Jingle Bell Bark by Laurien Berenson Page A

East Coast. Upon Max’s death four years earlier, however, Aunt Peg had begun to scale back.
    Her dedication to the Poodle breed remained undiminished but these days she was breeding only rarely, and doing more judging than showing. The small kennel building behind her house, once home to generations of Cedar Crest champions, was no longer in use. Peg’s Poodles had shrunk to such a manageable number that she was able to enjoy their company as house dogs.
    â€œOf course it’s empty. You know that perfectly well. But that doesn’t mean I’m looking to take in boarders.”
    â€œHow about a pair of orphans?”
    Aunt Peg tried to look stern and failed utterly. She’s always been a sucker for a dog with a sad story. Moving past me, she was already heading down the steps toward the driveway.
    â€œI suppose we’d better have a look,” she said.

6
    A unt Peg is a pragmatist where other people’s dogs are concerned. She understands that not everyone trains their dogs to the level of behavior she takes for granted in her own Poodles. When she opened the car door, she immediately reached in and took hold of one Golden’s collar, while using her body to block the exit until I could grab the other. Nobody was going to escape and run away on Aunt Peg’s watch.
    A gate on the other side of the driveway led to a fenced three-acre field with the kennel building at the far end. We led the Golden Retrievers through the gate and turned them loose. At once, Pepper and Remington dashed away, racing joyously in huge, looping circles.
    â€œThey’ve been cooped up inside a house all by themselves for the last two days,” I said. “Their owner died Monday night and nobody made any provision for their care.”
    Aunt Peg had come outside without a coat on. Now, watching the two dogs play, she was smiling and shivering at the same time. “I want to hear everything,” she said. “But first I need to get the heat and water turned on in the kennel. It will take a few minutes to warm up.”
    While Aunt Peg strode across the field and attended to that, I went back to the car and got the dog food and bowls I’d brought with me from Henry’s house. By the time I reached the kennel, the furnace was already humming and warm air was beginning to stream out through the vents. Peg was pulling blankets out of a cupboard and building a plush bed in one of the big runs. I left the supplies in the outer room, where my aunt had once done all her grooming, and then went to check on the two dogs.
    Pepper and Remington had finally stopped running. Now they were standing side by side in the middle of the big field, uncertain what to do next. When I called them by name, both heads snapped up. Moving together, they started toward the kennel.
    Aunt Peg joined me in the doorway. “Good boys,” she said encouragingly. “That’s the way. Come on.” Her voice held just the right inflection, with a tone that dogs seemed to trust instinctively. The Golden Retrievers covered the remaining distance and came trotting happily into the building. I closed the door behind them.
    â€œFirst things first,” said Peg. She’d already set out a big bowl of fresh water; now she was considering the kibble I’d delivered. “How bad was it where they were? Did they at least have access to food and water?”
    â€œA neighbor did that much for them.” I explained Betty Bowen’s involvement. “Mostly I think they were just really lonely.”
    â€œAnd confused too, I’ll bet.” Peg reached down and stroked Remington’s long back. The Golden leaned into the caress, rubbing his body against her legs like a cat. “Who was their owner? And how did you happen to find them?”
    While Aunt Peg started soaking some kibble, I related what I knew about Henry Pruitt. Regrettably, it wasn’t much.
    â€œSo their owner is dead,” she