The Dogfather

exactly as tall as he’s supposed to be, twenty five and three-eighths inches at the withers, to be precise, the withers being the highest point of the back, where the neck begins, above the forelegs. He is a superbly correct malamute and a superb showman. A single hair from Mr. Wookie’s undercoat has enough vibrant personality for a thousand ordinary dogs. Lest I sound disloyal to Rowdy, let me state the obvious: My own boy is himself no ordinary dog and no ordinary show dog, and even under Harry Howland, Rowdy might give Mr. Wookie some serious competition. Rowdy, too, is all a malamute should be, and he, too, is a show-offy show dog. Today, however, he is at a great disadvantage. The disadvantage is named Holly Winter. Mr. Wookie is always owner-handled by Mary, who is slim, pretty, and feminine, the perfect foil for her ruggedly handsome dog. What Mary and Mr. Wookie share, however, besides the superficial trait of dark hair, is an attitude toward life in general and dog shows in particular that’s outgoing, friendly, likeable, and contagious. They both talk a lot, especially to each other. Their rapport in the ring is legendary.
    As usual, Mr. Wookie will be owner-handled today. As is anything but usual, and for good reason, it looks as though Rowdy, too, may be owner-handled. In the short time since we arrived in the parking lot, five people with cell phones have come running up to me with the same message from Faith Barlow, Rowdy’s handler, who wants me to know that in the middle of the night, she tripped over a dog toy, landed in a whelping box, and broke her left arm. Faith is still stuck at the hospital and has been unable to find me a substitute handler.
    “Handle him yourself,” says Mary.
    “I am a dreadful breed handler,” I say. Breed, I should mention, is conformation, the show part of a dog show, the competition succinctly, if incorrectly, described as a beauty contest. “Ask Leah!”
    “She’s terrible,” says my cousin, who must be believed because she’s a Harvard undergraduate and therefore knows everything. “Her hands shake.” Although Leah does not look her best at this ghastly hour, she is still strikingly lovely. Her best is spectacular. She has masses of red-gold curls and looks altogether like an anomalously athletic and all-American version of those otherworldly young women depicted in the paintings of Burne-Jones. She enunciates clearly and has an authoritative, educated voice that carries with hideous effectiveness even when she whispers. “Holly hates handling breed,” she says. “It makes her throw up.”
    “The risk,” I say truthfully, “isn’t vomiting. It’s fainting.”
    Mary laughs off the truth. “Holly, you handle in obedience! In breed, Rowdy can practically show himself.”
    As I didn’t bother to say, almost no one uses a professional handler in obedience. Besides, with malamutes, it’s hard enough to get the dog to obey you, never mind someone else. As to Rowdy, considering his history of hijinks in the obedience ring, if he weren’t my dog, I wouldn’t handle him in so-called obedience for a million dollars. Leah handled Kimi in both breed and obedience. That’s Harvard for you: omnicompetence all over.
    “Leah,” I say with happy inspiration, “maybe Harry Howland won’t look twice at Kimi, and you can take Rowdy in.”
    If I start explaining all about the judging of dog shows, we’ll never get back to Joey Cortiniglia and the Mob, so let me just say that Kimi was entered in a class of female malamutes (“Open Bitches”) who were competing for championship points, whereas Rowdy and Mr. Wookie had already finished their championships and wouldn’t enter the ring until the last part of the malamute judging, Best of Breed. Judging is a process of selective elimination. The judge starts with the dog classes and then does the bitch classes and finally does Best of Breed. Consequently, if today’s malamute judge, Harry Howland, failed to appreciate Kimi when he judged Open Bitches, Kimi would be eliminated from further competition for the day. In that case, Leah would be available to handle Rowdy in Best of Breed. And I wouldn’t have to.
    “Leah,” says Mary, glaring at me, “Harry Howland’s going to love Kimi. Don’t listen to Holly. You’re going to go in there and win. Holly’s going to have to find someone else for Rowdy or take him in herself, because you’re going to be back in the ring.”
    “I’ll find someone,” I