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champion, Tar would be entered for Best of Variety; and since the classes were divided by sex, Eve and Zeke would not compete against each other except in the unlikely eventuality that each of them managed to beat the competition for Winners Dog and Winners Bitch. Optimally, we all had a shot at winning. Practically speaking, however, things never seem to work out that way.
    With the excitement of Willow’s arrival fresh in his mind and the promise of another ride on Sunday, Davey had opted not to come with me to the dog show. Instead, he’d spent Saturday night with Bob, another of our new arrangements that I’m trying—with varying degrees of success—to act like an adult about. Davey had taken Faith with him to his father’s house. I was planning to meet up with the three of them there later that evening.
    The car seemed curiously empty as Eve and I followed the thruway up the Connecticut coast. My son is one of those rare children who doesn’t mind long car trips, perhaps because he was indoctrinated at an early age. He watches the scenery, plays automobile bingo, and almost always feels compelled to entertain us with warbled renditions of whatever song is his current favorite. He has even been known to induce Faith to howl along.
    This car trip was quiet by comparison. I was actually able to hear the radio, and the only other sound was Eve’s gentle snoring in the back seat. I’d thought I’d revel in the peace and quiet. Instead the damn trip seemed to take forever. Go figure.
    I wasn’t running late, but, true to form, Aunt Peg had gotten to the show site early. It was a good thing, too, because the facility was tiny and grooming space was at a premium. I found Aunt Peg and Sam set up together, tucked away in the dark corner of an interior hallway. They’d deliberately spread out their crates and grooming tables over a larger area than the two of them needed, thereby subjecting themselves to the scowls and disgruntled comments of latecomers who were having trouble finding room.
    â€œIt’s about time,” Aunt Peg said grumpily as I dragged my dolly over and began to unload. “I’ve turned away half a dozen people in the last fifteen minutes alone. I thought we were going to have a riot on our hands.”
    Trust me, there’s nothing my Aunt Peg would have enjoyed more. She may be in her sixties, but Peg maintains a schedule and a social life that would run a twenty-year-old ragged. Very little escapes her steely gaze, and she’s never been one to leave well enough alone.
    All right, I’ll be blunt. Aunt Peg is a trouble-maker. She’s also one of the smartest, most determined women I’ve ever met. I’d never admit it to her, but I only hope I’m doing half so well when I reach her age.
    â€œDon’t tell me you’ve been stirring up the Bichon people again.”
    â€œWorse.” Sam came around from behind his grooming table to lend a hand with the unloading. “This time it was a whole contingent of Dachshund exhibitors. They hadn’t even asked if there was any room before she sent them packing.”
    â€œWho needed to hear the question? They were eyeing our little corner like it was prime chicken liver. Wet washcloth dogs.” Aunt Peg sniffed, obviously referring to the smooth-coated variety. “What do they have to groom anyway? They could blow on those dogs and walk them in the ring.”
    Well, not exactly, but I could see her point. Poodles have to be groomed right before they’re shown. Many facets of preparation—brushing, putting in a topknot, scissoring, spraying—can’t be done ahead; and indeed, the primping continues even while the dogs are in the ring. It can be frustrating to arrive at a show and find that all the available grooming space is taken up by exhibitors with short haired breeds who’ve put out a bunch of chairs and sat down to socialize.
    â€œShe’s