Chow Down (A Melanie Travis Mystery)

certainly wasn’t going to bring it up.
    “I don’t think Faith would actually have to eat the stuff every day,” I said. I’d been feeding another brand of kibble for years and wasn’t looking to make any changes. “All she’d have to do is look as though she likes it when they’re filming.”
    “So much for truth in advertising,” said Terry.
    “Is there truth in advertising?” Bertie raised a brow. “I wasn’t aware of that.”
    “Funny,” I said. “And don’t worry, it’s not going to come up. Faith isn’t going to win. I didn’t even find out about this stupid contest until she was already one of the finalists. The only reason she’s still in it is because it’s too late for us to back out.”
    “I can’t believe you want out,” said Terry. He was running a comb through a small, ice-white Maltese. “I can think of at least a dozen people here today who’d give anything to be in your position.”
    “Really?” That surprised me. “Here?”
    “Why not here? This is a dog show, isn’t it? That’s the whole point of Champions’ new campaign. Chow Down is supposed to be a premium brand, marketed toward breeders and exhibitors.”
    Aunt Peg had said something about that as well. Was I the only one who was oblivious to the latest developments in dog food? I glanced over at Bertie, who shrugged. Maybe it was a Mom thing. We had other stuff to worry about.
    “A couple of our clients entered their dogs in the contest,” said Terry. “We had to scramble around to get them just the right kind of pictures. One even sent a professional photographer over to the kennel to do a photo shoot.”
    “I think Davey emailed a couple of photos he’d snapped of her around the house with his digital camera,” I said with a laugh.
    “Don’t tell that to Allison and Bill Redding. They were promoting their Brittany, Ginger, as a triple threat. You know, conformation and obedience, plus she competes in field trials, too.”
    “Is that all?” I said, still laughing. “Faith can probably keep up. Let’s see . . . She’s a champion, she has her CD in obedience, and I’m pretty sure she’ll jump through a hoop if you hold a biscuit on the other side.”
    “There you are, then,” said Bertie. “She’s a natural.”
    “Marion Beckwith entered Harry,” said Terry.
    My scissoring slowed. “Her husband ?”
    “No, Harry the Bernese Mountain Dog.”
    “Now that you mention it, her husband looks like a Bernese Mountain Dog,” Bertie commented.
    “Isn’t his name Harry?” I was still confused.
    “No, he’s Harvey,” Terry told me.
    “Are you sure?”
    “Of course I’m sure. Harvey’s the one who signs the checks that pay our bills.”
    “And they have a dog named Harry?”
    “And a daughter named Hettie.” Terry sighed. “Don’t even ask.”
    I didn’t and we all went back to work. Poodles were due in the ring in twenty minutes.
    Hardly any time had passed before Terry looked up again. “Speaking of which—”
    “Which what?” Bertie had finished putting in the topknot. Now she was looking around in her tack box for hair spray. “Harry or Harvey?”
    “Neither.”
    “Then we weren’t speaking of them.”
    “Don’t be so literal,” Terry rolled his eyes. He relished the role of drama queen and lived up to the title with gusto. “Is it any wonder I like men better than women? A man would at least let you get an entire thought out before interrupting.”
    “That’s probably because he wouldn’t be listening in the first place,” I said.
    Bertie nodded in agreement. Terry ignored us both.
    “Speaking of husbands,” he said in a chiding tone and directing the question to me, “where’s yours? He didn’t want Tar to add another group or Best in Show to his record?”
    My scissors were moving fast again, snicking tiny bits of hair off the rounded bracelets on the Standard Poodle’s legs. I didn’t pause or turn to look at Terry as I replied, but he knew the drill. He hadn’t expected me to. “Sam’s not here because he didn’t think today’s judge would be likely to appreciate Tar’s better qualities.”
    “I can’t imagine why not. Cruella Melville is a very discerning judge.”
    “ Drucilla Melville,” Bertie corrected him without missing a beat. “And she is very discerning. She just happens to judge the wrong end of the lead.”
    Politics. It was a common problem at dog shows, exacerbated by a system that rewarded judges for applying for additional