Once Bitten (A Melanie Travis Mystery) by Laurien Berenson Page A

Then I sprayed while Aunt Peg scissored. Again. It’s a never-ending process. Meanwhile, Faith had the best job. All she had to do was stand there and pose.
    Finally the Poodle was ready. I stepped back and had a look. Gorgeous, I decided. My child was going to be the prettiest debutante at the ball.
    With great care, Faith was lifted down from the table, allowed to shake once—lightly—then taken to ringside. The entry had grown since the day before. All the owner-handlers who’d known enough to avoid Derek Hunnicutt were now out in force.
    While Aunt Peg primped and worried, defending her charge zealously against anyone who might dare to step into their space and jostle the precious hair, I went and picked up my number. Bob and Davey had found seats on the far side of the ring. Davey waved; Bob flashed me a thumbs-up followed by a self-conscious shrug. He didn’t have any idea what was going on, he seemed to be saying, but whatever it was, he was behind me all the way.
    My ex-husband might have been confused, but my Standard Poodle was not. She’d been in the show ring, off and on, for nearly two years now, and she knew exactly what was expected of her. Be pretty, have fun, catch the judge’s eye. And hold it.
    And Faith was well up to the task.
    Judging dogs is a highly subjective process, and there are many reasons why a particular dog might win on a certain day. Some of them simply have to do with being in the right place at the right time. It’s often hard to tell whether or not the best dog has won since nine out of ten knowledgeable ringsiders generally won’t agree on which dog in the ring is the “best.”
    However one thing judges and exhibitors do agree on is that some dogs have a certain indefinable quality that sets them apart. A sparkle, a verve, a “joie de show ring” that makes them stand out from the others like single stars shining more brightly than the rest of the constellation.
    “He was asking for it,” you’ll hear judges say afterward. “I couldn’t deny him the win.” Truly great show dogs do exactly that. They watch the judge, they play to the audience, they refuse not to be noticed.
    That day, under Sondra Fleischman, it was Faith’s turn. She not only asked for the win, she demanded it as her due.
    From the moment we walked into the crowded ring, Faith owned that class. She knew it was hers, and it only took Mrs. Fleischman a minute or two to figure out the same thing. As for me, I wish I could take credit for the Poodle’s superb performance, but I was just along for the ride.
    And what a ride it was.
    The first time Faith and I won a class against competition, I just about fell over. This time, I was ready to be called to the head of the long line. I accepted our blue ribbon with thanks, then hurried Faith back into position for the Winners Bitch class. This was where the points would be awarded. Until she had defeated the winners of the earlier Puppy and Bred-by-Exhibitor classes, all we’d really won was a scrap of blue ribbon.
    Mrs. Fleischman gave the three of us a moment to get organized. Usually, at that point, the judge will take another good, long look. She’ll move the class winners as a group, then separately. She’ll consider her decision with care.
    Not that day. That day the choice was so clear that the judge had already made up her mind. She simply walked to the head of the line and pointed. At Faith.
    A tiny gesture worth four glorious points. And I was holding a new champion.
    Elation poured through me, setting off tiny sparks of sensation that felt like a burst of adrenaline run amok. For a moment, I actually went weak in the knees.
    Dimly I heard a shriek from ringside. Aunt Peg, I thought, though behavior of that sort is usually beneath her. Davey was laughing and clapping his hands. Bob fitted his fingers to his lips for a whistle that all but stopped the show in its tracks. My family was proud of us, bless their faithful, long-suffering hearts.
    Then I