Black Ribbon

does it rarely: immediately destroys those pups, the culls. Any good breeder spares a hopelessly sick puppy the agony of incurable illness or pain, and any good breeder removes the culls from the gene pool. A few breeders still follow what used to be a rather common practice of euthanizing any puppy with a show fault: a malamute with a mismark, an Akita with a coat like Jacob’s. Neutered, as Jacob was, he obviously couldn’t pass along the undesirable trait to any offspring. What a dog like that could do, though, was to advertise the presence of the trait in his breeder’s line, announce to other breeders that so-and-so’s dogs produced long coats, and maybe make breeders reluctant to pay hefty stud fees. I shrugged my shoulders, excused myself, and entered | the dining room.
    The unappetizing nature of my pre-prandial reflections was probably just as well because spread out on a long buffet table was what extensive experience in helping out at dog shows immediately led me to identify as the stewards’ lunch—cold cuts, Swiss cheese, thin slices of pale tomatoes, iceberg lettuce, mayonnaise, primary-yellow mustard, soft bread, and squishy rolls—as opposed to the officials’ lunch—chicken, say, or roast beef sandwiches—and certainly as opposed to the exalted feast of something like lobster salad or the plate of something hot and delicious that every judge has the right to expect. We, however—or they, the nonscholarship campers— had paid judges’ prices. I filled my plate. The stewards’ lunch was what I was used to, anyway. What really would have spoiled it would have been trying to swallow it in the presence of Eva Spitteler. I glanced around and saw her settling her wide bottom in a chair next to Eric Grimaldi’s at a table in the i far corner of the dining room. Eric was sitting right in the corner, and Eva had every appearance of intending to keep him there. As I turned to look for a seat far away from Eva, Cam White appeared at my side. She murmured, “Wasting her time. Where are you sitting?”
    “Nowhere,” I said. “I just got here.”
    “There’s room at our table.” Jiggling her plate a little, Cam j said, “This is seconds. Hardly worth it, but I’m hungry, and it’s what there is. Come and sit with us. You don’t want to...” She turned her head meaningfully in Eva’s direction. I “No, I don’t,” I agreed. Heeling at Cam’s left side, I asked, “What did you mean?”
    “By what?”
    “Wasting her time.”
    “Oh, it’s just sort of a joke about Eric. He loves to judge, and he likes to swim, and he doesn’t mind working on his tan, either. He likes California, Florida, and he isn’t exactly above
    putting up the worst-looking dog in the world if it just so happens that he puts, up the dog, and lo and behold, whoever would have guessed, certainly not Eric, the owners turn out to be Mr. and Mrs. President and Show Chairman of the Surf and Sand Kennel Club, which just so happens to need a Sporting Group judge for the middle of January. I don’t know what Eva thinks she’s doing, but she doesn’t even belong to a club, and she’s never going to be in a position to get him any kind of assignment, never mind the kind he likes. So like I said, she’s wasting her time.”
    Newcomer to the fancy? The obvious question: Why didn’t Judge Eric Grimaldi just write to offer his services to every kennel club in Florida and California? Easy. Masons are forbidden to recruit members; AKC judges, to solicit assignments. And while we’re on the subject, let me report that as Cam and I passed by the table where Don and Phyllis Abbott were seated, Phyllis Abbott caught sight of me and exclaimed, “I just have to tell you that I am so impressed by the work you’ve done with that dog! He really has excellent attention.” Touching her husband’s arm, she said, “You really must see this dog. It takes a very special person to train a malamute. You deserve a lot of credit, Holly.”
    “Thank you,” said a prominent member of the Cambridge Dog Training Club, just the kind of person who might help the club to select judges for its trials or, at a minimum, to put in a good word—or possibly a bad word—for a proposed judge, for example, Phyllis Abbott. But then, Rowdy and I had worked hard, and as for the bit about being a very special person who deserved a lot of credit, the words made me think of Anna Morelli, a very special person in her own right, but also the breeder,