two vintage holly winter stories Read Free Page B

to be why he came to me when he wanted a puppy."
    "Well," Tiny said emphatically, "the dysplasia must've come from whoever the Levinsons bred her to, because it did not come from my lines." She paused and added pointedly, "All my dogs are OFA," by which she meant, of course, that her dogs were rated clear of hip dysplasia by the Orthopedic Foundation for Animals.
    Before Pam could ask OFA what—Excellent? Good? Fair? Dysplatic?—I cleared my throat and, trying to keep my eyes off Farrell, said, "He's a drug dealer and a murderer! Pam, would you turn so he can't see you? You know, he might recognize you, and, for all we know, he knows about the FBI flier. Don't let him see you staring at him."
    "Well, what's he done with my bitch?" Pam said. "That was a beautiful puppy. When he got in trouble, he should've brought her back." She paused, folded her arms, and eyed Tiny. "I won't sell any puppy without a return agreement."
    "Well, neither will I!" Tiny said. "And if you'd followed up, you'd know where your bitch is."
    May I interject something? I don't want to give a false impression of malamute breeders, who are not, in general, scrappy, aggressive types. They aren't even terribly competitive, at least by comparison with, say, terrier people. But they're strong-minded and independent. Also, they never back down. Sound familiar?
    "Look," I said, "I'm worried about his dogs, too, but among other things, we don't even know that he still has them."
    "Of course he does," Tiny said. "Just look at him. He's been to Cherrybrook, and he's been picking up samples."
    She was right. A guy at a dog show who's holding a big white Cherrybrook bag and two smaller ones from lams and Science Diet probably owns at least one dog.
    “We have to do something," I said. "The FBI notice said not to do anything to endanger anyone, so he's probably armed, but we have to let someone know he's here."
    You do show your dogs, don't you? Good. Well, then, I don't need to explain why I was glad that Pam and Tiny were not obedience people, who are the champion nit-picking legal hair-splitters of the dog fancy. Three obedience types in our situation would have argued about whether Farrell was standing within the jurisdiction of the Novice A judge. Since Farrell was outside the ring, was he thereby outside the judge's province? But judges are empowered to remove spectators who are causing a disturbance, aren't they? So doesn't a fugitive from the FBI constitute a potential impediment to the performance of dogs and handlers? I mean, the Best in Show judge would've been making her cuts before we'd settled the question.
    As it was, mainly because we were afraid that Farrell had noticed Pam, we immediately dispatched her to look for the AKC rep. Then Tiny volunteered to find the show chairman. I consulted my catalog and swore. The chairman, James J. Pastern, a pint-size Koehler-fanatic martinet and unpopular Working Group judge, owned three breed champion giant schnauzers that reliably NQ'd in obedience because Mr. Pastern drilled them to believe that every move they made was a hanging crime. Koehler, right? The dog training expert who always puts the word kindly in quotation marks in case anyone suspects him of meaning it seriously. No one ever does, of course.
    “Mr. Pastern," I informed Tiny. “You know him, right?"
    "Him! Have you ever seen what he puts up? How he managed to get himself qualified—"
    "I know! But just find him, would you? And don't let him do anything, OK? Because if this guy Farrell has a gun and Pastern starts—"
    "Mass slaughter," Tiny said. "Hey, relax. If I can handle—"
    "Just do it!"
    My task was to keep Farrell in sight. Almost as soon as Tiny trotted off, Farrell took long strides away from the obedience rings and headed across the wide, hot field to the breed rings, where he momentarily vanished in the illegal white cloud surrounding a conscience-stricken Old English sheepdog determined to shake off what his handler should have