Putting on the Dog (9 page)

Both matches and shows are all about conformation—meaning how well each dog conforms to the standards for that particular breed. The American Kennel Club determines the breed standard, which includes all kinds of physical characteristics like the shape of the ears, the size of the feet, and even the texture of the dog’s coat or how much his tail curves. While I always appreciate seeing a really stellar example of any breed, when you come right down to it, I just like being around all those happy, healthy dogs.

My first stop was the “Information” table, where I picked up a show catalog. I scanned the Judging Schedule and saw I was in luck. The wire fox terriers were on for ten-thirty in Ring Number Two of the Red Tent, and I was just in time.

I stepped inside the huge tent festooned with crimson flags. More than half the space had been divided into two show rings. Dogs and their hopeful owners, sporting bright blue armbands printed with a number, were packed into the rest of it, awaiting their turn in the ring. I was amazed at all the paraphernalia the owners had dragged along. Even though the temperature had already topped 90
and the air was heavy with humidity, they’d lugged giant metal crates, portable grooming tables, folding chairs, ice chests, and huge tote bags stuffed with brushes, shampoos, favorite toys, water bowls, towels, and dog treats across East Brompton Green. It made carrying my medical practice around in a van look easy.

Yet while the humans looked a little droopy, the dogs couldn’t have been perkier.

“Hey, fella!” I greeted a spunky fox terrier who stood on a grooming table. Although his eyes were bright and his posture was alert, he was exhibiting remarkable patience. For a dog that had been bred to hunt foxes, chasing them down relentlessly and then digging them out of their holes with paws powerful enough to burrow through an Oriental carpet, standing still for more than twenty seconds was an unfathomable hardship.

His owner, however, didn’t seem the least bit appreciative of his cooperativeness. The heavyset woman, decked out in a yellow appliquéd blouse and a bright red skirt printed with tiny fox terriers, sniffed and sighed in frustration as she pulled a wire brush through his coarse fur.

“Freddie, you’re being
such
a naughty boy today,” she hissed. “You
know
how important this is to Mommy! I
need
you to do this for me. Do you think you can calm down long enough to win Mommy a blue ribbon?”

I made a mental note to give Max, a fellow terrier with the same frisky temperament, a special dog treat the instant I saw him. An extra hug, too.

“What a beautiful dog,” I commented.

She looked at me with surprise. “You have
no
idea what the competition is like out there,” she replied tartly. “And Freddie gets so
tense
at these things!”

The owner next to her appeared to be having a much better time—maybe because his dog’s breed wasn’t on the schedule until that afternoon. The lean, middle-aged man was engaged in an energetic game of tug-of-war with his sleek, white miniature bull terrier. The dog’s muscular, squarely built physique made him look as if he were taking the whole thing very seriously. And he was certainly growling ferociously enough. But his mischievous expression, especially the glint in his eyes, gave away the fact that he was enjoying the moment as much as his master.

As I strolled by, he let go of the rubber toy and looked over at me expectantly, wagging his tail.

“Mind if I pet him?” I asked his owner.

“Go right ahead,” he answered congenially. “Just don’t be surprised when Marshmallow tries to follow you home.”

An announcement came over the sound system, cutting through the din: “The wire fox terriers are now competing for Best of Breed in Ring Number Two.”

The mood around me instantly shifted as a half-dozen terrier aficionados prepared for competition. I was delighted by the sight of one healthy, meticulously groomed fox terrier after another streaming into the ring. Even though only six dogs were competing, the scene reminded me of a merry-go-round—one made with spunky canines instead of horses.

The owners busily set about posing their dogs in the required position, known as “stacking.” I zeroed in on Freddie, who seemed to be doing just fine. His “Mommy,” however, was beet-red. I was tempted to rush over to her with a bowl of water, smoothing her ears and telling her to calm down.

The judge, an earnest-looking older gentleman in a blue-and-white striped seersucker suit and an old-fashioned straw hat, motioned for the first dog to be presented. His owner, a prim-looking young woman whose straight dark brown hair was held back from her face with a white velvet headband, leaped into action. She deftly lifted her terrier onto the table by placing one hand under his chin and the other under his tail, a strategy I knew helped avoid undoing the rigorous grooming process the dog had just undergone.

I held my breath as I watched the judge begin his hands-on examination. The anxiety in the tent was contagious. He ran his fingers over the animal, much as I was in the habit of doing. But instead of checking for irregularities like growths or enlarged organs, he was getting a feel for the dog’s body structure. Next he looked into his mouth, counting his teeth and checking his bite. As he moved toward the back to check the dog’s testicles, the dog’s owner slipped him a snack to distract him. I made a mental note to try that little trick in my own practice.

But dog shows were like life in that appearance only got you so far. After the judge had examined each of the competitors, he instructed, “Take the dogs around.”

The owners gaited the spirited terriers, trotting them around the ring in a circle as the judge looked on. Freddie’s owner looked a little more relaxed, at least if her face returning to its normal color was any indication. Still, she gripped the leash tightly and her mouth was drawn into a straight line. As for Freddie, he looked as if he were having a blast. I was glad he hadn’t succumbed to the neuroses of his pushy stage mother.

And then, just like that, it was over. The dogs stood by patiently, as if they understood the importance of what was going on as they waited for the judge to make his decision. The owners weren’t doing nearly as well. They all looked nervous.

The judge pointed to the winner. Freddie! I let out a sigh of relief, pleased that he’d come through. I hoped his owner would finally give him a hug and play a few rounds of Frisbee or tennis ball with him, now that the hard part was over. He’d earned it.

It wasn’t until I stepped outside the tent and was heading back to my booth that I realized my palms were sweaty. I’d gotten more emotionally involved in watching the competition than I’d realized.

This dog-show business is
murder,
I thought.

For some reason, having that particular turn of phrase pop into my head made me uncomfortable. But I decided I was just reacting to all the tension in the air that was the result of everyone else’s dog-show jitters. I put the thought out of my head as I strode across Brompton Green, back toward the “Ask The Vet” booth.

Chapter 5

“I love a dog. He does nothing for political reasons.”

—Will Rogers

Noon rolled around quickly. Emily headed over to the refreshment tent for the hour-long lunch break, but I had a house call to make.

As my dogs and I headed across East Brompton Green, toward my van, the two of them bounced along ecstatically. The mere prospect of any activity whatsoever that has something to do with a vehicle tends to have that effect on them. As we drew closer, Max pulled on his leash so hard that he started to choke. As for Lou, he pranced around gleefully, as if the phrase “high on life” had been created with him in mind.

Once we reached the van, I made a point of giving them each a bowl of water. During the summer, hyperthermia—heat stroke—is always something to watch out for in dogs. They can’t resist running around when they’re outside, and high temperatures can cause them to become dehydrated. Max and Lou lapped up the water eagerly, and we got on our way.

I’d driven through the village of East Brompton before, visiting the few clients I had out here. But I’d usually been in a hurry—or else scanning the street signs, trying to locate a particular address. This time, I drank in my surroundings, wanting to get a sense of exactly what made the Bromptons such a desirable place for the rich and famous. The charming little town had a rich history. By the mid-1600s, British colonists had already figured out that eastern Long Island was a pretty congenial place. In addition to settling in Massachusetts and Virginia, they also built several communities here on the South Fork, naming them after their hometown of Brompton, England.

When I reached the intersection of Main Street and the village’s major cross street, Brompton Road, I squinted, trying to imagine how this area looked to those early residents. The midday sun cast a golden glow over the landscape, and I had to admit the quaint little town looked magical.

Still, East Brompton had changed quite a bit since its early days. True, a few historic houses, churches, and wooden windmills still remained, thanks to the preservation efforts of local historical societies. And much of the area retained its casual, countrified feeling, partly because of the rustic landscape and partly because of the shabby-chic look the summer residents cultivated. But these days, the buildings lining the two intersecting streets that constituted downtown housed swanky designer clothing boutiques, restaurants that featured local produce and seafood, a few basic necessities like the public library and Town Hall, and a seemingly endless supply of real-estate brokers.

Max, Lou, and I drove to the edge of town, where the natty shops and sprawling estates gave way to a cluster of undistinguished industrial buildings. I found the Ice Castles ice sculpture studio wedged between a T-shirt embroidery establishment and a hot tub wholesaler. I was struck by the contrast between the squat, gray concrete building and the glamorous parties at which the dramatic ice sculptures produced inside were showcased.

For Max and Lou, arriving at a destination—any destination—was as exciting as driving there. Predictably, they shot out of the van the moment I opened the door.

“Be-
have
!” I commanded, fully aware that I sounded like I was doing a bad Austin Powers imitation.

I held on to their leashes tightly as my rambunctious mutts and I headed toward the front door. I tried the knob and found it was locked, so I buzzed. Peering through the small window, I saw someone moving through what looked like a front office. Still, I jumped when the door opened. The man standing on the other side was brandishing a chain saw.

I took a few steps backwards. “Is, uh, Gary Frye here?”

“Yeah. Come on in.”

I followed him inside, keeping my distance. I’d shrieked through enough slasher films during my wild and crazy teenage years to know the cardinal rule about never trusting anyone carrying a chain saw. Still, this guy seemed okay. He led me through the front office, a boxy room that contained little more than a gray metal desk, matching file cabinets, and a phone. The only sign of life was a contented white cat stretched out on the sill of the sole window in the room, basking in the warmth of whatever sunlight made it through the thick pane of frosted glass. I left Max and Lou in her charge, figuring she looked self-possessed enough to keep them in line.

The real action, I quickly realized, was in back.

A large open warehouse stretched beyond the front office, cool and damp but not nearly as cold as I’d expected. One area was walled off, and through its large windows I could see two men working. One was busy transforming a block of ice into a clown, while the other used sweeping strokes to create the outline of a polar bear. Both used chain saws as their magic wands. Chips flew everywhere, and the noise from the powerful tools was deafening.

Another man, casually transporting a towering ice lighthouse on a dolly, didn’t seem to notice the noise. He rolled the sculpture across the concrete floor, taking it as far as a large, imposing door. It opened into a freezer. I peeked inside and saw a statue of Neptune, a baby grand piano, and a golfer, all carved from tremendous blocks of ice.

“Gary?” my escort yelled over the noise. “Yo, Gar-ry!”

I barely recognized the man who came out from behind a partition.

It was Gary, all right, the man I’d met at the party the night before. But today, he looked so distraught that he’d practically turned into a different person. His expression was stricken, and the dark rings under his eyes gave him a haunted look.

“Gary?”
I asked.

“Dr. Popper. I forgot you were coming,” he said apologetically. “Let’s talk in the other room. It’s quieter there.”

Back in the front office, he didn’t bother to turn on the lights. The only illumination came from the small window, his cat’s choice for her noontime nap. The somber ambiance seemed to fit Gary’s mood perfectly.