learn to read body language. Before I’d even asked Lois or Betty to keep an eye on Rowdy for a few minutes, Lois glanced at me, assessed my posture, and said, “Holly, do you have to go to the bathroom?”
“Yes,” I said instantly. “Could you take Rowdy?” I handed her his leash. “I didn’t bring a crate. I’ll be right back.”
“Take your time,” Lois said. “It’ll take me a while to pack up. I’ll be here another ten or fifteen minutes.”
Like a lot of other indoor show sites, the Northeast Trade Center had a No Dogs Allowed sign outside the rest rooms, but at the Shawsheen Valley show, there was also a guard whose task seemed to be the enforcement of that stupid rule. I might’ve been able to sneak a Yorkie or a chihuahua into the ladies’ room. But a mala-; mute? Also, since Rowdy isn’t neutered, he was obviously no lady. Anyway, I hurried off and discovered the usual, namely, that there was no one outside the men’s room, but six or eight women ahead of me in line for the ladies’. This phenomenon does not, as commonly supposed, constitute proof that the world is designed by and for men. In fact, all public rest rooms are planned by radical feminist architects whose hidden purpose is to convince women that if we ever expect to compete with men, we’d better learn to hurry up. Unfortunately, the women ahead of me had failed to get the message, and it was at least ten minutes before I headed back to retrieve Rowdy.
Lois was easy to find. The grooming table that had stood by her crates was now folded up and resting against the wall, and she was tucking a slicker brush into her tack box. Her dogs were resting quietly in their crates. Rowdy was nowhere in sight.
I looked around and asked, “Where’s Rowdy?”
“Your cousin came and got him,” Lois said, without looking up. “Didn’t she find you?”
My cousin?
“Janice?” I asked. My cousin Janice shows wire-haired fox terriers, but she’s an incredible moocher. If she’d been going to Shawsheen Valley, she’d have invited herself and five or ten dogs to stay with me. On arrival, she’d have announced that the dogs were overdue for their shots. I was still seeing that vet, wasn’t I? He wouldn’t mind writing her a prescription for Panacur, too, would he? All this gratis, of course. If Janice had taken Rowdy and gone off in search of me, I thought, it could only be because one of the fox terriers required major surgery that Janice wanted Steve to do for free. Then my heart leaped. “Leah?” I asked eagerly. “Long curly red hair? Where’d...?”
But Lois was shaking her head. “Uh-uh. Dark hair. Long.” She paused, obviously fishing for a euphemism. “Damp looking.”
Oily? Janice has light hair, and one good thing to be said about her is that she is clean. My heart began to pound, and I broke out in a sweat. Yes, a sweat. Sure, horses sweat, men perspire, and ladies glisten, but a lady who’s lost her dog is an animal.
“Where did they go?” I yelled at Lois and added, as though I’d been unclear the first time, “Which way did they go?” If Lois had been a dog, I’d have grabbed the scruff of her fat neck with both my hands and administered a hard shakedown. As it was, I glared at her and spat out: “Lois, God damn it, you have just given Rowdy to some stranger! Where are they?” Don’t ask me how I expected her to know. Then the obvious finally hit me: Lois had no idea. “For Christ’s sake,” I pleaded, “help me! Help me look for him!”
My ears pounded with the words of advice I’d offered my readers again and again: Never leave your dog unattended at a show. Never. But I hadn’t left Rowdy unattended. I’d left him with Lois Metzler, a malamute breeder, a responsible person, someone who knew as well as I did that vicious, greedy people will steal show dogs. Dognappers will hold them for ransom. Puppy mill operators will match them with AKC papers and breed them. Wolf hybridizers won’t care
“Yes,” I said instantly. “Could you take Rowdy?” I handed her his leash. “I didn’t bring a crate. I’ll be right back.”
“Take your time,” Lois said. “It’ll take me a while to pack up. I’ll be here another ten or fifteen minutes.”
Like a lot of other indoor show sites, the Northeast Trade Center had a No Dogs Allowed sign outside the rest rooms, but at the Shawsheen Valley show, there was also a guard whose task seemed to be the enforcement of that stupid rule. I might’ve been able to sneak a Yorkie or a chihuahua into the ladies’ room. But a mala-; mute? Also, since Rowdy isn’t neutered, he was obviously no lady. Anyway, I hurried off and discovered the usual, namely, that there was no one outside the men’s room, but six or eight women ahead of me in line for the ladies’. This phenomenon does not, as commonly supposed, constitute proof that the world is designed by and for men. In fact, all public rest rooms are planned by radical feminist architects whose hidden purpose is to convince women that if we ever expect to compete with men, we’d better learn to hurry up. Unfortunately, the women ahead of me had failed to get the message, and it was at least ten minutes before I headed back to retrieve Rowdy.
Lois was easy to find. The grooming table that had stood by her crates was now folded up and resting against the wall, and she was tucking a slicker brush into her tack box. Her dogs were resting quietly in their crates. Rowdy was nowhere in sight.
I looked around and asked, “Where’s Rowdy?”
“Your cousin came and got him,” Lois said, without looking up. “Didn’t she find you?”
My cousin?
“Janice?” I asked. My cousin Janice shows wire-haired fox terriers, but she’s an incredible moocher. If she’d been going to Shawsheen Valley, she’d have invited herself and five or ten dogs to stay with me. On arrival, she’d have announced that the dogs were overdue for their shots. I was still seeing that vet, wasn’t I? He wouldn’t mind writing her a prescription for Panacur, too, would he? All this gratis, of course. If Janice had taken Rowdy and gone off in search of me, I thought, it could only be because one of the fox terriers required major surgery that Janice wanted Steve to do for free. Then my heart leaped. “Leah?” I asked eagerly. “Long curly red hair? Where’d...?”
But Lois was shaking her head. “Uh-uh. Dark hair. Long.” She paused, obviously fishing for a euphemism. “Damp looking.”
Oily? Janice has light hair, and one good thing to be said about her is that she is clean. My heart began to pound, and I broke out in a sweat. Yes, a sweat. Sure, horses sweat, men perspire, and ladies glisten, but a lady who’s lost her dog is an animal.
“Where did they go?” I yelled at Lois and added, as though I’d been unclear the first time, “Which way did they go?” If Lois had been a dog, I’d have grabbed the scruff of her fat neck with both my hands and administered a hard shakedown. As it was, I glared at her and spat out: “Lois, God damn it, you have just given Rowdy to some stranger! Where are they?” Don’t ask me how I expected her to know. Then the obvious finally hit me: Lois had no idea. “For Christ’s sake,” I pleaded, “help me! Help me look for him!”
My ears pounded with the words of advice I’d offered my readers again and again: Never leave your dog unattended at a show. Never. But I hadn’t left Rowdy unattended. I’d left him with Lois Metzler, a malamute breeder, a responsible person, someone who knew as well as I did that vicious, greedy people will steal show dogs. Dognappers will hold them for ransom. Puppy mill operators will match them with AKC papers and breed them. Wolf hybridizers won’t care
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