Black Ribbon

‘Ring eleven. Judge: Mrs. Donald Abbott. Stewards: Mary Ellen Fisher, John Greely, Trudy Parker.’ ”
    “Never heard of them. Go on.”
    “ ‘Nine A.M.’ I’ll just summarize this, okay? Twenty-four Novice A entries. Lunch at noon. Then twelve-thirty, Open B had fifteen entries, and the stewards were, uh, Eileen Alberts, Ann Hull, Joseph Weiss.”
    Again, unfamiliar. “Now look at the entries, okay? Toward the back—”
    “I know! Just a minute. Okay. Novice A—”
    “See if she had a dog called Benchenfield—”
    “Benchenfield Farmer’s Dog,” Leah said. “Yes. The breeder... This is one of the ones you gave me. The breeder is Virginia Garabedian. That’s Ginny, isn’t it? The one with the skinny braid all wrapped—”
    “Yes. Where’d you meet her?”
    “Hockamock.”
    “So, keep reading.”
    “Labrador retriever. And the owner is Eva J. Spitteler. You want me to look up the addresses?”
    “Yes,” I said. “Before we hang up. For now, just scan the rest of Novice A, and see if you see any of the other names.” I waited. Leah found none. She turned to the page of Open B entries. “This is one of them,” she said. “ ‘CH OTCH Windemere’s Nickum.’ ”
    Owned, of course, by Camilla White. I recognized a few other names of people who’d had dogs in Open B, but no one from camp. In case you don’t show your dogs... Well, in fact, if you don’t show your dogs, consider taking up the sport, huh? It’s a lot of fun. But, as I started to point out, if you don’t show, you may not realize that you don’t just turn up at the last minute. You mail or fax your entry weeks before the show, and definitely by the closing date, after which time the show-giving club prepares the catalog. Consequently, unless there’s been an error in the printing of the catalog, every dog actually shown is listed under the class in which he’s entered.
    When we’d finished reviewing Open B, Leah turned to the last pages of the catalog and consulted the index of exhibitors, looked for names, and gave me a few addresses. Maxine McGuire’s name appeared. Turning back in the catalog, Leah found that Max had had a mastiff in Open Bitches, which I might add, is a conformation class that has nothing to do with Open Obedience—or, for that matter, with bitchiness, either, except in the strictly technical sense. Ginny’s name appeared under the heading “Retrievers (Labrador) Open, Yellow Bitches” as the breeder, owner, and handler of Benchenfield Prodigy CD, JH—Junior Hunter—the only owner-handled entry in the class. I wondered how they’d done. The judge had been Horace Lathrop, who’s a friend of my father’s and a fair judge, or so Buck says, anyway. Eric Grimaldi had had a long day. He’d started his breed judging with pointers at eight-thirty A.M., taken a lunch break between spaniels, English springer and field, and ended with Weimaraners; and then at six o’clock, he’d judged the Sporting Group and Brace.
    I thanked Leah, asked her to keep looking through the catalog, and reminded her to check the dog magazines. She’d shown initiative in hunting up the catalog, and it had provided some information, but any show catalog is subject to what I guess you’d call false positives: dogs and people whose names were printed in the catalog, but who for one reason or another had never turned up. It happens all the time. Dogs go lame or blow coat. Exhibitors get the flu. Although the American Kennel Club is formally protesting the matter in the Highest Court of All, as of this date, even AKC judges are still subject to attacks of appendicitis and to the other sudden ills of ordinary mortals. And if a club is forced to use a substitute judge? If there’s time, the club mails a notice to everyone who’s entered, and the substitution is always posted at the show, but the original name still appears in the catalog, of course. Furthermore, although you can’t enter a dog after the closing date for a show, there’s nothing to prevent you from going there and wandering around with the hundreds or thousands of other spectators, none of whose names are recorded anywhere.
    When I emerged from the stuffy heat of the phone booth, it Was time for drill team, the prospect of which really put me off. For one thing, the day had become oppressively hot and humid. Mostly, though, the idea of heeling dogs around in would-be precision lines and pinwheel formation to the brassy, jolly strains of a marching band