Live and Let Growl (8 page)

“Oh goody,” said Terry, finishing up his topknot. “This should be fun to watch.”

As if on cue, my cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out and had a look. Miss Ellie had texted to say that she'd parked her car and was on her way to the Expo Center's west wing entrance.

“You're sure you're okay without me?” I said to Bertie.

“Absolutely. I'll be fine.”

“Go,” Crawford said. “Trust me, you don't want to keep Miss Ellie waiting.” He cast a meaningful glance at Bertie. “I'll keep an eye on things around here.”

“Thank you,” I mumbled. “I think.”

Terry lifted his hands and shooed me on my way. “Off to the races,” he said merrily.

Chapter 8

E
ven though it was just past nine-thirty in the morning, the Expo Center was already crowded. Most of the people I passed as I skirted around the rings and hurried toward the entrance appeared to be exhibitors. But once I reached the wide lobby on the other side of the pavilion I realized that spectators were beginning to pour in as well.

It took me a minute to spot Miss Ellie in the throng. When I did, I raised my hand and waved. She smiled and veered in my direction.

Miss Ellie wasn't much taller than I was but she moved with such a firm sense of purpose that people simply seemed to melt back out of her way as she advanced toward me. Seeing her in action, I realized that Crawford had been right. Miss Ellie didn't look like she had any intention of following me anywhere. In fact, I'd probably be lucky to be able to keep up with her.

“Good morning, Melanie,” Miss Ellie said as she drew near. “Peg told me that I was to put myself in your capable hands.”

Let's hope you're up to the task,
her expression proclaimed.

So now we both knew where we stood.

“I'm sure you know your way around a dog show,” I told her. “But hopefully I can be of some use to you today.”

Miss Ellie didn't bother to reply. Instead she simply strode past me, heading for the back of the lobby and the entrance to the large auditorium that housed the show rings. Caught flat-footed, I scrambled to catch up. The chase turned out to be brief. When Miss Ellie reached the opening, she stopped so suddenly that I nearly bowled her over from behind.

I hopped to one side and shot past her. It was a miracle I didn't fall on my face.

Miss Ellie didn't even notice. In fact, I realized as I righted myself, she wasn't looking at me at all. Instead, she was gazing out over the vista that appeared before us: matted, well-lit rings filled with beautifully groomed dogs of all sizes and shapes; exhibitors—some fretful, others composed—hurrying every which way around the room; dignified judges directing the activity in their rings and reveling in their position as arbiters of canine quality.

No matter how many times I'd seen that same spectacle, it never failed to thrill. It looked as though Miss Ellie felt the same way.

“It's been such a long time,” she said softly. “But it never changes, does it?”

“Not the parts that matter,” I told her. “Not the dogs, nor the people who love doing this. I bet you'll see lots of old friends here today.”

Miss Ellie gave me an enigmatic look then shifted her gaze back to the rings. The Miniature Poodle judging had yet to begin, but from our vantage point I could see that an assortment of breeds from each of the seven groups—Sporting, Hound, Working, Terrier, Toy, Non-Sporting, and Herding—were already in the rings. Choices abounded, all of them good. I wondered what Miss Ellie would want to see first.

For the first few minutes, however, the older woman was content to simply stand on the sidelines and take in the busy scene. Her gaze swept from one end of the long pavilion to the other, then slowly traveled back again.

“I've missed this,” she said finally.

“I can imagine,” I agreed. I had neither Miss Ellie's longevity nor her accomplishments, but if it ever became necessary for me to leave the dog show world behind I knew that I would feel its loss deeply. “If you don't mind my asking . . . why did you stop?”

“Something happened.”

A non-answer if ever I'd heard one.

“What?” I prodded.

Miss Ellie turned and looked at me. When she spoke, her tone was tart. “A Southern lady would know how to mind her manners better than that.”

I was probably meant to wither beneath her rebuke. But we Yankees come from strong stock. So instead I straightened my shoulders and said, “I'm sorry if I was rude. I'm sure you had a good reason.”

“Dunaway,” Miss Ellie spoke the name after such a long pause that for a moment I wasn't even sure she was speaking to me.

“Excuse me?”

“Champion Gatewood Dunaway, the best dog I ever bred. He was the reason.”

“I've seen pictures of him,” I said, thinking back. “Dunaway was gorgeous. You did a lot of winning with him, didn't you?”

“I most certainly did. He was a five-time Best in Show winner. I loved everything about that dog and the judges did, too. Dunaway was the Standard Poodle I'd always envisioned in my mind, the one I dreamed of producing every time I planned a litter. I knew that he would be the foundation of everything I bred from then on.”

“But he wasn't,” I said slowly. I knew that. There were several Gatewood Standard Poodles whose names were featured prominently in our modern pedigrees, but I was quite certain that Dunaway wasn't one of them.

“No, he wasn't,” Miss Ellie agreed. “Dunaway was killed in a terrible accident. One that was all my fault.”

“I'm so sorry,” I said. “I had no idea.”

Now I really wished I hadn't asked.

“Don't apologize,” Miss Ellie said with a sigh. “I can understand why you were curious. Breeding good dogs is a way of life. It's something that gets in your blood.”

I nodded, hoping she would continue. After a moment, she did.

“There was a car accident. I was driving home from a dog show. Dunaway had won the group, so of course we were there late for Best in Show. It was dark outside when we left and it was raining, too. The roads were slippery. To this day, I don't really know what went wrong. The only thing I know for sure is that I should have had Dunaway secured in a crate. But I didn't. He was riding on the front seat next to me.”

We all knew that our dogs would be safer riding in cars in crates, I thought. But we all kept them close to us anyway.

“I walked away from the crash but Dunaway didn't.” Miss Ellie's voice caught. “After that, nothing was ever the same. In the blink of an eye, all the hopes and dreams I'd had for the future of the Gatewood line were gone. Just snuffed out like they'd never existed at all. Oh, I kept on showing for a little while after that, but my heart just wasn't in it.”

“I apologize for bringing up such a sad memory.” I gave myself a mental kick. “Aunt Peg wanted you to come to the show and enjoy yourself. I never meant to get your day off to such a bad start.”

“Bless your heart. I know you didn't mean any harm. Besides, everything I just told you was over and done with a long time ago.” Miss Ellie lifted her gaze. She looked around the pavilion. “So Peg wanted me to have some fun, did she?”

I nodded.

“Then I would hate to disappoint her. We have a whole, huge dog show to explore. Let's get this party started.”

Once Miss Ellie got going, she wanted to see everything. Our first stop was the ring where Aunt Peg was judging. Her Poodle assignment was later in the week; that day Peg's slate consisted of nearly a dozen other Non-Sporting breeds. When we arrived at ringside, she was sorting out a small group of French Bulldogs.

For most exhibitors, the goal in showing a dog is the accumulation of enough points to earn that dog the title of Champion. Points are earned within each breed by beating same-sex competition in the classes. Though a variety of different classes are offered, at most all-breed shows the majority of entries are in one of three classes: Puppy, Bred-by-Exhibitor, and Open. Dogs are judged first, followed by bitches.

Once the individual classes in each sex have been judged, the class winners return to the ring to vie for the award of Winners Dog or Winner Bitch. Those two competitors are the only ones who receive points toward their championships. The number of points earned is based on the number of dogs beaten on the day. The highest number of points a dog can win at any single show is five. The fewest—assuming that there is competition—is one. Within that fifteen point total, a dog must also win two “majors,” meaning that he must defeat enough dogs to be awarded at least three points under two different judges.

The system sounds complex, but in practice it's actually quite easy to follow. When we arrived at Aunt Peg's ring, she was judging her Open Dogs. She devoted a fair amount of time to sorting through the five dogs in that class. Then, having already found her eventual victor, she made short work of awarding both Winners Dog and Reserve.

While Aunt Peg's ring steward got her bitch entry in order and called the Puppy Bitches into the ring, Peg came over to say hello to Miss Ellie.

“I'm so glad you came,” she said.

“I am, too,” Miss Ellie replied. “I didn't realize how much I'd missed all this until I walked in the building this morning and saw everything in front of me looking just the same as I remembered it.” She added with a smile, “It felt a bit like coming home.”

“As well it should have,” Aunt Peg told her. “For many years, this
was
your home. And the dog community was your family. I know you've been missed. I hope Melanie is taking good care of you?”

“We're just getting started,” I told her. “We've barely had time to see anything yet.”

“Off you go, then.” Aunt Peg shooed us away as if she'd been the one to hold us up, rather than the reverse. While we'd been speaking, her Puppy Bitch class had filed into the ring and the steward was sending us pointed looks. It was time for Aunt Peg to get back to work.

Miss Ellie and I strolled past several adjacent rings, taking our time and pausing here and there whenever something that caught her eye. Miss Ellie had only had Standard Poodles but like most dedicated breeders, she appreciated a good dog no matter what breed it happened to be.

We'd been in the room about fifteen minutes when I started to sense a subtle shift in the atmosphere. At first a few heads turned in our direction. Soon they were followed by more. Whispered conversations began to spring up around us, their murmured words a low buzz that was just beyond earshot.

The dog show world has a telegraph that's as insistent and efficient as jungle drums. And all at once, I could feel its rhythm pulsing around the room. Word of Miss Ellie's presence was spreading rapidly. Before long, anyone old enough to remember her former dominance in the Midwestern dog show scene would be aware that she was back.

Some of the faces I saw around us registered delight. Others looked surprised—and perhaps even a little shocked—by Miss Ellie's unexpected appearance. Several people glanced our way with notable disinterest, then frowned and turned away.

At the outset only a few exhibitors came over to greet Miss Ellie. But as time passed, interest grew steadily and so did the press of people. Hands were shaken. Hugs were exchanged. Our casual stroll around the large room threatened to turn into a procession.

The first several times people approached, Miss Ellie took a moment to introduce me. But it quickly became clear that nobody cared who I was. It was the long-lost mistress of Gatewood Poodles who was the star attraction. After a few minutes, I simply stepped back out of the way and let Miss Ellie handle the commotion herself. She certainly didn't need my help.

A short while later I found myself standing near the Bedlington Terrier ring. I've always loved the look of that charming, playful breed so I was watching the action in the ring and paying only minimal attention to whom Miss Ellie was talking. I might not even have noticed the exhibitor who approached her at that point except for the fact that the woman was carrying a blue-shaded Bedlington in her arms and that she elbowed me sharply out of the way as she sidled in close to Miss Ellie.

When the woman spoke in a honeyed Southern drawl, I couldn't help but overhear. “Ellie, dear,” she said in a confidential, tone. “I just want you to know that I never believed those awful things I heard. I was sure they couldn't possibly be true.”

Miss Ellie drew back abruptly. I saw the muscles in her neck tense. But when she addressed the other woman, the smile on her face was cloyingly sweet. “Why, thank you, Mandy Jo. How very broad-minded of you. Now if you will excuse me, there's somebody I simply must see.”

Miss Ellie spun away and left the ringside so abruptly that it took me a moment to react. Then I quickly nudged my way through a small crowd of spectators and hurried to catch up. By the time I did, Miss Ellie's determined stride had carried her almost to the end of the building.

She turned as I came up behind her. The sickly sweet smile was still firmly in place.

“Oh, it's you,” she said. The smile dropped away.

I didn't know whether I should feel insulted or complimented by that.

“Is everything all right?” I asked.

“Of course. Why wouldn't it be?”

“I heard what that woman said. And then you left in such a hurry—”

“It was nothing,” Miss Ellie snapped. “Those terrier people are a tiresome bunch. I just decided I needed some fresh air.”

Fresh air, my fanny,
I thought. Miss Ellie had wanted to escape.

“If there's something I can do—” I began.

Miss Ellie stopped walking. She laid a hand on my arm. Her fingers patted me softly. “Why, bless your heart. Don't you worry about me. Everything is just fine.”

That was the second time Miss Ellie had blessed my heart. The first time I'd misunderstood the expression's intent. This time I got it. Miss Ellie wasn't conferring a benediction upon me. Instead she was using the platitude to stonewall me—Southern-style.

“Oh how lovely,” she said, looking over my shoulder at the nearest ring.

We'd paused beside the Briard judging. The dogs were big, and hairy, and totally adorable in a “Cousin It” kind of way. That was the entire extent of my knowledge about the breed. Miss Ellie's too, I suspected. But now she turned away from me and gazed avidly into the ring as if she was utterly fascinated by what she saw there.