Stud Rites by Susan Conant

not going to look twice at that dog of his. Duke told me so himself.”
    ”But I thought—” Leah began.
    Like Kimi anticipating the command to jump, Betty leaped to explain that Duke had not only been around long enough to remember James Hunnewell’s likes and dislikes, but was a genius at assessing judges’ preferences.
    As coolly as I could, I asked what Hunnewell liked. Duke Sylvia’s dog was a big gray male, Mal-O-Mine Ironman, that he co-owned with a breeder named Lillian Ingersoll, who was missing the national because she’d broken her shoulder so badly that she’d had to have surgery and was still wearing a clumsy, awkward cast, which, I might comment, couldn’t possibly have been any more clumsy and awkward than Lillian herself. Hence her injuries. And her reliance on Duke Sylvia. But back to Ironman, who, to judge from the photos I’d seen, needed Duke as much as Lillian did. Or let’s say that Ironman was totally different from Rowdy and that he was just not my type. And if Ironman wasn’t Hunnewell’s type? Maybe Rowdy was.
     

 
     
    ”SO WHAT is Hunnewell’s type?” I asked. Looking like a skeptical Buddha, Betty said, ”Well, ask Sherri Ann, and she’ll tell you it’s her Bear. The truth is, the dogs that were Hunnewell’s type all died a long time ago. Comet was probably the last dog that Hunnewell thought was decent, and Comet died... I don’t know. Fifteen years ago.” Perking up, she merrily remarked, ”Of course, that’s what’s got Freida worried sick.”
    Having picked out and eaten all the lobster, I was working on the shrimp, which were tough enough to justify the full name of the dish: Old Tyme Seafood Casserole. I swallowed. ”What is?”
    Shoving ahead of Betty in the conversational queue, Leah said, ”That Hunnewell’s going to withhold all the ribbons!” Unnecessarily, she added, ”For want of merit! Wouldn’t that be exciting!”
    Atlantic City: When the beauty queens have finished strutting and parading, the great moment arrives. The judges’ decision? That each contestant is more hideous and less talented than the last. No Miss America this year! Not even a runner-up.
    I glared at Leah. ”That would be humiliating to everyone here! It would be a nightmare for Freida and everyone else who’s worked so hard on this show.” Leah was, as usual, unchastened. ”Seriously, can a judge do that?”
    Betty said grimly, ”AKC wouldn’t like it, but when it comes to the merits of dogs, the judge’s decisions are final. Period.”
    Her hopes restored, Leah was bright-eyed. ”Does that ever really happen? That the judge withholds everything ?”
    Neither Betty nor I could remember a single instance. If Leah had had a tail, she’d have wagged it. She could hardly wait to witness history.
    ”Leah,” I said severely, ” your attitude—”
    ”Is human,” Betty finished. ”Lay off her.”
    ”Fine,” I agreed. ”Let her find out for herself. But, Leah, I’m warning you: You walk into that ring with Kimi on Saturday morning, and you’re not going to think it’s so hilarious if—”
    ”I,” Betty interjected, ”hope that she does! Because nothing would please me more than to see someone having fun! Leah, thank you. And whatever happens on Saturday, you just remember that all it is, is one person’s opinion on one day, and not a darned thing more.”
    Timmy Oliver had snuck up on us while Betty was preaching. ”Well spoken, Betty!” he now applauded. Uninvited, he pulled out the fourth chair at our table and, evidently mistaking it for a horse, perhaps of the rocking variety, turned it around and straddled it-When he reached across the table to grab the basket of rolls, I half expected him to feed his pretend pony. Instead, after grubbing around with his dirty hands, he selected a cinnamon bun and, using a knife lifted from Betty’s plate, slathered it with butter, bit, and chewed. With his mouth open, too. I might mention that the restaurant was