin below.

A middle-aged woman who looked like she'd never outgrown her preppy upbringing, was seated at the reception desk. Her blond hair was held in place by a headband; a light cotton cardigan was knotted around her shoulders. Small pearl studs dotted her earlobes. She stood as we approached and I saw that a border of puppies and kittens were chasing each other around the hem of her A-line skirt. Only in Fairfield County could an adult get away with wearing an outfit like that.

“You must be Faith and Melanie,” she said.

I nodded and Faith wagged her tail.

“We've been expecting you. Would you mind signing in, please?”

“Not at all.” I pulled the book toward me.

“Can Faith have a biscuit?”

“Sure, but I'll have to give it to her. She doesn't take food from strangers.”

“Oh.” The woman's brow furrowed. She lifted a bone-shaped biscuit out of a crystal container on her desk and handed it over. “That might be a problem.”

I held out the biscuit and Faith sniffed it politely. She realized immediately that it wasn't one of her favorite peanut-butter snacks.

“Go on,” I said. “Take it.”

Obligingly, Faith did. Her front teeth closed over the biscuit. She held it carefully in her mouth, but didn't bite down.

“Those are Champions' best licorice biscuits,” the receptionist said brightly. “I've never seen a dog that didn't love them.”

Obviously she wasn't looking down, I thought. I wondered if the entire episode was being captured on closed-circuit camera to be dissected later by the selection committee. Then I wondered if I was being paranoid.

Probably.

“The gathering is upstairs on the third floor. Take the elevator and turn right when you get off. You're looking for the Cerberus Room. You can't miss it.”

Most dogs heartily dislike elevators and Faith was no exception. She dropped her tail and flattened her ears against her head when the doors slid open and she realized we'd be getting in. “It's only three floors,” I told her. “And only because we don't know where we're going. On the way back down, we'll walk.”

When the doors had closed, I took the still-unchewed biscuit out of her mouth and slipped it into my pocket. Hopefully there weren't any cameras in the elevator.

As we rose to the third floor, I wondered whether whoever had named the room where we were heading knew that Cerberus—the most famous canine in Greek mythology—was actually a three-headed canine that guarded the gates of hell. Or maybe I was just still being paranoid.

Though we'd come a little early, when Faith and I reached the Cerberus Room I saw that we weren't the first to arrive. It looked as though most of the other finalists were hoping to make a good impression by appearing eager. A quick look around the room revealed that Ben and his Boxer, Brando, were the only ones missing. Having browsed the web site the night before, I was able to recognize the rest of the competitors.

Lisa and Larry Kim were an Asian couple in their thirties, both slender and meticulously groomed. Though the other dogs in the room stood beside their owners on leashes, Larry held Yoda the Yorkie in his arms. The Kims weren't mingling; instead they stood off to one side, reserved and unsmiling. Lisa looked unsure of herself; Larry merely appeared impatient for the proceedings to begin.

I'd never met Dorothy Foyle, though I'd seen her at plenty of shows with MacDuff. She was every bit as durable a campaigner as the black Scottish Terrier that sat on the floor pressed up against her sensible, low-heeled pumps. In her fifties, Dorothy had been a part of the dog show world nearly as long as Aunt Peg. Her sturdy figure and relentlessly cheery demeanor masked a steely sense of resolve that had served the pair well in the show ring.

Bill and Allison Redding, owners of Ginger the triple-threat Brittany, were another young couple. Bill was formally dressed in a suit and tie, and looked as though he might have dashed over to the meet-and-greet from work. He met my gaze and offered a quick smile in return. Allison, kneeling on the floor beside Ginger, was oblivious to the rest of the room. She spoke to the orange and white Brittany in a low voice, her arm lifting and falling in a nervous rhythm as her hand stroked repeatedly from the dog's head to her short tail.

Faith and I had barely stepped inside the room before a man detached himself from a small group standing beside the door.

“Doug Allen, contest chair,” he said. “You must be Melanie and Faith. Welcome! We're so glad you could join us.”

Doug took my hand in his and pulled me forward. “Let me introduce to you to the rest of our committee. These are the people you have to worry about impressing over the next few weeks. They're the ones whose opinions have the power to make your dog a star or send you packing.”

Doug sounded like the host of a TV reality show and the broad wink he trained in my direction did nothing to diminish the self-importance of his tone. He ushered me to the edge of the group by the door and pointed quickly from one committee member to the next. “Cindy Burrows, Chris Hovick, Simone Dorsey.”

I started to say hello but quickly realized that none of the three judges was paying even the slightest attention to me. Instead they were all staring with avid curiosity at Faith. Displaying that her manners were better than theirs, the Poodle ignored their scrutiny and stood quietly by my side.

“Beautiful,” Simone Dorsey said. Everything about the woman was polished: from her shoes, to her nails, to her shiny lips. “What a classy-looking dog.”

Chris, bespectacled, balding, and as rumpled as Simone was sleek, shook his head. “She's too composed. That won't play well on television.”

“Maybe she can animate?” Cindy asked. The youngest of the trio, she was also the first to reach out and give Faith a tentative pat. “You know, like on command?” She lifted her eyes to me. “She does tricks, doesn't she?”

“A few,” I said. “I really haven't spent any time on that. But Faith's a fast learner. She's always been able to pick up anything I want her to know without any problem.”

“Ginger does tricks,” Bill Redding said from across the room. Belatedly I realized that our introduction was being minutely observed by the other finalists. Allison was already rising and tugging the Brittany to her feet. “She can do all sorts of things. What would you like to see?”

As soon as Ginger began to move in our direction, Larry Kim did, too. His little Yorkie appeared to be dancing with eagerness in his arms. Or maybe Larry was shaking her. I was beginning to think I wouldn't put anything past this group.

“We don't need to see anything just yet.” Doug held up a hand to stop the sudden flurry of activity. “There will be plenty of time for that later. For now, let's just all relax and get to know one another.”