This Dog for Hire

said.
    Gil smoothed back his hair and, holding on to his ponytail, pushed up the band that held it. He tightened his string tie, too. “I guess you’re right. I guess he has had a couple of bad days at that. Bui today he’s going to have a good day. An excellent day. You know,” he added, “when you show your little girl next time out, don’t be thinking about her bad days. Makes for bad karma. You people, you’re all alike. Think you can do the job of a professional. Always looking to save a little money. And what does it get you? The dog picks up all your negativity and you find yourself with a self-fulfilling prophecy on your hands.”
    He leaned toward me, his back to Magritte’s crate and one boot up on the bench.
    “That might be Crystal’s whole problem. What I’m saying is, you might be her whole problem.”
    “You mean—”
    “Little lady,” he said, standing straight now So show me his full magnificence, “I can guarantee you that major Crystal is missing. No problem. We even can get that out of the way, if you like, before she comes into season so that you’ll be breeding not just a dog but a champion. Think about your advertising. Champion sire and dam. Sounds pretty-good, doesn’t it? You’ve got to learn to think ahead. think about marketing.” He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “You get some of these serious show folk won’t touch a pup unless both parents have proven themselves in the ring. Now you know that’s the good Lord’s honest truth, don’t you?”
    “Well, I don’t know, it’s awfully expensive to have a dog campaigned, isn’t it?”
    “If you’re interested. I feel sure, as reasonable people, that we could work something out. After all, you’re talking short term here. Unless of course she turns out to be so good you want to special her. Then we’re talking a whole ‘nother story.”
    “Could you do it, like, if I met you at the shows? Or would you have to actually take her?”
    “In order to give you that guarantee, I’d take her south, young lady. Where the winning is easy. A month. Two months at the outside.”
    “Well, how much would that be? I mean, exactly.” He leaned close enough now that I could smell the coffee he bad had earlier that morning and the spicy smell of the pomade he used to slick back his thinning hair. “Twelve a month. Plus expenses, of course. Much less than you thought, am I right?”
    I nodded.
    “I can bring in that championship for under live for you. Do you believe that?”
    “Why wouldn’t I?” I said. Too harsh, Kaminsky, I warned myself. “I mean, that’s incredible! Truly.” I walked around him, bent to look into Magritte’s crate, and saw his lovely, almond-shaped brown eyes looking back at me. His paws were crossed, left over right, and be was calmly surveying the scene. When I straightened up, I picked up a picture of him taking the breed in Monmouth County. Gil, in cowboy boots and a light blue jacket, was holding the leash taut and looking proudly down at Magritte, who stood, as in all these pictures, perpendicular to the photographer, showing off his level topline, his lovely wedge head, his wonderful double-curled tail, and his burnished copper coat, which shone like silk in the sunshine. I put the photo back carefully among the others and picked up one of Gil’s cards. “I sure would love to see a picture of Crystal like that. Taking the group. And I sure would love to see her here next year.” Now I stood on my toes and whispered into his ear. “That’s my dream, Westminster.”
    It ’s not hard to intone Westminster as if you were in church. For die-hard dog people, it was church.
    “You really gave me something to think about.” I said, feeling smug. I had successfully established my presence in his face for the day. Magritte was safe. Or so I thought.
    “Look, if you want to go for coffee or something. I'll stay with Magritte. There’s nothing else I want to do today but think over your, uh, offer, and watch Magritte take the breed.” I held up both hands with my fingers crossed.
    Gil brightened up. “Are you sure you wouldn’t mind?” he asked. “Well, if you’re planning on sticking around anyway—”
    “Absolutely. There’s nothing I’d rather do that; be near Magritte.”
    “Okay, okay,” he said, “if you’re sure. I could use a coffee and a run by the rings.”
    Good, I thought, time to snoop.
    “Take your time,” I told him, and he took off without saying