Chow Down (A Melanie Travis Mystery)

falls flat.”
    “That’s a really terrible analogy,” I said. At least I was hoping it was.
    “Tell me something else.” As hair continued to fall to the floor, Terry was determined to distract me from the matter at hand. “How are the other contestants doing? Who seems to be winning?”
    I spent the next fifteen minutes regaling him with the story of our trip to Central Park. Terry listened with rapt attention, humming softly under his breath as he worked.
    “So?” he asked at the end. “You still didn’t answer my second question. Now that you’re most of the way through the process, who’s going to win?”
    “I wish I knew,” I said fervently. “I really hope it isn’t me.”
    “You mean Faith.”
    “Yes, but I also mean me. Because much as it’s supposed to be our dogs that are competing to represent Chow Down, it’s been obvious that the owners are part of the selection process. When we participate in these events, it feels like we’re on trial, too.”
    “Maybe you’re overidentifying.”
    I couldn’t entirely rule that out. Certainly I’d seen it happen at dog shows often enough: owners who treated their dogs like their children or siblings. Who took every loss personally and celebrated each win as if their own merits had been on the line. But I was pretty sure that wasn’t the case here.
    “I don’t think so,” I said. “The judges seem to spend as much time interviewing the owners as they do observing the dogs. Doug Allen even admitted as much the other day. I guess they need to make sure that whoever they pick will be up to the task.”
    Terry nodded absently. His hands were moving through my hair more slowly now. The bulk of the work had already been done. Now he was adding the finishing touches. I hoped he liked what he was seeing.
    “If you wanted to win I’d be in your corner all the way,” he said. “But since you don’t, I’m rooting for the Reddings and Ginger.”
    I pondered that for a minute and decided that the couple and their Brittany would probably be my choice, too. Nevertheless, I was curious to hear his reasoning. “How come?”
    “Process of elimination, I guess. Dorothy’s only in it to gratify her own ego—”
    I laughed. “We all seem to be in it for that.”
    Terry kept going without missing a beat. “MacDuff’s getting older. He needs a rest more than he needs a new job. Lisa doesn’t have the right temperament. Being named spokesdog is going to be a lot of work, and she’d never be able to offer Yoda the support she’d need. Ben? He wants the win badly, but if he doesn’t get it, he’ll find something else. Trust me, he’s the kind of guy who always lands on his feet.”
    “So by default that leaves you with Bill and Allison.”
    “Plus, of course . . . They really need the money.”
    “They do?”
    I spun around. Luckily Terry had seen that coming and he held his hand away from my head, scissors angled outward. Otherwise I might have lost an ear.
    “How do you know that?”
    “Everybody knows that, doll.”
    “I don’t.”
    “Okay, make that everyone who’s been paying the slightest bit of attention. It’s not cheap to put championships on a dog in three different disciplines. Think about it.”
    He was right, of course. Up until now, I’d considered only how the Brittany’s varied accomplishments would affect her standing in the contest. I hadn’t stopped to think about the amount of time and effort, not to mention the financial commitment, that had gone into producing a record like hers.
    I was mostly conversant with the cost of showing a dog in conformation. Depending on the breed, the quality of the dog, and whether the owners handled themselves or hired a professional to do the job for them, the cost of procuring a championship could easily run into the thousands. Exhibiting week after week wasn’t cheap, no matter how you looked at it.
    “Who showed Ginger in breed?” I asked.
    “I think Allison started her, but the two of them didn’t get very far.”
    I remembered the conversation I’d had earlier with the couple. “I’ll bet she got too nervous taking her in the ring.”
    “Something like that. Anyway, Ginger went to Todd to get finished.”
    Todd was Todd Wickham, a top professional handler so well known among dog show aficionados that he went by just one name, like Madonna or Bono or Sting.
    “That must have cost plenty.”
    “Even more so because Ginger, for all her glowing attributes, doesn’t