The Dogfather

on perfection. But I did bait Rowdy. Bait: show verb meaning to induce the dog to look his animated best by offering a delectable incentive such as liver, beef, chicken, or Mr. Wookie’s favorite, beef-flavored Redbarn roll. My own dogs will bait for dirt, but as the—ahem!—soon-to-be-esteemed author of the soon-to-be-published volume entitled 101 Ways to Cook Liver, I had a freezer full of guess what and was using it. To reiterate, I knew we wouldn’t win. So why bother trying? Pride. The malamute community was my community, and its members were people whose good opinions I valued. Win or lose, Rowdy was going to look good and show well.
    Rowdy did his part. When Harry Howland ran his hands over Rowdy, there wasn’t a growl or a grumble. As perhaps you know, these examinations are quite intimate because the judge has to check for the presence of the two required testicles. A rough judge can teach a dog to hate the show ring. Howland was respectful. Furthermore, when he checked Rowdy’s bite, he had me open Rowdy’s mouth. I just hate it when judges insist on transmitting microorganisms by sticking their increasingly germy hands into the mouths of all the dogs. So, Howland treated Rowdy with consideration. As to his treatment of me, he didn’t grab and squeeze any sensitive body parts or shove his fingers in my throat, but his frozen face suggested that pain and disease were what I deserved. For failing to be Ms. Dog Show Fashion Plate?
    Hurt and mystified, I did a bad job of gaiting Rowdy. My balance felt off. If the mats had been in poor condition, I’d probably have tripped and fallen. After that, I pulled myself together and concentrated on keeping Rowdy happy. He’d done nothing wrong, and I made sure he felt good about himself by doling out liver and sweet talk. When Harry Howland gave Mr. Wookie Best of Breed, I clapped with genuine enthusiasm, and when my lovely Kimi took Best of Winners and Best of Opposite— Best of Opposite Sex to Best of Breed—I was so thrilled for her and for Leah that I momentarily quit wondering what I’d done to offend the judge. Rowdy and I left the ring. In it, Leah was busy hugging Mary and exchanging congratulations, accepting congratulations from other handlers, and in general behaving like the modest, gracious winner she was.
    From inside the ring, Mary waved to me and called out, “See? I told you! Cream always rises to the top!”
    The show photographer was already in the ring. Concerned that Leah might try to spare me the expense of a photo, I went through the gate and started toward Leah to authorize the expenditure. Before I reached her, Harry Howland approached me and silently motioned me aside. It’s common for judges to hand out advice: Take handling classes or Get someone to teach you to groom your dog. I wasn’t worried. On the contrary, I felt relieved that I’d finally get a full explanation for Harry’s uncharacteristic coldness toward me. I expected to be taken to task for dressing in a manner disrespectful to the Sport, with a capital S. What else had I done? Or failed to do?
    I anticipated the justifiable criticism of my attire by saying, “My handler broke her arm this morning. I didn’t expect to be in the ring. That’s why I’m dressed like this. I’m very sorry. It won’t happen again.”
    Harry made one of those sounds on which silver-haired gentlemen seem to hold a monopoly, a sort of baffled, dismissive snort. “There’s one reason I’m not reporting you,” he said, “and that’s your mother. I do not want to see Marissa Winter’s daughter subjected to the public censure you deserve.”
    For wearing corduroy pants instead of a skirt?
    Harry Howland went on. “But if you should ever again attempt to influence me, I will see to it that you are raked over the coals, young lady.” He paused for breath. His whole face was red, and the broken veins around his nose stood out. “Does your father know about these hoodlums of yours?”
    I closed my eyes, opened them, and said, “Harry, I had no idea. None. There has been a horrible misunderstanding. I would never try to influence a judge. Never. I had no idea.”
    It was clear that Harry Howland didn’t believe me. “By the way,” he said, “it might interest you to know that my Best of Breed won strictly on his merits. I will not respond to threats—one way or the other. And another thing. Don’t ever show a dog to me again as long as you live.”
     

CHAPTER