Stud Rites

him was watching—and, I assume, that the judge wasn’t—sideburned Duke made a quicker-than-the-eye move, a quick flick of his hand to Comet’s chest. I followed the rest of the sequence. As the judge went over Comet, Duke’s hands went nowhere near his dog, who acted as the ideal co-conspirator in his handler’s scheme by projecting the image of the canine know-it-all who can display his own virtues just fine, thank you, with no help from the human nuisance tagging along at the wrong end of the show lead. When the judge approached the next dog, the junior handler did what he’d just seen the master before him do: He ran a hand over his dog’s chest, thus simultaneously calling attention to a weak point, insulting the judge, and drawing the judge’s wrath. The film was silent. The judge’s deadly ire, however, was visible on his enraged face.
    The manipulated junior handler: Timmy Oliver. The judge: James Hunnewell.
     

 
     
    IN SIGNING UP for Friday night’s Alaskan malamute luau, we’d been given the standard dog-club-banquet choice of London broil, chicken cordon bleu, or baked scrod. Upscale is prime rib, chicken Kiev, or broiled swordfish. Downscale is beneath me. I won’t join an organization that offers nothing but creamed table scraps and peas on tough patty shells.
    By the time Leah and I arrived, the Lagoon was packed with people milling around, sipping drinks, and chatting. In the background, Hawaiian guitar Muzak twanged what I eventually decoded as ”Time Is on My Side.” I ordered a Scotch for me and a diet cola for Leah. Soon after a saronged waitress brought the drinks, people began to settle at the tables.
    After lingering to watch the old film of Comet, I’d joined Gary and a couple of other rescue people in helping Betty to move the most valuable auction items to her room. Then Leah and I had fed and walked the dogs, taken quick showers, and changed into new black dresses that we’d kept in plastic bags, but had to de-fur anyway. We’d shopped for the dresses together. For the first three hours, Leah had rejected every suggestion I’d made. In her view, every bright solid color made her look like a bridesmaid. Flowing garments were maternity dresses. Anything with a waistline reminded her of Scarlett O’Hara. According to Leah, a gray tweed suit turned me into a dowager. In navy blue, we were flight attendants. When I finally persuaded her to try on a pretty flowered print, she gave the mirror one disgusted glance and cried, ”Oh God! Little House on the Prairie.!” The plain black dress that she eventually picked for herself was so short that only my frazzled exhaustion prevented me from telling her that it made her look like an Olympic figure skater who’d just suffered a death in the family. She costumed me as an Italian widow. On our way to the Lagoon, Leah remarked that we looked extremely sophisticated. ”You know, Holly,” Leah advised, ”men really do like black.”
    Do they ever! As people began to seat themselves at the big round tables and to dip spoons into the fruit cocktails, Finn Adams approached me in a manner disconcertingly reminiscent of the demeanor of my mother’s most enthusiastic stud dog, Bertie. Bertie had to be restrained from leaping the fences to offer his valuable services to all takers free of charge instead of waiting for his carefully planned trysts with our own bitches and the occasional visits of paying guests. As Finn joined us, I devoutly wished Bertie were with me now. Bertie would have hated the whole idea of artificial insemination. Bertie had the perfect gentle, affectionate golden retriever temperament, but if he’d even begun to guess how Finn Adams earned his living, he’d have taken a chunk out of his ankle. Or perhaps elsewhere.
    But Bertie was long dead. Leah was no help. When Finn suggested that we have dinner together, Leah smirked. I scanned desperately. At a nearby table sat Duke Sylvia. Next to him were two empty chairs. I threw Duke an imploring glance and held up two fingers. He nodded.
    ”Sorry,” I told Finn, gesturing in Duke’s direction, ”but we’ve already promised...”
    Men really do like black. Duke seemed unusually glad to see me. He rose from his seat and pulled out the chair next to his. Leah took the place next to mine. Beyond her sat Timmy Oliver. Between Timmy and Karl Reilly, Freida’s son, was a seat that I assumed was being saved for Karl’s wife, Lucille, who turned out to be home with