The Dogfather

squeaky grunt. The merest hint of something resembling human feeling crosses his face, but it passes so swiftly that I cannot begin to guess what emotion, if any, it reflects.
    “Kimi, table!” Leah says, and my lovely Kimi leaps and plants her four big paws on the rubber-matted surface, wags her tail, and looks around to make sure that people are watching her. No one is. The other exhibitors are socializing with one another and working on their dogs. Mary now has Mr. Wookie up on the table she has borrowed from me. Mary and Leah are both wearing white lab coats over the dressy clothes that are de rigueur in the conformation ring. Al Favuzza is ogling Leah. Zap is staring at Mr. Wookie, who is so eye catching that he’d be used to stares if he were just a family pet who got routinely walked around the block. As it is, he’s an experienced player in the dog show game and understands that drawing attention to himself is an essential move. Watching Zap watching Mr. Wookie, I just know what’s coming next. Before I can forestall it, Zap sidles up to Mary and says, “How much you want for him?”
    Mr. Wookie is BISS International/American CH Malko’s Wookie of Kunek, WPD, CGC. Mary is used to people who fail to realize that he is her dog. When they aren’t asking to buy him, they’re informing her that they’re going to use him at stud. Hah! No one breathes near Mr. Wookie without Mary’s consent.
    Belatedly, I say to Zap, “Mary is very definitely not interested in selling him, and it happens to be against the rules of the American Kennel club to buy or sell a dog at a show.”
    “Zap, you moron,” Favuzza says, “the boss told you that, and he told you to shut up, so shut up.”
    Enzio Guarini has instructed Zap on dog show etiquette? Why? What are these horrible men doing here? The only answer that comes to mind is: embarrassing me.
    My watch reads 8:30. Malamute judging is scheduled for 9:00 in Ring 7. My brain is bouncing up and down, and turning somersaults trying to think up a way to ditch Guarini’s men. I know a lot of people in dogs, I know everyone in malamutes, and I do not want to be seen with this entourage of goons.
    “How’d you like to do me a favor?” I ask Zap. “Could you go buy me a show catalog?” And to the massive twins, I say, “I could sure use some coffee, and Mary and Leah could, too.” I’ve starting to hand out money, but Favuzza stops me by saying it’s all his treat. What I’ve hoping in assigning the errands is that Zap and the twins will get lost and won’t find us again until the judging is over. Zap and the twins depart. Three thugs down, one to go. Also, of course, I need to find a handler for Rowdy. But before I can concoct a mission for Favuzza, he draws me aside and says, “I hear you got a problem today.”
    Blood rushes to my face as I think, “Yes, you!” Blood. How appropriate! I sneak a glance at his teeth to see whether his canines are elongating. “No, no problem at all, certainly not, everything’s just fine, it’s wonderful. Things could not be better except that my car has a hole in the floor, and I wish the damned thing would vaporize, and I’ve got to find someone to take Rowdy for me. His handler broke her arm, and if I don’t find someone else, I’ll have to take him in the ring myself, and I’m not even dressed for it.”
    The American Kennel Club expects handlers to be properly attired. Men wear suits or sport coats. Women wear dresses or pants outfits. For once, I’m not in jeans and a T-shirt, but my navy cords and white cotton sweater are too informal for the breed ring. Beneath Mary’s lab coat is a black dress that matches her dog’s dark coat. The red-piped jacket that goes with the dress is in a dry cleaner’s bag on top of Mr. Wookie’s crate. Leah has on a white silk blouse and a short navy blue pleated skirt. Her red blazer will remain in its plastic bag until the last minute. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of two professional handlers, Derek Slate and Rob Leist, and I dash after them, but neither is free to handle Rowdy, and neither knows anyone who is. I return to find that Leah, bless her, has Rowdy on the table and is spritzing him with water and fluffing him with a Mason-Pearson brush and a powerful stream of air from our dryer. Mary, meanwhile, is misting Mr. Wookie with water and touching up his already perfect coat with a metal comb.
    Eager for a few grooming tips, are you? I’d spill all the