Terrier Terror, page 5
“Yes, it was great seeing you again, my dear.” He placed his hand on my upper arm. “Let’s have a chat over coffee tomorrow. My treat.”
I wasn’t eager to spend more time with Terrington than necessary. “I’ll have to see how my schedule works out in the morning. I’m awfully busy with preparations for the show. Thanks for the offer, though.”
Marsala waited a beat as she watched Terrington leave. “Allie, believe me when I tell you, Terrington is a skirt chaser like nobody’s business. The last thing you’ll want to do is encourage him by taking him up on his offer of a coffee date.”
“Yeah, I picked up on that. Besides, Baxter and I made it clear to him that we are a committed couple.”
“Which is precisely why Terror Terrington is coming on to you. I’m sure you know he broke up my marriage.”
I sighed. No wonder Baxter was feeling less than chipper about this job. Dogs can be trained out of their bad habits! “Is that what you wanted to discuss with me? To stay away from Terrington?”
“No. I wanted to ask you to alert Baxter to the problems with the judge he hired to take Julie Cameron’s place. Mark Singer is about as corrupt a judge as I’ve ever seen. It was a shock to me that Baxter actually managed to find someone even less qualified to judge the Terriers.”
“Don’t you think it would be better for you to discuss this with Baxter yourself?”
She shook her head. “I’m trying my best to stay away from all men at this damned show. I was going to skip it this year, but, frankly when Jesse and Valerie were out of the picture originally, I thought this would finally be my big chance.”
She was making a case for herself having shoved the two dog crates together. “So you’re seriously not going to talk to Baxter or the male judge, even though you think the judge takes bribes?”
“Right. I’m going to avoid both of them. Whereas you, Allie, have a reputation of righting wrongs in the Front Range dog-lover community. I think the whole nonsense about Valerie’s and Jesse’s dogs mating last year was a deliberate distraction. Someone wanted to pull everyone’s attention away from the bribes that were being raked in by the crooked judges. Of which Mark Singer was leader of the pack.”
“You think all of the bad feeling in the Terrier Class last year was a coverup?”
“Bingo! I don’t know how deep it goes...if it’s all of the event management or just a couple of rotten-apple judges and dog breeders. But it’s a real thing, Allida. A real criminal thing. And now that I know how contemptible Terrington Leach is, I’d watch my back around him if I were you.”
“Are you suggesting he’s in on bribing judges to select the dogs he shows?”
“Oh, I think it’s much worse than that. I think he gets information to use against everyone. I think he’s raking in money hand over fist. He flirts with abandon and thinks nothing of trampling over girlfriends and male buddies, and ruining people’s lives and careers.”
I had no reply.
She studied my features. “Just think about putting your weight behind the effort to clean up this show. Please.” She handed me her business card. “Call me any time.” She paused. “And, by the way, Waxy is a dud.”
She pivoted and marched toward the exit. I watched her leave, trying to weigh her words. Maybe she was being completely forthright with me. Or maybe she was being vindictive to the people she felt had mistreated her and misjudged her dogs.
“Allie.” I jumped at little, even though I recognized Baxter’s voice. I turned to face him. “I’m glad I caught you. Something else has just come up.”
“What?”
“Kiki has received a petition from a couple of the Terrier breeders—not Jesse or Valerie—who want me to replace two of last year’s judges. They’re basically basing their claims on bias toward particular breeders and handlers in previous shows.”
“Which could simply be a matter of personal preferences within AKC standards,” I added.
“Exactly. As Kiki already knew, I can’t fire a judge unless credible evidence is presented to the AKC, which they haven’t done.”
“Marsala Podnowski was telling me about Mark Singer. She’s convinced he’s crooked. She tried to recruit me to tell you that in so many words.”
Baxter furrowed his brow. “Marsala is one of the founders of the petitions. I’m going to go ahead and discuss this with Davis Miller. There’s no sense in making this decision on my own. It’s likely to backfire either way.”
Several minutes later, I noticed a man with a Bull Terrier on leash standing near the ring where Cooper had arranged for them to meet. Sure enough, the was Gregory and Waxy—who was a nice, complacent, overweight dog. We went through the rituals of walking around the ring and gaiting the dog—pretending the judge had asked me to have Waxy maintain a steady trot in typical patterns—a diagonal line from the judge’s vantage point, an L-shape, and a triangle. We then had him take a fictional turn on the examination table for a close inspection by the judge. I nearly lost my balance lifting him, and I suggested he try feeding Waxy green beans or canned pumpkin with a smaller amount of kibble, so Waxy would feel full but would lose weight. Greg was so pleased with my advice, he left in great spirits and told me he no longer cared if Cooper Hayes showed up or not.
After escorting Greg and Waxy to the exit, I joined Baxter in his meeting with Davis. To neither of our surprise, Davis spent several minutes lecturing us on all the negatives of reassigning a dog-show judge that we already knew. Baxter, in fact, had voiced those very points at the start of the conversation. Nobody is allowed to judge the same category of dogs that they own personally, although judges should have good knowledge about the class they are judging. As Davis stated, “They’ve all been given their assignments and schedules for weeks. We are giving them a vote of no-confidence before they as much as set foot on the premises.”
“Yet that’s already what the Terrier owners have given us,” Baxter said, “a vote of no confidence. That’s what I was hired to fix.”
“Not by insulting two of our most experienced judges,” Davis countered. “You’ll only be making things all the worse.”
“Not necessarily,” I interjected. “We can explain to them that changing assignments is merely the best way for us to put last year’s trouble behind us. None of us want that to happen again this year, including those judges. We’re simply distancing ourselves from all the personnel involved by giving the entries a new slate.”
“That’s a good point,” Davis said to Baxter, even though I’d been the one to say it. Changing judges was merely common sense. It was baffling to me that the management hadn’t taken care of this themselves before hiring Baxter.
“Allie and I will meet with the judges individually and find a way to make this work,” Baxter said. “Thanks for the advice,” he added, rising. I stood up as well.
“You’re welcome,” Davis replied.
Baxter ushered me out of his office and shut the door behind us. “Sorry I said you’d help me without asking first. I wanted to be sure you got a little credit. You don’t actually have to go with me.”
“I think I can squeeze it in. I’m not half as busy as you are.”
“Great. Thanks. I want to talk to the female judge, and I’d like both of us to talk to the male judge. I know it’s sexist, but I just think that will work the best. The guy’s been known to show favoritism to the young, pretty handlers.”
“Oh, gag me,” I grumbled.
“That’s why I want to be your wingman, in case he’s a real jerk. They both live in Denver. We’ll pay them home visits, then meet for lunch.”
“In that case, I might as well be your wing-woman with the female judge. We should just take one car.”
“Sounds good.” He paused. “We can have a picnic at Washington Park, and I’ll stop by a grocery store and get the food.”
“Your frugality reminds me...I accepted a job, training Bingley. Tracy registered him in the agility trials.”
“Are you serious?”
I nodded. “I’ll be working with Bingley all week at full salary.”
“It’s not possible to train a dog, who’s never so much as jumped over an obstacle, how to run an agility course.”
“She wants to produce some YouTube fodder,” I replied. “I suspect she’s largely doing it this so she has an excuse to pay me for training her dog.”
Baxter grimaced. “I hope this financial hiccup of ours doesn’t turn into serious illness.”
Chapter 6
I managed to contact the two dog owners who had hired Cooper and to have preemptive phone conversations with them. When I explained that Cooper might have had a mix-up regarding the show dates—which I decided was a white-enough lie that I didn’t mind telling it—they were happy to hear that I would meet them and their dogs for no fee and no obligation, but if Cooper was able to straighten up his conflicts, I would quickly step aside.
Baxter and I had a pleasant time venting as we made the hour-plus drive south to Denver. We even snuck in a kiss after we’d parked near the female judge’s house. Linda Hastings had been expecting us, and she all but led the conversation. She told us she’d already heard unsubstantiated rumors about bribery charges being leveled over her judging in last year’s show. Ms. Hastings was going to take those bogus and slanderous charges to a court of law and directly to the AKC, and she had decided to resign as a judge this year.
Safely out of sight from the former judge’s house, we gave each other high fives, then drove to Mark Singer’s house. Baxter held my hand as we climbed the somewhat crooked front steps. He rang the doorbell, and we listened to a chorus of at least four dogs. “Collies,” I said. Baxter and I enjoyed playing the game of “guess the breed” from the barks.
“Goldens,” he said.
Our optimism regarding this second meeting, however, faded the instant Mark opened the door. He was a scruffy-looking man, tall, stooped over, uncombed salt-and-pepper hair and unshaven, in his sixties or so. He was wearing a safari vest. I half expected to see cans of beer in its pockets.
“You wasted your time driving here,” he barked at us. “I just got off the phone with Linda Hastings, and I’m not about to let baseless, petty accusations force me to resign. I know full well it’s that damned Marsala Podnowski who’s behind this. You ask me, she’s the one that pushed the dogs’ crates together and probably convinced Valerie’s employee that the damned bitch wasn’t in heat. If y’all want to replace me, I’m raising holy hell with the AKC and suing you for defamation of character.”
Baxter and I exchanged glances. I put on a smile and held out my hand to shake Mark’s. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Allida Babcock.”
“Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to forget my manners.” He shook my hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Miss Babcock.”
Baxter was also extending his hand.
“I assume you’re the new guy, Baxter Something-or-other, the scab in charge of the Terrier class.”
Scab!? I widened my eyes and felt Baxter flinch.
“Baxter McClelland. Nice to meet you.” His voice and smile were remarkably complacent.
“Would you all like a drink of water or anything before you head back to Fort Collins?”
“That would be lovely,” I said, hoping maybe we’d at least be able to sit down and converse with him and improve our current person-non-gratis situation.
“Okay. Wait there. I’ll be right back.”
He shut the door, leaving us on the front stoop. “Yikes. He really, really doesn’t want to talk to us,” I told Baxter.
“Maybe his house is too messy for visitors.”
“I guess. I thought you said he was a ladies’ man. Should I have worn something with a plunging neckline?” I joked.
“That and maybe asked for a martini.”
Mark returned. He stepped onto the porch, shut the inner door behind him, and handed me the glass. “Oh, thanks for the ice,” I said.
“No problem. Making ice cubes is one of the few things I can do without recipe.”
I chuckled. The dog barks were still muffled. Apparently, we weren’t going to get a sighting to see if one of us could add a point to our running tally. Just then, I caught sight of the doorknob turning behind Mark’s back. The door opened a crack, and an Airedale rushed toward us, followed by two black Labs.
“Conrad! No!” Mark cried, grabbing the Airedale’s collar and one of the Lab’s. He tried to drag them back inside while pushing the third dog with one foot. “Conrad is not my dog,” he said over his shoulder. “I’m just taking care of him for a neighbor. He...knows how to open doors. The Airedale, I mean. Not the, uh, neighbor.” He managed to close the storm door behind the dogs, then leaned back against it to bar anymore jail breaks. His face had reddened. “Since he’s not mine, I’m not in violation of the rule about not judging the same category as a dog you own.”
“Which neighbor?” Baxter asked.
His cheeks reddened further. “He lives a couple of miles from here. Loose definition of a neighbor.”
Baxter was eyeing the doorknob of the storm door. “There are teeth marks on the doorknob. So the Airedale opens the door to get into your house? And yet you’re just dog-sitting him?”
“Um...” He scratched the back of his neck as he looked at the incriminating door knob. “One of my Labs taught him how to do that. Those are Labrador teeth marks you’re looking at.”
Baxter and I let his statement hang in the air.
His eyes suddenly brightened. “Hey, I got certified in Agility Trials. How ‘bout I opt out of the Terriers and judge that? To help you all out of your jam.”
“Deal,” Baxter said.
I inwardly groaned. I hid my disapproval by taking a couple gulps of water. “Thanks for the water.” I handed him the glass. “Let me know if you’d like me to give you some tips on training Conrad not to open doors.”
“See you both on Thursday,” Mark said as he shut the door behind him. “I’ll be preparing my agility ring for competition.”
I pivoted and headed toward the car. With a couple of long strides, Baxter was by my side. “Sorry,” he said. “I hate to saddle you with him as the judge. Mark’s the judge that gave Valerie’s Westland Terrier the Best in Class. I had to get him out of the conformation judging. At least that’s a timed event and not subjective. The original agility judge is also qualified to judge Terriers.”
“I understand that,” I said gently. “Still, I would have been much happier without having a judge who’s quite possibly partial to Valerie’s dog. Not to mention whose integrity is in question. And, besides, Jesse Valadez breeds Airedales. If Jesse’s Airedale wins best overall in agility, Valerie can make a stink about Mark’s bias toward Airedales. We’ll be right back where we started. And I’m her dog’s handler. She’ll find out we came to Singer’s house today for a private meeting, and she’ll be livid about how bad the whole thing looks.”
“Yeah, I should have thought of that. Still, I was here the whole time you two were talking and can attest to nothing untoward going on during your scandalous tete-a-tete.”
I laughed. “That’s very reassuring.” I glanced back at the house. “I do find it awfully hard to believe that he’s considered to be a ‘ladies’ man.’”
“Well, to be fair, the rumor was just that he was one, not that he was any good at it.”
Once again, Baxter made me laugh, and we were in good spirits as we headed to buy something inexpensive for lunch.
That afternoon, I had some free time to work with Bingley. Tracy was busy with her podcast and radio broadcast by then. She suggested I pick up Bingley, bring him to my house, and have him spend the night. She threw a ridiculously generous sum at me for doing so, and after she told me twice that, yes, she was sure it was not too much money, I accepted the offer.
I worked with Bingley first at the course on our property. A few months ago, when I’d agreed to coach Sophie Sophistica, Baxter had felt that this could eventually be a new source of income to replace our kennel earnings. He constructed all of the apparatuses himself. His were made of wood; colorful plastic pieces would be used on the actual course in Fort Collins.
Bingley and I easily spent an hour on the weave between posts, with very little to show for it. I also set up little ramps to teach him how to jump over the bars. That was somewhat successful, as long as the front ramp was in place so he only had to hop down. No matter how many times I jumped over the bars myself, cried “whee,” and coaxed him to the other side with treats, Bingley had the attitude that, unlike me, he had too much dignity to jump over something he could simply run around.
Determined, I moved one of the hurdles into a gate in the fence and tied the swinging gate to the hurdle. I then jumped over the gate myself and held out a piece of bacon to get him to jump over to me. He managed the feat. I made such a big deal about it, you would think he’d rescued a child from a well. I leapt back over the hurdle and called for him, offering another piece of bacon. He peed on the gate, then started rolling on the grass. This was not going to be easy. We were talking about a dog ignoring bacon here!
Finally, I did at least have some limited success at getting him to come to me from one obstacle to the next along the path I’d designated in my head. Even at that, I had to strike my desperation-come stance; when an off-leash dog runs away despite a “Come” command, the best enticement you can offer is to go down on one knee and hold out your arms as if you are now signaling the dog that he will be receiving a big hug as he rushes back into your embrace. Bingley broke the record for the most times I had to assume that pose in the least amount of times. My thighs a nice workout, at least.
The following morning, I worked again with Bingley. I could get him to run beside me while on leash, but even though I’d prepared each apparatus by placing a treat at the top of the bridge and seesaw and middle of the tunnel, he leapt off the side or the front of immediately after scarfing up the treat, and fought like the dickens if I tried to pull him along the correct path. Leading horses to water and actually making them drink was a cake walk compared to leading a spoiled Beagle along an agility track.
