Watchdog by Laurien Berenson Page A

Then I went in and got rattled, and everything I thought I’d learned flew right out of my head.
    Peg accepted her blue ribbon and led Hope from the ring. The four bitches entered in the Open Class filed in to be judged.
    â€œHere,” said Sam, taking my hand and making a sweeping motion upward over Faith’s chest as she stood quietly beside us. “What are you doing when you do this?”
    â€œLifting the hair.” That was easy. Even while they were in the ring, Poodles were constantly being groomed. It was a struggle to keep the hair perfect for any length of time and the handlers fussed over their dogs endlessly.
    â€œThat’s true, but you’re also reminding the judge of what he felt under his hands when he examined her. He was pleased with her front, but now fifteen minutes have passed and he’s judged a half-dozen bitches since. Maybe he doesn’t remember. It’s your job to remind him by drawing his eye back there. When you go in the ring for Winners Bitch and he looks at Faith, I want you to make that same motion.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œNo buts,” Sam said firmly. “Just give it a try.”
    â€œThat’s not the strongest Open Class I’ve ever seen,” Peg mentioned as the judge awarded a weedy looking silver bitch first place. “We may have a shot at this.”
    â€œI may,” I said blithely as the steward called our numbers. “I’m told your bitch has a narrow front.”
    Aunt Peg frowned at Sam. “You might have taught her something useful, you know.”
    â€œI’m trying.” Sam laughed.
    In the Winners Class, we were lined up in the order in which our classes had been judged. The silver was in front, followed by Hope, then Faith. The Puppy Class winner was behind me, scampering around at the end of its lead.
    The judge stood across from us on the other side of the ring to evaluate his choices. I had Faith posed with her weight evenly balanced, her front legs straight underneath her, her hind legs extended slightly behind. My right hand was cupped beneath her muzzle, supporting her head. My left held up her tail.
    The judge’s gaze drifted down the line. Where on earth was I supposed to get an extra hand to highlight Faith’s front? I glared at Sam. He glared right back and made an impatient motion. Easy for him. His hands were free.
    At the last second I dropped Faith’s muzzle and casually swept my fingers up over her chest hair. The judge’s gaze paused for a moment, then continued on to the puppy.
    One by one, each of the class winners was moved down and back along the diagonal mat that cut across the center of the ring. As the judge has seen all the entries before, judging in the Winners Class is often somewhat perfunctory. But this judge was taking his time about making up his mind.
    When we’d all been moved, the judge looked down the line again and beckoned. I thought he wanted Aunt Peg. She didn’t move, at least not with Hope. Instead, she turned around and poked me. The judge was still beckoning.
    â€œGet up there,” she said under her breath. “He wants you.”
    I led Faith forward. The judge placed her at the head of the line, then said, “Take them all around, please.”
    Blood was pounding in my ears, making me suddenly feel light-headed. I hoped I didn’t trip over my feet. I heard a sudden burst of applause—Sam and Davey no doubt. As Faith and I ran by, my son shouted gleefully, “Go, Mom!”
    The judge lifted his finger and pointed in my direction. “Winners Bitch.”
    I stopped running and stood utterly still. Faith played at the end of her leash, cavorting in time to Davey’s delighted cheer.
    â€œCongratulations!” said Aunt Peg, coming up behind me. She gestured toward the marker near the gate where I was meant to stand. “Go get your ribbon.”
    â€œI won a point,” I said stupidly. After a year