The Wicked Flea

You’re head of this outfit, right?”
    Mrs. Waggenhoffer couldn’t let go of the error Tim had made in filling out the registration form. “You put your name where the dog’s name was supposed to go? Well, I must admit that that’s a new one to me!” Without intending to be mean, I think, she laughed merrily. “But the point, if you really do want to get to the point, is that all this pedigree shows is that your dog came from a backyard breeder. And that’s that.” She shrugged her broad shoulders. “This is exactly the sort of thing that happens when people don’t do their homework. If you’d read up and surfed the web and so forth before you bought a puppy, you’d have ended up with a reputable breeder, and the chances are excellent that you’d have a lovely, sound, healthy dog.” She tapped the pedigree with one finger. “Careful breeders, you know, screen for hip dysplasia. Sometimes the roll of the genetic dice tricks us, but we really do our best.” Shaking her head back and forth, she added, “I’m terribly sorry to hear about the trouble you’re having, but you should have gone_ to a careful breeder to begin with and not to this”—she consulted the pedigree—“to this Sylvia Metzner, whoever she is.”
    Standing just in back of me, Wilson caught his breath.
    “The lying bitch isn’t anyone anymore,” George Trask said. “Sylvia Metzner is dead.”
     

Chapter 26
     
    “I owe you one for that.” Wilson did indeed look pitifully grateful. He was referring, I felt certain, to my discretion in not telling Mrs. Waggenhoffer that the late Sylvia Metzner had been his mother-in-law. If I’d spoken up, the Trasks would probably have given him a hard time, but I’d have bet anything that Mrs. Waggenhoffer was the one he cared about. As it was, he’d been presented to that formidable lady as the owner of the admirable Pembroke Welsh corgi bitch who’d just gone Best of Breed, and I hadn’t spoiled Mrs. Waggenhoffer’s glowing first impression of Wilson by announcing that he was also the son-in-law of a backyard breeder of dysplastic golden retrievers, in other words, the kin by marriage of scum.
    Wilson and I were once again outside the freestyle ring. This time, Llio was with us, mainly because her owner had used her as an excuse to escape the scene with Mrs. Waggenhoffer and the Trasks. A dog, of course, is a great social convenience when it comes to gracefully fleeing any awkward, nasty, or boring situation that occurs indoors. All you do is glance at the dog, slap an expression of urgency on your face, and cry, Sorry to rush off, but my dog needs to go out — now! Who’s going to argue with that? Off you go!
    Displaying the opportunism drummed into me by Alaskan malamutes, I’d seized on Wilson’s departure as the chance to make my own retreat. Offering no explanation, I’d simply told Mrs. Waggenhoffer that I’d see her later. Then I’d tried to disappear. Unfortunately, I’d made my move so fast that when Wilson had happened to look back, he’d spotted me and waited, and I’d been unable to shake him. Here he still was, outside the freestyle ring. Inside, a thin woman in black and white and her black-and-white Border collie moved fluidly and rhythmically to the music of “Em-braceable You.” The very name of Rowdy’s intended! Well, the name of my intended for him, Emma, CH Jazzland’s Embraceable You, and at the risk of digressing, let me note that we dog devotees appreciate such apparent serendipity for what it really is, namely, a welcome reminder of the divine purpose and celestial harmony everywhere evident here in our happy constellation of Canis Major.
    Where was I? In truth, scanning for Steve Delaney, who turned up at shows now and then, sometimes in obedience with his shepherd, India, sometimes alone. He liked to wander around and watch the competition. I ran my eyes over the crowd, but didn’t see him. In marrying Anita, he’d probably ended his dog-show days. Goddamn! So, he married someone else. But did he have to marry someone who hated dogs? With my own eyes, I’d seen Anita kick Steve’s gentle, timid pointer, Lady. On another occasion, Anita had stepped on Lady’s foot. Sneak that Anita was, she’d made sure Steve wasn’t watching. By now, he must have seen or at least sensed her viciousness.
    “You don’t owe me anything,” I told Wilson. Irrationally, I blurted out, “No one owes me anything!” Ignoring the outburst, he said,