Bloodlines

with a note of angry confrontation, she asked, “Hey, what does this pet shop bitch look like?”
    “Pretty,” I said. I described Missy and added, “Nice temperament, too.”
    “I’d take her,” Lois said, her eyes on Betty, “but I haven’t got room now, you know. I’ve got two litters on the ground. I’d like to help, but I’m full up.”
    The merest flicker of annoyance crossed Betty’s face. “I’m taking her. Holly’s driving her out to me tomorrow. But the next time you get someone looking for a pet puppy...”
    You probably don’t need a translation, but just in case: A pet puppy means one who isn’t of show quality and can’t go to a show home. Let me add that a pet-quality puppy from a good show kennel is precisely what to look for if you ever buy a purebred puppy that you aren’t going to show. You’ll get the benefits of buying from a responsible breeder—genetic screening for hereditary conditions like hip dysplasia and eye disease, selective breeding for good temperament, the permanent availability of a knowledgeable person who cares about the dog, and the comfort of knowing that your dog’s Parents are healthy, safe, happy, and well-fed. And, of course, a pet pup usually costs less than a show pup. But please consider a rescue dog first. I mean, puppies chew everything, and they wake you up at night. They leave puddles and messes all over the floor, and before long, they turn into dogs, anyway.
    Back to the Shawsheen Valley show. Lois, Betty, and I had retreated to the area where they’d set up their crates, chairs, and grooming equipment. In muted bellows, Lois was explaining that she’d love to take Missy but didn’t have room, and Betty Burley, who had no extra kennel space, either, was making Lois feel really guilty about not helping with rescue. Rowdy was sniffing through the wire mesh door of the crate that held Lois’s bitch, and I was standing there with my knees and thighs locked together.
    Dog people learn to read body language. Before I’d even asked Lois or Betty to keep an eye on Rowdy for a few minutes, Lois glanced at me, assessed my posture, and said, “Holly, do you have to go to the bathroom?”
    “Yes,” I said instantly. “Could you take Rowdy?” I handed her his leash. “I didn’t bring a crate. I’ll be right back.”
    “Take your time,” Lois said. “It’ll take me a while to pack up. I’ll be here another ten or fifteen minutes.”
    Like a lot of other indoor show sites, the Northeast Trade Center had a No Dogs Allowed sign outside the rest rooms, but at the Shawsheen Valley show, there was also a guard whose task seemed to be the enforcement of that stupid rule. I might’ve been able to sneak a Yorkie or a chihuahua into the ladies’ room. But a mala-; mute? Also, since Rowdy isn’t neutered, he was obviously no lady. Anyway, I hurried off and discovered the usual, namely, that there was no one outside the men’s room, but six or eight women ahead of me in line for the ladies’. This phenomenon does not, as commonly supposed, constitute proof that the world is designed by and for men. In fact, all public rest rooms are planned by radical feminist architects whose hidden purpose is to convince women that if we ever expect to compete with men, we’d better learn to hurry up. Unfortunately, the women ahead of me had failed to get the message, and it was at least ten minutes before I headed back to retrieve Rowdy.
    Lois was easy to find. The grooming table that had stood by her crates was now folded up and resting against the wall, and she was tucking a slicker brush into her tack box. Her dogs were resting quietly in their crates. Rowdy was nowhere in sight.
    I looked around and asked, “Where’s Rowdy?”
    “Your cousin came and got him,” Lois said, without looking up. “Didn’t she find you?”
    My cousin?
    “Janice?” I asked. My cousin Janice shows wire-haired fox terriers, but she’s an incredible moocher. If she’d been going to Shawsheen Valley, she’d have invited herself and five or ten dogs to stay with me. On arrival, she’d have announced that the dogs were overdue for their shots. I was still seeing that vet, wasn’t I? He wouldn’t mind writing her a prescription for Panacur, too, would he? All this gratis, of course. If Janice had taken Rowdy and gone off in search of me, I thought, it could only be because one of the fox terriers required major surgery that Janice wanted Steve to do for free. Then my