Dog Eat Dog by Laurien Berenson

Saturday in the park, who could argue with a sentiment like that?

Seven
    We stopped for ice cream on the way home, then dropped Joey off at his house. Alice opened the door, looking frazzled and distracted. Her daughter was in her arms. Carly’s delicate skin was pock marked with dozens of small red blisters.
    â€œLet me know if you need anything,” I said.
    â€œYou know I will.”
    As soon as we got home, I headed Davey straight upstairs to the bathtub. His clothing was stiff with dried mud, and the parts of him I could see weren’t any cleaner. Faith followed me out to the kitchen, trotting directly to the cabinet where I keep the biscuits.
    Whenever Davey and I come back from school or shopping, Faith gets a reward for staying home alone. This time, however, she’d come along and shared in our fun. The interesting thing about Poodles is that you never really know just how smart they are. Had she forgotten that treats were for when she’d been left behind, or was she hoping to con me into forgetting?
    â€œAll right.” I opened the cabinet door and the pom pon on the end of her tail whipped back and forth. “Just one.”
    As I’d been shown in handling class, I held the biscuit up for a minute and made Faith pose before getting her reward. The exercise is called baiting, and it’s tremendously useful in the dog show ring. A dog that will stand on its own looking pretty, is vastly more appealing than one that must be constantly manipulated into the right position by its handler.
    Finally I tossed the biscuit and Faith plucked it happily out of the air. As she carried it over to her crate in the corner, the phone began to ring. Davey’s at the stage where he likes to talk to everybody. I hurried around the counter and snatched up the phone before he could decide this was a good excuse to emerge, dripping wet, from the tub.
    â€œWhat are you up to?” asked Aunt Peg. Opening pleasantries just get in her way; she often bulldozes right past them.
    I pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and sat down. “Trying to figure out the best way to get mud out of a show coat.”
    â€œThe best way is not to get mud in the coat in the first place.”
    â€œToo late.”
    She sighed, and made sure it was loud enough so I could hear. “Legs or topknot?”
    â€œLegs and stomach.”
    â€œCould be worse.” Peg stopped to consider. Inside the crate, Faith finished her biscuit and stood up to paw her bedding into a lumpy mass. “When’s her next bath?”
    â€œUhh ...” Poodles that were growing hair for the show ring were supposed to be bathed weekly. The problem was that with a coat like Faith’s, the bathing and the blowing dry that followed took at least three hours—a chunk of time that I was often hard pressed to find.
    â€œDefinitely in the future.” Trying hard to factor in honesty, it was the safest answer I could come up with.
    â€œI should hope so. Is the mud wet or dry?”
    â€œMostly dry by now.”
    â€œJust toss her up on the table, and brush it out. That’s probably the easiest way.”
    By table, Peg meant a grooming table. They’re collapsible, stand waist high and are covered with rubber matting. Every Poodle, whether it’s going to be shown or not, learns at an early age how to sit on one and be groomed. At the moment, my table was folded up in the basement, along with a box filled with brushes, combs, scissors, and all the other grooming paraphernalia I was gradually acquiring.
    â€œThat doesn’t sound too hard.”
    â€œIt’s not,” Peg agreed briskly. “Now listen. What are you doing Thursday?”
    Experience with Aunt Peg had taught me to be wary. I wracked my brain for a ready excuse. “Teaching school?”
    â€œNot then, later. At night.”
    â€œWell ...”
    â€œGood. Belle Haven’s holding its committee heads meeting that night at