Ruffly Speaking

substitute a choke collar for a regular buckle collar, and I’m sure he knew better than to feed chocolate to a dog, but that was probably about it. So Morris was responsible but not supereducated, Harvard or no Harvard. When he studied the dog magazines, I’m sure that he concentrated almost exclusively on show results. And the aspiration? It happens to dogs all the time. It’s one of the approximately two hundred solid reasons not to debark a dog and one of the main reasons a lot of veterinarians won’t perform the surgery, which leaves a dog vulnerable to—well, to aspiration. So, all in all, Doug’s story was improbable but credible. Even so, I didn’t believe it. As I soon learned, almost no one else did, either. We were dopes, of course. We assumed that since Morris was gay, he must have died of AIDS.
     

5
     
     Sometime around Memorial Day each year, the prestigious Essex County Kennel Club sponsors Boston’s answer to the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show. But I prefer Essex County, and so does every dog there who’s ever endured the heat, crowding, and chaos of Madison Square Gar-den. Essex is Westminster with the calendar turned back a thousand years, a medieval tournament instead of a twentieth-century teleplay, and all the better for it. It’s a gorgeous pageant that really earns the name show. Although the site in the past few years has been a College campus in suburban Boston, when you approach from a distance, you’d swear it’s Camelot. The beauty of the multicolored striped tents and the intense green of the acres of lawn will fool you into expecting a pair of armored knights on horseback to charge up and start jousting, and if the women in pastel dresses turned out to be princesses with cone-shaped hats instead of breed handlers dolled up for the ring, you wouldn’t be surprised at all.
    A thousand years ago, knighthood was strictly limited to males, who rescued—and certainly never vied with—females. Times change. On the morning of Saturday, May 30, a month after Morris Lamb’s death, the champion who bore my colors entered the ring and got trounced by a damsel in no distress, which is to say that Rowdy gallantly joined the round table of Alaskan malamute dogs who’d gone Best of Opposite while the invincible Daphne once again took Best of Breed. Alien? Best of Opposite Sex to Best of Breed. If a bitch—right, a girl —wins BOB, then BOS goes to a dog. Lost? Stick around, anyway. Before long, you’ll be talking about Bred-by dogs and Open bitches as if you were one yourself. In the meantime? Relax. Everyone’s welcome at a dog show.
    Even Daphne.More or less.
    After Rowdy’s defeat, while he rested in his crate in the shadow of Faith Barlow’s Winnebago, I made the rounds of the concession booths (yield: eight sample packets of dog food, two Nylabones, an attention-getting squeaker, a bottle of Mela Miracle pet lusterizer spray, and two welcome-back-to-dog-heaven presents for my cousin Leah, a twenty-one-inch heeling lead and the video version of Bernie Brown’s No-Force Method of Dog Training). Faith Barlow, by the way, handles Rowdy in breed. Why? Faith is a first-rate professional handler. I like my dogs to win. Any more questions?
    When I’d finished stocking up, I headed for the breed rings, which formed two temporary buildings, each consisting of a long, wide, awning-covered central aisle with a row of four or five rings—roped-off rectangles— out in the hot sun on each side. You don’t have to go inside to watch, of course—you can work on your tan while you follow the judging—but I grew up on the coast of Maine, and I’m still not used to the hellish climate this far south of God’s country. Besides, it’s fun inside. The aisle I entered was crammed with cool spectators watching the activity out in the hot rings; exhibitors spraying and brushing last-minute winning glints into the coats of sparkling dogs; and keyed-up, next-in-the-ring amateur handlers nervously shifting their feet and snapping rude accusations at innocent strangers.
    I was meandering down this aisle of paradise—dogs, dogs, and more beautiful dogs, sweet sight, O beautiful vision, do not cease—when I was bashed from the rear by a hugely overweight woman cuddling a Maltese terrier about a tenth the size of one of her breasts. Thus I didn’t exactly run into Doug Winer; I got rammed into the back of his folding chair.
    “I’m sorry!” I said, untangling myself.
    Now, if you’re