Ruffly Speaking

new to dog shows, I should warn you that when you get shoved into someone and there’s a dog nearby, as there’s inevitably going to be, what you’re apt to hear even before your words of apology leave your mouth is, “Oh, yeah, I’ll bet you’re sorry! Didn’t mean to step on his foot and make him go lame, did you? Number one dog in the Western world until you had to go and...” Stage fright. Ignore it. It’s not dog fanciers at our best. And if you’re already one of us? Well, then, I just have to ask you: Who brings these people up?
    But Doug Winer wasn’t a real show type and didn’t have a dog at his side, anyway. Doug not only accepted my apology, but introduced me to the person seated next to him, namely, his father, an extremely short, stocky, and completely bald man of seventy-five or eighty who bore an uncanny resemblance to the dogs parading around in the ring only a few yards away. Guess? Certainly. Bull terriers. True gentlemen. Mr. Winer, Sr., rose from his folding chair, shook my hand, and—a dog-show first—offered me his seat.
    Doug had dark, curly hair all over his hands, arms, and head, and so ineradicable a growth of beard that hourly razoring would still have left him looking in per-petual need of a shave. His thick build was his father’s, but when Doug stood to greet me, he moved with the agility of an athlete. I seemed to remember that he played tennis. At any rate, he wore white, a polo shirt and pressed pants as spotless as the linen at Winer &. Lamb. Doug gestured to his empty chair and threw me an imploring glance. “Holly can have mine.” Addressing his father and me, he was starting to explain that Bedlingtons were next in this ring.
    Mr. Winer’s face suddenly took on a look of alarm and confusion. “Where’s your mother?” he demanded.
    Children are always getting lost at shows, but our octogenarians don’t have time for mental failure. They’re too busy training and grooming dogs, whelping puppies, and traveling to shows. The only thing elderly dog people ever seem to forget is how old they are. But Doug’s mother? The two big awning-covered breed ring areas looked identical. To Mrs. Winer, maybe the dogs did, too.
    But Doug seemed unperturbed. “Mother had some errands to run,” he told his father matter-of-factly. “She was going to do some shopping. She’s home by now.” He turned to me, leaned close, and quietly confided, “Stealing some time alone.”
    I can take a hint, and I don’t mind doing favors. I gave Mr. Winer a big smile. “I’d love to sit down, if you don’t mind.”
    When Doug had excused himself and promised to be right back, his father practiced the courtly art of helping a lady to her seat. The folding chair and I must both have challenged him, and, of the two, I was probably the greater challenge. I’d ironed my shirt but not my jeans, which were, however, clean. My old Reeboks weren’t. I usually smell like training treats and dog shampoo. Mr. Winer’s courtesy deserved Joy—the perfume, naturally, not the dog chow, which, as far as I know, at least, is made by a totally different company, but, in its own way, is very good nonetheless.
    “Is this your first dog show, Mr. Winer?” It was as close as I could come to asking the gentleman about himself.
    He nodded.
    “And Doug is showing one of Morris Lamb’s dogs?” I was genuinely curious. Doug used to accompany Morris to shows, but I’d always had the impression that he was there for Morris, not the dogs.
    “They’ve moved in with us.” Mr. Winer sounded surprised, as if the two Bedlingtons had shown up at his door only seconds earlier. “Nelson and...” He groped.
    I pretended to search my own memory. “Jennie, isn’t it?”
    “Jennie,” Mr. Winer confirmed.
    “They’re living with you? With you and, uh, Mrs. Winer?”
    I almost expected Mr. Winer to ask who was, but he didn’t. All he did was nod again.
    “Doug can’t have dogs?” I waited a second and rephrased the question. “His landlord doesn’t allow dogs?”
    Mr. Winer looked really bewildered now.
    “Oh.” I’d finally caught on. “Doug lives at home? With you?”
    “Brookline,” Mr. Winer answered. “Francis Street.” Unasked, he went on to give me first the address, and then precise directions for driving there and advice about where to park. The recitation of the familiar details seemed to comfort and reassure him. His voice lingered fondly at every turn and stoplight.
    When he’d