Black Ribbon

are tied for High in Trial, the winner is determined in a runoff that consists of one exercise, off-lead heeling.
    “Phyllis tried!” Cam insisted. “I tried! But John kept telling me that he couldn’t just disinvite them! When they made this plan, when the men did, they didn’t even know I was showing under Phyllis. Neither of them really knows anything about obedience. And John had gotten dragged into the politics. And both of them just said it didn’t matter, and nobody’d know, anyway, and as long as there wasn’t an obvious public breach of decorum... And it’s not strictly illegal! It is for breed judges. But for obedience judges, the guidelines are ambiguous.”
    Phyllis swung around to confront Cam. “You’re wrong,” she said, very clearly. “The phrase you want is ‘violative of the spirit of the guidelines.’ It was not in the best interest of the Sport.” You could hear the capital in her voice: the Sport. “Cam,” she added, “I am really very grateful for your support. To compromise my own position was wrong; to compromise yours was inexcusable. I should have done what I threatened to do; I should have walked all the way home before I got in your van.”
    The American Kennel Club expects its judges to be treated with respect. Elsa had been slow to recognize authority, but she did not let the AKC down. Or maybe the metal table leg finally became burdensome. Maybe she just felt ignored. In any case, she dropped it in the shallow water at Judge Phyllis Abbott’s feet. The American Kennel Club expects its judges to be ladies and gentlemen at all times. Like Elsa, Phyllis, too, did not let the AKC down. She was a perfect lady. Stooping to pick up the metal bar, frowning at it, turning it over in her hands, and wading out of the water, ridiculously costumed, she apologized to me. “I hope you understand,” she added.
    I accepted the apology. No one referred to the murder of Eva Spitteler.
     

 
    “YOUR MOTHER,” said Rita. She spoke the words as only a therapist can. After a pause that apparently meant more to Rita than it did to me, she added, “and her representatives.” Rita had used the phrase before. I liked it. Your mother. (Pause) And her representatives, as if my Marissa had thoughtfully anticipated her death by appointing a vast number of like-minded agents to administer and adjudicate her posthumous maternal affairs, emotional executors whose never-ending task it was to carry out the provisions of her iron will.
    “Nonsense,” I said. “My mother had golden retrievers. Phyllis Abbott has Pomeranians. There’s no resemblance whatsoever.” Rita thought I was joking. She is not a member of the fancy. The precepts of her own order are rather different from those of mine.
    She raised an eyebrow. “So what’s this Pan shtick, then? You grew up in the country. When did you suddenly develop some fear of the woods? You weren’t afraid of Pan, for God’s sake. What you were afraid of was betrayal—betraying your mother, betrayal by her.” Rita paused. “And her representatives.”
    I ask you: What choice did I have? An objective examination of the facts will reveal that the decision was made not by me, but by a Chesapeake Bay retriever, and a particularly brilliant one at that. Besides, it would’ve been my word against the word of an AKC obedience judge, and Don would’ve alibied his wife, anyway. I did, by the way, learn something about him that shouldn’t have surprised me at all. He’s a Mason! And a Shriner, at that, a benefactor of the hospitals that provide free care to children with severe burns. So the next time you watch a parade, keep your eye on those minicars, because one of the guys in the fezzes just might be Don Abbott. And laugh all you want at fraternal organizations! But if you do, make sure the batteries in your smoke detectors are fresh, and keep your children and grandchildren away from the stove, or you just might have to take all this secret society business more seriously than you’d ever dreamed.
    Curiously enough, as I found out from Cam, it was through Don’s Masonic contacts that the Abbotts eventually traced Dog Beat’s false report of Phyllis’s death to Eva Spitteler and simultaneously cast light upon the mystery of the black ribbon for Bingo. Hanging around at shows, bad-mouthing the judges, the exhibitors, and the dogs, Eva Spitteler had, as I should have guessed, attracted the attention of Dog Beat’s editor in chief, an