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she competes in field trials, too.”
    â€œIs that all?” I said, still laughing. “Faith can probably keep up. Let’s see . . . She’s a champion, she has her CD in obedience, and I’m pretty sure she’ll jump through a hoop if you hold a biscuit on the other side.”
    â€œThere you are, then,” said Bertie. “She’s a natural.”
    â€œMarion Beckwith entered Harry,” said Terry.
    My scissoring slowed. “Her husband ?”
    â€œNo, Harry the Bernese Mountain Dog.”
    â€œNow that you mention it, her husband looks like a Bernese Mountain Dog,” Bertie commented.
    â€œIsn’t his name Harry?” I was still confused.
    â€œNo, he’s Harvey,” Terry told me.
    â€œAre you sure?”
    â€œOf course I’m sure. Harvey’s the one who signs the checks that pay our bills.”
    â€œAnd they have a dog named Harry?”
    â€œAnd a daughter named Hettie.” Terry sighed. “Don’t even ask.”
    I didn’t and we all went back to work. Poodles were due in the ring in twenty minutes.
    Hardly any time had passed before Terry looked up again. “Speaking of which—”
    â€œWhich what?” Bertie had finished putting in the topknot. Now she was looking around in her tack box for hair spray. “Harry or Harvey?”
    â€œNeither.”
    â€œThen we weren’t speaking of them.”
    â€œDon’t be so literal,” Terry rolled his eyes. He relished the role of drama queen and lived up to the title with gusto. “Is it any wonder I like men better than women? A man would at least let you get an entire thought out before interrupting.”
    â€œThat’s probably because he wouldn’t be listening in the first place,” I said.
    Bertie nodded in agreement. Terry ignored us both.
    â€œSpeaking of husbands,” he said in a chiding tone and directing the question to me, “where’s yours? He didn’t want Tar to add another group or Best in Show to his record?”
    My scissors were moving fast again, snicking tiny bits of hair off the rounded bracelets on the Standard Poodle’s legs. I didn’t pause or turn to look at Terry as I replied, but he knew the drill. He hadn’t expected me to. “Sam’s not here because he didn’t think today’s judge would be likely to appreciate Tar’s better qualities.”
    â€œI can’t imagine why not. Cruella Melville is a very discerning judge.”
    â€œ Drucilla Melville,” Bertie corrected him without missing a beat. “And she is very discerning. She just happens to judge the wrong end of the lead.”
    Politics. It was a common problem at dog shows, exacerbated by a system that rewarded judges for applying for additional breeds whether they felt qualified to preside over them or not. Judges who had faith in their own abilities rewarded the best dogs. Those who didn’t often relied on an exhibitor’s reputation to guide them to a correct decision. Professional handlers flocked to judges like that; owner-handlers knew better and stayed home.
    â€œOf course, darling,” said Terry. He and Crawford were among Mrs. Melville’s favorite exhibitors. “That’s why we’re here.”
    â€œMe, too,” Bertie admitted. “I know it’s not fair but my dogs will get their share, my owners will be happy, and it pays the bills.”
    The reality of dog show life.
    â€œSam and Davey are spending the day building a tree house,” I told Terry.
    Bertie glanced over. “I thought they were working on that two days ago.”
    â€œThey were. It’s turning out to be a big project. At this rate, I wouldn’t be surprised if it keeps them busy all summer.”
    â€œWho’s busy this summer?” asked Aunt Peg.
    I jumped slightly as she came up behind me. Luckily I’d been talking rather than scissoring at the time. You wouldn’t