Once Bitten (A Melanie Travis Mystery) Read Online Free PDF Page A

had received provisional approval, Peg had no intention of stating such rude, if truthful, opinions for an audience.
    Her first judging assignment was scheduled to take place in two weeks. I knew Aunt Peg was well aware that there would be critics standing ringside as she performed her duties, too.
    Before I could reply, the steward called the Open Bitches into the ring. With a major entry, the class was large. Ten Standard Poodle bitches—seven black, two white, and one apricot—formed a line that filled two sides of the matted arena.
    Hunnicutt had requested “catalogue order,” which eliminated the need to jockey for the prime position at the head of the line. Instead, the handlers found their places according to the numbers on their armbands. Faith and I were right in the middle.
    The judge began his examination of the class by standing in the center of the ring and letting his gaze slide down the line, pausing briefly on each dog in turn. Having stacked Faith with her front legs square underneath her and her hind legs slightly extended, I used one hand to support her chin and the other to hold up her tail.
    Surreptitiously I glanced up and down the line as well, checking out the competition. To my admittedly biased eye, Faith was the best bitch there. Not only that, but she’d already beaten most of the other entrants at earlier shows. I felt my stomach drop, however, as my casual assessment revealed something else.
    I was the only owner-handler in the ring.
    That didn’t bode well.
    Though Poodles are predominantly a professionally handled breed, there does exist a small core of talented amateurs who compete regularly against the pros and win. The fact that none of them had chosen to show under Derek Hunnicutt indicated that Peg was probably right: I didn’t stand a chance.
    Hunnicutt lifted his hands and sent the line once around. Keeping Faith positioned squarely on the mats meant that I ran beside her on the more slippery floor. Not only was the footing bad, but the ring was too small to hold ten trotting Standard Poodles. We started, clumped, bumped, stopped, then started again before finally completing a listless circuit of the ring. I was beginning to feel annoyed that I was even there.
    “Psst!”
    Aunt Peg was leaning over the thigh-high barrier, gesturing in my direction. “What’s the matter with you?” she demanded in a stern undertone as I approached. “Quit moping around in there or you’re going to defeat yourself.”
    “It doesn’t look as though I have much of a chance anyway.”
    “You’re here, aren’t you? And thanks to me, you’re holding the prettiest bitch in the ring. Of course you’re not going to win—I already told you that, didn’t I? But the least you can do is put some effort into it and make me proud.”
    A pep talk, Aunt Peg style. But it had the desired effect. Maybe we were going down, I decided, but it wouldn’t hurt to do so in style.
    Like most Poodles, Faith is a natural clown. She loves performing for an audience. Some dogs grudgingly allow themselves to be shown; Faith adores it.
    Which was a good thing because, by the time the class was over, about the only thing we had to show for our efforts was the fact that Faith had enjoyed herself enormously. Ribbonless, she trotted out of the ring just as happy as she’d gone in. It was her owner who was looking distinctly grumpy about the whole experience.
    “If you say I told you so, I’m not going to be happy,” I grumbled as we headed back to the setup.
    “I wouldn’t dream of it. Now that you’ve got that out of the way, you can look forward to tomorrow’s show. And since Faith is already bathed, clipped, and scissored, it’ll be a breeze.”
    First she was calling Bertie “dear.” Now she was ignoring the fact that I hadn’t even placed in my class and telling me to look on the bright side. Briefly I wondered if aliens had stolen my aunt and replaced her with a cheery six-foot impostor.
    “What’s