This Dog for Hire

something more concrete by the time you get back from Boston. So are you with me on this?”
    The cab had stopped at Eighth Avenue and Thirty-second Street. Dennis just sat there.
    “Dennis?”
    He nodded, then reached for his wallet. “Sorry,” he said, coming back to life. He handed the driver a ten and then turned to look at me.
    “Rachel, what would I do without you? You’re the greatest.”
    “Yeah. Yeah,” I said, lifting Magritte and making sure I had a good grip on his lead before I opened the door, “if any of your other friends have a loved one killed, you can recommend me.”

22
    Take Your Time, I Told Him

    WE SHOWED OUR tickets, then Dennis and I began to bulldoze our way into the benching area, passing and being passed by a sea of handlers with dogs of every size, color, and possible shape, Afghans and salukis sporting silver-lame snoods to keep their long, feathered ears clean and dry, drooly dogs wearing bibs to catch the saliva that would periodically stream down from their loose flews, Yorkies and silkies, their long coats sectioned, wrapped in paper, and rolled in curlers to keep it from getting damaged, let down only on the grooming table and in the ring.
    Dogs of astonishing size were carried, some on the hip or high up over the shoulder, like babies, and just as passive. Some were so docile they allowed themselves to be cradled, back down, feet up, or just held close to the chest. They were amazingly pliable, having stood on a grooming table and been manipulated into position from the time they were weaned.
    There were photographers, too, nearly one per dog it seemed, shooting everything, dogs sitting not in but on their crates, dogs with teddy bears, dogs that were all coat, resembling mops, and dogs that had no coat, hairless dogs, so vulnerable looking they made you want to cry.
    Even before we got to row six, Dennis and I separated. He headed directly for Magritte’s spot, and I turned the other way, meandering past the rows of benched dogs on one side and concessions on the other. The benching area, raised platforms covered in sturdy green outdoor carpeting where the dogs are assigned to stay when not in the doggy bathrooms, the grooming area, or the ring, was surrounded by booths selling books, magazines, food, jewelry, all for dogs or dog related. Going around the long way, I’d eventually come to the area where the basenjis were benched from the opposite side.
    From that moment on, whether Morgan Gilmore liked it or not, everywhere he looked, for the rest of the day, at least, I’d be in his face.
    By the time I had worked my way to Magritte’s assigned spot, Dennis was gone and Magritte was asleep in his crate, his chin resting on one hind leg, his white-tipped tail uncurled. Photos of him taking the breed at other shows were propped on top of the crate, and alongside, a stack of Morgan Gilmore’s business cards.
    “Do you think he’ll ask to win today?” I asked Gil’s ponytail.
    He turned, scowled, and raised his eyebrows. My face was becoming for him like so many had been
    for me all the years I’d gone to dog shows, someone you see at every event but have trouble remembering exactly who they are, where you met them, or w hy they’re there. We had talked at Cliff’s opening, and he had probably seen me at the Ken-L Ration award banquet, but he couldn’t place me. He was one of those people who didn’t really pay attention to anyone he deemed less important than he was, which in Gil’s case was nearly everyone. I wondered what he was hiding under all that arrogance. “Crystal’s mom,” I said. With considerable pride. He nodded. “She’s not—?”
    “In heat? No, April, I think.”
    “No, I was wondering if she was entered ?”
    I hadn’t given him a registered name, just a call name, and since he didn’t know my name, he’d have slim chance of knowing if any of the bitches being shown in the Best in Breed competition were my precious angel. Unless he knew all the dogs, which, with only ten entries, was certainly possible.
    “No,” I said, looking down at the vicinity of his cowboy boots. “She needs one more major.”
    Gil nodded, looking vaguely bored and annoyed. He needed me hanging around like he needed Lyme disease.
    “So, do you think Magritte is up for this today? Does he have that I-want-to-win attitude he’s so famous for?”
    “Always,” Gil said. “Dog’s never had a bad day in his life.”
    “I guess he had one or two,” I