Rachel Alexander 03 - A Hell of a Dog

dad,” she was saying, “and there he’d be, scowling and looking at his watch, because he’d gotten there half an hour early. It’s warped me for life.”
    She raised the hand that wasn’t holding a glass of wine, and a solicitous maitre d’ appeared to show us to our table. He glanced at Dashiell’s credentials, then led the way, Sam following him, Dashiell and I following her. She was wearing a totally gorgeous black suit, probably a size four, the jacket nipped in at the waist, the skirt a good ten inches above her knees. She had the best legs I’d ever seen, unless you count this one transvestite who sometimes hangs out at the Brew Bar on Eleventh Street. If Sam Lewis was having trouble with men, I might as well get myself to a nunnery.
    The maitre d’ took us to a table for four instead of a tiny two-person table, one of the advantages of bringing a dog along. A pewter-colored Statue of Liberty loomed majestically over our table, and high above us were gigantic light fixtures shrouded in off-white cloth, looking like upside-down parachutes suspended from the ceiling of the cavernous space.
    Sam ordered a bottle of Montrachet and plunged right into work. “Here’s the deal,” she said. “I’ve been keeping a database of dog trainer wanna-bes from all over the country, you know, the ones who follow their favorites to seminars and hear the same talk, and get to see their hero, over and over again. Most of them teach an obedience class, free, for their local dog club, hate their jobs, and want to train dogs for a living. I did a huge mailing, got an excellent response, then got a great deal at the Ritz. I wanted a location that would let us use Central Park, of course, because I didn’t think we could do tracking in the Roosevelt Ballroom. Am I right?”
    She stopped to inspect the wine bottle the waiter had brought, watched him uncork it, sniffed the cork, sipped the wine, and nodded to him to indicate that it was acceptable.
    “The program is fabulous, Rachel. And because we’ll have so many of the most respected practitioners in the field, I felt we could offer a certificate of attendance at the end, the way Cornell does for its weekend workshops, and that, of course, allows us to charge more.”
    “But how did you convince the trainers that it would be to their benefit to work together?”
    “I’m good at that,” she said, rubbing her thumb and forefinger together. “Anyway, I knew that once I started getting some of them to agree to do it, the others would fall right in line. They might not want to do it, but they were more afraid of being left out. Do you want to order?” she asked, all in the same breath.
    I picked up my menu and began to read, but I didn’t get very far.
    “It’s a beautiful setup. Most of the people attending have no way at all of getting a good education in the field. They’re out in podunk somewhere, and there isn’t a decent trainer within a three-day drive. This way, they get all the top people, all the important topics, great demo work, hands-on practice, slide shows, videos, even the contacts they need for further study, those who want to and can afford it. And the trainers got so into this that several of them suggested we do advanced professional workshops, restricted to those who are speaking, before and after each day’s program. No one, it seems, plans to sleep. I know I certainly don’t.”
    She picked up her menu and began to read.
    I reached for mine. Monkey see, monkey do.
    “I still wasn’t thrilled with the numbers, but then I was talking to Bucky King about how hot dogs are now, since that Elizabeth woman’s book, and he came up with the idea of opening up the last day to the public. He’s a total genius, that man, do you know him? Of course you do. You know everyone. So now we have three hundred pet owners signed up for Sunday, basic training, a panel on problems, a slide show on body language, and to end the day, a little trick work Once that had been arranged, I went after the vendors. After all, we have one hundred and sixty-two people in for the week, plus an additional three hundred the last day, and my bet is they’re going to want every book and gadget on the market.”
    “It sounds terrific,” I said, picking up my menu again. But I didn’t look at it this time. I turned toward the huge windows in the rear that looked out into the lit-up garden and waited. “Except—”
    I lowered my menu.
    Sam leaned closer and spoke in a