This Dog for Hire

making everyone but his owner and handler absolutely positive the judge was as blind as a mole.
    Good sportsmanship, like chivalry, had gone the way of fins on Buicks.
    Even before I got to the medical office, I heard the engine of the ambulance and turned to run for the ramp where it stayed parked and ready for emergencies. I saw the back of it going down the dank, dark ramp, where smokers more law-abiding than Doc gathered periodically to turn the area into a gigantic ashtray.
    I heard the faint wail of the siren as the ambulance hit the street and listened to that lonely sound until it was out of earshot, and other noises, the closer sounds of the Garden, were all I could distinguish.
    When I turned around, I saw the security guard with the walkie-talkie who had called for the stretcher.
    “He’s my handler. Where are they taking him?”
    I lied so emotionally, I almost believed myself.
    “They go to St. Vincent’s, lady. You can call there later.”
    He turned away and, hands linked behind his back, rocked a little on his heels.
    “Was he conscious, awake?”
    “I couldn’t say, lady. They had an oxygen mask on him, so he wasn’t saying nothing to nobody.” He looked around, stepped closer, took a meaty hand, and patted his chest. “Looks to me like it was his heart,” he whispered. “All that running, all that tension. Don’t you worry now,” he said, patting my arm lightly. “They’ll fix him up, your friend.”
    I headed back to ring three, to find Dennis.
    Orion was stacked on the table the judge used to examine the basenjis individually, and she was baiting him herself, to see his expression. He was a beautifully made little boy, but not as flashy as Magritte.
    “How’d Magritte do?” I asked. When in Rome. The only heart problems at a dog show are the breaks and tears you get from losing. There’s no world news here. No family obligations, holiday blues, overdue bills. There are only dogs, and the question of who will win and who will lose.
    “Not so hot,” he said. “Aggie had him choked so short his front feet barely skimmed the ground. How’s Gil?”
    “They took him to St. Vincent’s. The security guard said it looked like a heart attack. I don’t know how bad it is. Maybe you can call later. How did Aggie come to take Magritte?”
    “You know these show people. All that counts is that the dog gets his shot. They don’t care what happened to Gil. Well, neither do I,” he said. “Anyway, she volunteered. I went to get him, and she was already talking to the steward. I figured, oh”— he sighed—“let him have his chance.”
    We stayed ringside, standing across from Louis and Veronica, watching each of the basenjis in turn get examined on the table and then gait in the pattern Gil had nearly completed before he fell. I tugged at Dennis’s sleeve and told him to bring Magritte after the judging and meet me back in the benching area. His mouth opened, I guess to ask me why I was leaving, but then he turned back to the ring, figuring I probably wouldn’t tell him anyway.
    Gilmore’s coat was still behind Magritte’s crate, his calendar beneath it. I opened it to the front, where compulsive people fill in the lines under “In case of emergency, call.” He had: “Marjorie Gilmore,” and an address the same as the one above. I checked my watch. It was still too soon to call and find out my husband’s condition.
    I took Gil’s stuff, including the crate, to the medical office and signed Dennis’s name on the receipt they gave me. I went to the pay phones and left a message for Marty Shapiro to make sure he’d remember to walk Dashiell. Then I got a huge Coke. Since I had miles to go before I’d sleep, caffeine seemed a good idea.
    Dennis looked downcast coming down the aisle, carrying Magritte under one arm. “He made the cut, but he didn’t win,” he said. “Aggie can’t handle the way Gil can.”
    Maybe Gil was right. Leave the showing to the pros.
    “Where’s the crate and all Gil’s stuff?”
    “I turned everything in to the medical office. I figured it was only a matter of time before they’d think to come for it. I looked in his calendar first and got his wife’s name. I can use that to call the hospital, try to find out how he is.”
    “Magritte is supposed to stay until eight-thirty. Where are you going to keep him?”
    I patted my lap.
    Dennis sat next to me, but he held on to Magritte.
    “Do you think I should call Marjorie and tell