This Dog for Hire

expressions on their faces. Beyond them, down the left side, I spotted Dennis. He was standing against the lavender velvet rope that demarcated the parameters of the ring, staring straight ahead.
    When I turned to scan the opposite side, I saw the object of Dennis’s gaze: Louis Lane, standing so close to his companion you’d have trouble slipping a foil-wrapped latex condom between them.
    Veronica was whispering in his ear. From where I was sitting, her features looked too big after all.
    Especially her nose.
    Doc was up in the stands. He looked as dehydrated and gray as if he had died ages ago but no one had bothered to bury him.
    I spotted Aggie too, standing ringside, near where the handlers entered. She was wearing a fuzzy aqua sweater with little faux pearls sewn all over it, perhaps to coordinate with her faux hair color. Even from where I was sitting, it seemed she had put on her makeup with a steam shovel.
    The judge, ready to begin, nodded to the steward, who signaled the handlers. Gil placed Magritte down onto the floor, gave ever so small a pop to the lead, and that quickly, Magritte came to life. The ten basenji contenders, led by their handlers, entered the ring to great applause from the ringside fanciers and lined up inches from where I sat, to be stacked in show pose as a group and then examined, one at a time, by the judge.
    Watching Am Staffs, Goldens, shelties, or Chinese cresteds does not prepare you for the basenji ring. Wherever basenjis are, they need to be elsewhere. It’s just their nature.
    Three of the ten dogs simply tried not stopping when they got to the far side of the ring. Two continued on under the velvet rope until they were pulled back by their handlers. One put its paws on the rope, perhaps contemplating trying out for the circus that would be back at the Garden come spring.
    After stretching like cats, deep into their backs, two of the dogs, a brindle and a tri, began batting at each other with their front paws. A lot of the dogs stood up against their handlers’ legs, begging for food, and were simply pushed off with a small movement of the knee. But one, a black-and-white, added humping to the routine and annoyed his handler enough to get a smack on his rump.
    Gil knelt next to Magritte, reaching into his jacket pocket and placing a piece of dried liver at the ready between his teeth, then lifting each of Magritte’s freshly powdered white feet and replacing it carefully in just the position necessary to show off the dog’s conformation as its best—level topline, straight forelegs with well-developed sinews, straight flexible pasterns, moderately well bent stifles, hocks well let down. Magritte did not move. Head high, tightly curled tail quivering with excitement, his farseeing dark eyes looking straight ahead, he remained poised and still, his wrinkled forehead giving him the intense, intelligent, brightly curious expression so characteristic of the breed.
    After the judge walked down the group and back, stopping to study each dog in turn, she motioned for the handlers to take them around, and the merry-go-round began, handlers and dogs trotting swiftly around the ring. The judge’s forehead became as wrinkled-looking as any basenji’s as she studied the dogs in motion, looking for the quick, tireless gait deemed desirable in the breed.
    Despite the fact that the basenjis were held so tight they were just short of choking, the line little entrant two tricolor dogs behind Magritte still managed to pull sharply into the center of the ring, breaking stride in the process. His handler gave him a sharp pop with the show lead, quickly getting his attention back. No matter. The damage had been done.
    While I didn’t actually see Gil flip or spit a piece of bait as he was moving Magritte nicely along, I couldn’t swear he hadn’t done just that.
    I looked to the left and saw that Addie or Poppy’s pasty complexion had turned even less healthy looking, and she was popping rice cakes into her mouth double-time. I checked the number on the handler ’s armband against the catalog listing. It had been Orion who had fallen for Gil’s trick. And what an effective piece of work it was! Basenjis hunt by sight and scent. If Orion hadn’t seen precisely where the liver had landed, he certainly could have found it by its odor, a property Gil always augmented by re-hydrating the liver with his own saliva.
    Gil had his back to me for the moment, but I noticed that right after the