The Wicked Flea

specials is worth a big, big brag.
    “No. And it wasn’t a major.” (That’s a major win, one worth three or more points.) “A lot of people don’t like the judge.” In other words, there’d been a small entry, that is, a small number of Pembrokes in competition. The size of the entry determines the number of points awarded. The greater the competition, the more points given for winning. Sensible! Indeed, like many other aspects of dog shows, a model for the rest of the world. I could go on. And often have.
    Before long Wilson had me where he wanted me, which was next to his brand-new grooming table with a pair of clippers in my right hand and Llio standing on the table casting beautiful but unhappy eyes at me. As I was informing Wilson that Llio’s nails weren’t too bad and that I was not going to trim them for fear of leaving her with a tender toe or a sour attitude, my eyes were taking an inventory of the incredible collection of equipment he’d brought to a smallish show for one smallish bitch.
    The grooming table was new but fairly ordinary. The heavy-duty crate dolly was also new. The tack box from which he’d produced the clippers was the kind of large metal affair that professional handlers and big-time breeder-handlers use, and to my amazement, Llio’s crate was one of those luxurious, expensive wooden ones, a brand-new version of an old-fashioned model, fitted with brass hardware and probably weighing in the vicinity of a zillion pounds. Well, not quite. And I do admire those crates. I even own a few, antiques, really, that I inherited from my mother. But for shows, I use Vari-Kennels, which weigh almost nothing, or my Central Metal folding crates, not some weighty collection of flashy, unnecessary, and impractical gear that has to be loaded into the car, unloaded onto a dolly, hauled to the grooming area, set up, and eventually, broken down, reloaded onto the dolly, hauled back to the car, and loaded into the car, only to be unloaded at home, and so forth. For a cluster of three or four shows where Rowdy and Kimi are both entered, my cousin Leah and I take a fair amount of paraphernalia: crates, crate dolly, grooming table, tack box, chairs for ourselves, a cooler, maybe, and other odds and ends. But heavy, cumbersome wooden crates, no matter how impressive? They’re for people who pay other people to do the lifting and moving. I wondered how many trips it had taken Wilson to get this stuff in here. And how much he’d paid for all of it.
    Then I turned my attention to Llio. Like malamutes, corgis are extremely intelligent and curious, but unlike malamutes, they don’t go out of their way to ingratiate themselves with every fool who comes along. For a corgi, Llio was almost cuddly. As I was stroking her throat, advising Wilson to think about putting herding and tracking titles on her, chatting with him about what he fed her and what I fed my dogs, and so forth, Mrs. Waggenhoffer’s melodious but penetrating voice suddenly rang out. “Holly! I had no idea you had a Pembroke! Nice bitch!”
    Mrs. Waggenhoffer occupied lots of space, vertically and horizontally. In defiance of the stereotype, she didn’t have a pretty face. Her nose was tiny and pointed, and her jowls large and prominent. Her wavy white hair had always reminded me of the wigs worn by barristers and judges in English courtroom dramas. Today, she had on a robelike black dress.
    I waved and said, “Hi, Mrs. Waggenhoffer! The bitch isn’t mine. Too bad for me! She took the breed today.”
    The grande dame—she really was one—came striding down the aisle of crates, and when she reached me, looked Llio over carefully and pronounced, “Very typey head! Really, overall, very nice!” Typey means “correct for the breed.” If Lassie looks like what she is, a rough collie, then she’s typey, but if a malamute’s head reminds you of Lassie’s, it’s called a “collie head” and—horrors!—isn’t typey.
    “I heard your father got married,” Mrs. Waggenhoffer said in a tone of odd triumph. “Is that true?”
    After saying that it was, I immediately presented Gabrielle’s credentials. “She has a bichon. They met at a show.”
    “Well, then, that’s all right.” Mrs. Waggenhoffer nodded her big head in such hearty approval that her jowls bounced. Pointing at Llio, she asked, “Who’s handling this bitch? You?”
    “I should hope not. Actually, I don’t know who’s handling her. Wilson?”
    The next few