Creature Discomforts

her at a show,” he said, without bothering to specify the variety. Addressing the heavens, he added, “What the hell’s happened to good sportsmanship these days? That’s what I’d like to know.” The demand didn’t seem rhetorical. On the contrary, my father listened and waited so attentively that I found myself sharing his hopeful expectation that God would then and there deliver a full explanation of what the hell had happened to good sportsmanship and how He or She intended to restore it. The Divine Restoration Plan, I now realize, would have hinged on the official appointment of Buck as God’s Emissary to the Dog Fancy, a position he already considers himself to fill, albeit in an unofficial capacity.
    “It was a disgrace to the Fancy,” Buck declared, making the capital letter audible: Fancy. “There was Gabrielle, the kind of fine, upstanding individual we should be knocking ourselves out to attract to the Sport, and what kind of welcome did she get? Worse than none! To begin with, Horace Livermore failed in his professional responsibility to his client. Left her to wander around looking for him! Hah! And until I straightened him out, he had no intention of taking Molly into the ring himself and every intention on God’s green earth of charging Gabrielle his top-dollar fee for the incompetent services of one of his damned lackeys.” He added definitively, “Nice bitch,” meaning—I think—Molly, not Gabrielle. He then launched into a history of the bichon frise followed by a description and critique of the breed standard with particular reference to Molly’s strengths in that regard, especially when compared with the deplorable bichons bred and shown by a woman named Yvette Sommerson, who turned out to be Gabrielle’s dragon, the villain in the humiliating episode of Molly’s eviction from the private canine restroom. “Horace and Molly beat the pants off her,” Buck concluded with satisfaction.
    I said, “Horace Livermore. He handled a mini poodle for Norman Axelrod.”
    “Course he did. He did until Axelrod fired him. Stupid thing for him to’ve done. Should’ve known what was going to happen. They all do it at that level, you know. I don’t know why he called you. He should’ve asked me. I’d’ve told him it happens all the time.”
    Yes. Who? What? And so forth. Greatly understating matters, I ventured, “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
    “Arsenic. Not that it’s right. Another instance.”
    “Of poor sportsmanship,” I ventured.
    Buck nodded. “But at that level, of course, it’s common enough. And at least it’s not new,” he said damningly. “Professional handlers’ve been using arsenic for years. You almost have to feel sorry for the poor bastards. Their income depends on winning, and the stuff produces luxuriant growth. Intense color. Beautiful to see if you don’t know what’s causing it. Axelrod shouldn’t have been surprised. The dog’s all right?”
    “Yes. Isaac. He’s fine. Gabrielle is taking care of him.” At the sound of Gabrielle’s name, my father burst into what I was somehow able to identify as an effort at song.
    “It wasn’t across a crowded room,” I pointed out sourly. “It was across a crowded dog show. And if Horace Livermore is that kind of handler, why were you so eager for him to handle Molly?”
    “Best there is,” Buck declared. “And that’s what Gabrielle deserves.”
    I remember the lone hiker’s graceful, athletic movement and his skill in baiting my dogs. “And Molly? Is that what Molly deserves? A handler who uses arsenic?”
    “Long-term low doses on the specials dogs he’s campaigning.” Buck said it dismissively. “Molly’s never out of Gabrielle’s sight. But you’ve known Horace Livermore for years.” If so, Buck looked less puzzled than my responses warranted. Who and what I’d known for years was a jumbled mess, at least to me, but at least I hadn’t revealed my weakness by asking what Horace Livermore looked like. Interestingly enough, the language-processing centers of my brain remained unimpaired: I retained perfect comprehension of my native dialect, which is to say, the jargon of the dog fancy. Specials: entries in the Best of Breed competition, limited to champions, as opposed to class dogs and class bitches, the ones competing in the classes—Open, Bred-by, and so on—for championship points, Bred-by, meaning, incidentally, Bred by Exhibitor.
    “Of course,” my father