Melanie Travis 06 - Hush Puppy Read Free Page B

of cookies for Davey. While they were both munching, I set up Faith’s grooming table and hair dryer in preparation for her bath. Showing a Standard Poodle is no small undertaking, and Faith was now nearly two years old and in full bloom. Her correctly textured coat was long and dense; the bath and blow-dry that followed would take several hours to complete.
    Faith’s continental trim is one of two approved show clips for adult Poodles, and the one in which the majority are shown. The previous evening I’d clipped her face, feet, and most of her hindquarter and legs. In addition to her mane coat, she had pom pons on her hips, legs, and at the end of her tail, all of which needed to be carefully scissored.
    The job is an exacting one requiring an educated eye and a steady hand. Fortunately, I’d be able to count on Aunt Peg’s help at the show the next day to pull everything together. For much of Faith’s show career, Peg and I had been competing against each other as she’d kept Faith’s sister, Hope, from the same litter. Thanks to my aunt’s experience and superior handling skills, however, her Standard Poodle had sailed through the process, completing the requirements for her championship before Christmas. Hope was now retired from the show ring, and Peg had promised me her expert assistance.
    With that in mind, I allowed myself to hurry through Faith’s blow-dry. After her bath, I blotted the excess water from her hair with several big, fluffy towels, then didn’t redampen the areas of her coat that had air-dried before I was able to work my way around to them—a cardinal sin among people who show Poodles professionally.
    Then again, I reminded myself, the pros were paid to do this job. I was a mother first, a teacher second, and a Poodle exhibitor third. And sometimes, something had to give. I brushed quickly through Faith’s now crinkly bracelets, and declared the job done.
    The Poodle seemed pleased by my speedy performance. I know I was. I packed up my grooming equipment, leaving it ready to go to the show in the morning, then went upstairs and fixed dinner for my son.
     
    Saturday’s show was in New York, just on the other side of the Hudson River. Over the years, it has become harder and harder to find locations suitable for holding dog shows; and any venue which proves to be both practical and profitable tends to see a lot of action. Rockland Community College was one such site, and I’d been there several times over the last year.
    About a third of the large room where the show was being held had been set aside for grooming. Each entry, from the smooth coated hounds to the labor intensive wire haired terriers, would have been bathed, clipped, plucked, and brushed to the point of perfection. But despite the preparations that were done at home beforehand, there was always something left to do just before entering the ring.
    The professional handlers, who travel with strings of dogs and work from dawn ’til dark on show days, had already staked out their space. Aisles were defined by their stacked crates and rows of grooming tables. Making our way through the congestion, Davey and I looked for familiar faces. Usually, Aunt Peg saves me a spot, but today she wasn’t showing a dog. Sam was, but I wasn’t sure he’d be there yet.
    “Look!” cried Davey, waving enthusiastically. “There’s Terry.”
    Terry Denunzio was assistant to prominent professional handler Crawford Langley. He’d been a part of the dog show scene for less than a year, but he and I were already buddies. I changed course and headed in his direction.
    “Air kiss,” Terry said, offering his cheek for a smooch. “I don’t want to mess your makeup.”
    “Nor yours.” I cocked a brow. Terry was gay and deliciously good looking. He knew it and he flaunted it.
    “Nasty, nasty. Are you looking for the hunk?”
    Terry calls them like he sees them, and that was his pet name for Sam. Sam hated it. I thought it was kind of