The Wicked Flea

awkward wave of my gloved hand, I headed for the entrance to the trade center.
    The lawsuit? The aim wasn’t money for the children. Or not exactly. The little girls loved the dog. The dog was in pain. The choices? Let him live in pain that would inevitably grow worse and worse. Or end his misery by ending his life. Or come up with enough cash to pay for surgery. How? By planting vermin in an order of french fries. I no longer felt angry about Kimi. I understand the love of dogs.
     

Chapter 25
     
    What about the blameless owners of the restaurant? Why should they pay? I really did feel sorry for them. But I felt worse for the little girls with the bad teeth and for the dog they loved. After the sad, vaguely frightening encounter with the Trask family, I needed an antidote, and my assignment for Dog’s Life provided the perfect one. As I may already have said, I write a column for that respected publication, but I also get assignments and do a lot of freelance work, too. Today, for example, I was interviewing a niece of Mrs. Waggenhoffer’s who was in charge of a demonstration of freestyle at the Micmac show. Freestyle, I remind you, is dancing with dogs and was the subject Kimi and I had been studying on the infamous Day of the Tail. Freestyle was a fairly new canine performance event, and the niece, Erna L. Sporter, was forever trying to recruit support for it by organizing demos at fairs, parades, and other public festivities as well as at dog shows. Like every other organized dog activity, freestyle involves competition and titles, but it distinguishes itself from conformation, obedience, tracking, agility, and such by emphasizing the aesthetic element in the performance of dog and handler. And the humorous one. I mean, just how seriously can you take dancing with dogs? Well, in Erna L. Sporter’s case, pretty seriously, but to other people, freestyle is the canine equivalent of pairs figure skating crossed with a wacky form of Vaudeville. It has rules and regulations, of course. For instance, the dog and handler are supposed to move in time to the music. But it has only one real point: it’s supposed to slap a grin on your face that you can’t wipe off. And it does!
    So there I was, standing outside the freestyle ring beaming my face off at the sight of a tiny Yorkie and a great big woman in matching gold costumes boogieing to “The Chattanooga Choo Choo,” when Wilson lurched into me, apologized, and tried to drag me off to Llio’s crate to give him my opinion of her nails. Dog toenails!
    ‘They’re too long.” I spoke from memory. Keeping my eyes on the Yorkie, I added, “You could take a tiny bit off, but be careful you don’t hit the quick, or she’ll go lame on you.”
    Mistake!
    “I hate to ask you,” Wilson said, “but could you do it? I’m new at all this. And my handler doesn’t do any grooming.”
    “Maybe Llio’s aren’t too long after all,” I lied. “They’re probably all right. And if Llio doesn’t like having her nails clipped, it might put her in a bad mood, and then she won’t show very well.”
    “They’re too long,” he persisted.
    “When are you due in the ring?” As may not be obvious, I posed the question in my native dialect, which succinctly encodes the assumption that you and your dog are one. In standard English, Llio would be in the ring with her handler and without Wilson, but in the heartfelt English of the dog fancy, where the dog is, there the owner is, too.
    “Not for a long time. It’s for the group,” he said modestly and, I must add, deviantly. The guy obviously hadn’t mastered the social conventions yet. When your dog goes Best of Breed, you aren’t required to make yourself obnoxious, but you damned well are supposed to brag. Not that you even need to say anything! A smug expression is fine. But you are supposed to display pride! Why? Because you owe it to your dog, that’s why! Anyway, in English, Llio had already been in the Pembroke Welsh corgi ring, where she’d won. Consequently, she’d represent her breed in the judging of the Herding Group, which, like the judging of the Sporting Group, the Working Group, and so on, and eventually the judging of Best in Show, would take place much later in the day.
    “Congratulations! That’s well deserved,” I said. “Were there a lot of specials?” Specials: dogs and bitches, technical term, who’ve already finished their championships. Going Best of Breed is good. Going B.O.B. over