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There are those who say that life is a game of chance,
and considering some of the things that have happened to me, I'd probably be inclined to agree. It wasn't
serendipity, however, that took me to Maryland in mid June to participate in the Poodle Club of America National
Specialty dog show. Nor was it chance that volunteered me
to work on the raffle committee. It was my Aunt Peg.
Margaret Turnbull is a formidable woman. Anyone who
is involved in the dog show world will tell you that. Her
Cedar Crest kennels have produced top winning Standard
Poodles for three decades, nearly all of them owner-handled
by Peg herself. Now in her sixties, she had cut down on
the number of dogs she kept and recently added a judge's
license to her already impressive arsenal of accomplishments. No one in the Poodle community would dare underestimate my Aunt Peg. Least of all me.
So when she told me that I'd been assigned to spend my
week at the specialty show helping out Betty Jean and
Edith Jean Boone, the cochairs of the raffle committee, I
didn't argue. I didn't mention this was the first time that
Sam Driver, my almost-fiancé, and I had had the opportunity to go away together and that we'd been hoping to
carve out some time for just the two of us. I didn't point
out that my seven-year-old son, Davey, love of my life, chaperone par excellence, had stayed behind with his father in
Connecticut, leaving me free to do just as I wished for the
first time since I'd become a single parent years earlier. I
didn't even bring up the fact that I had my own Standard
Poodle to show, which would certainly keep me busy.
No, I simply showed up at my appointed day and time,
Monday morning, nine A.M., and waited to be put to work.
PCA is a huge undertaking, one of the largest specialty,
or single breed, dog shows held in the country each year.
All three varieties of Poodles--Standards, Miniatures, and
Toys--are in competition. More than a thousand dogs
and several times that many Poodle fanciers travel from all
over the world to enjoy and take part in the spectacle.
Originally the national specialty was simply a conformation show, but over time it had grown to embrace and celebrate all the varied talents of the Poodle breed. The activities
began on Saturday with a club sponsored field event, where
Miniature and Standard Poodles could earn Working Certificates. On Monday, there was an agility trial. Tuesday, the
Poodle Club of America Foundation hosted a morning of
seminars and symposiums on topics of interest to serious
breeders and exhibitors. In the afternoon, there was an
obedience trial.
Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, the arena was given
over to the conformation classes. Even with three judges
working almost continuously (one for each variety) it took
that long for the enormous entry to be sorted through.
Also included were a Parade of Champions and a veterans
sweepstakes. Everything built toward Friday afternoon,
when a fourth judge would choose among those Poodles
that had been named top in their variety to find Best of
Breed. The festivities concluded that evening with the
PCA banquet.
It was an exhilarating, and often exhausting schedule.
Not wanting to be away from Davey for too long, I'd skipped
the field trial on Saturday, loaded my Poodle puppy in the
car, and driven down to Maryland on Sunday afternoon.
Aunt Peg was, of course, already in residence at the host
hotel when I arrived. Sam would be coming down sometime Tuesday.
Monday morning, I presented myself at the equestrian
center where the show was to take place. The enormous indoor arena was covered with turf; two big rings were landscaped with potted flowers and trees. One end of the
ground-floor arena was reserved for grooming and preparation. The other two thirds contained the show rings and
the tables devoted to the various show committees.
The trophy table had the best location, of course. Silver
bowls and challenge trophies, several of them in competition for decades, glowed in the aura of the spotlights from
above. When I had time, I loved to stop and look at those
old trophies, tangible reminders of the history of the breed.
I would run my fingers over their soft, shiny sides and trace
the names of the past winners. Many were breed greats,
dogs that I, a relative newcomer to the sport, knew only as
pictures in the Poodle books.
That morning, however, time was something I didn't
have. I'd brought a Standard Poodle to the specialty with
me, a puppy named Eve whom I'd be showing later in the
week. For the time being, until I'd found out what my dudes were going to be, I'd left her resting in a crate in the
grooming area. Unloading and getting the puppy settled
had taken longer than I'd anticipated.
The raffle table was situated about halfway down the
arena. I was almost there when someone stepped back out
of the throng already congregating at ringside to watch
the agility classes and blocked my path. Aunt Peg.
"You're late," she said.
"No, I'm not."
I had to look up to argue. Peg stands nearly six feet tall
to my own five-six. It wasn't the height difference, how-
ever, that often made me feel like a recalcitrant child when
I was in her presence. It was Aunt Peg's unwavering belief
that she was right in her opinions. That, and the fact that
she usually was.
A black Standard Poodle bitch stood at Peg's side. Hope,
litter sister to Eve's dam, was at the show to compete in
agility. I reached down and gave her chin a scratch, hoping to buy some goodwill. It didn't work.
"Betty Jean and Edith Jean have already been here for
nearly an hour," Aunt Peg said. I supposed that meant
she'd been there for that long, too. "They've got the table
all set up for the day."
"I checked the schedule. It said the agility trial started
at nine."
"It does. But everything has to be in place and ready to
go before the show opens. You'd better hurry up. I recommended you to the sisters, you know. I wouldn't want
you to make a bad first impression." Her hands were already shooing me away. "The two of them are quite a couple of old characters. I'm sure you'll enjoy working with
them."
Presumably because of my prior experience working
with old characters. Wisely, I didn't voice the thought
aloud.
The raffle table, as I saw when I reached it, was eight feet
long, four feet wide, and stocked with all sorts of Poodle-related items. Donations received from various sponsors
and club members ranged from gold and diamond jewelry to grooming supplies and a print of a New Yorker magazine cover from the fifties that featured a Miniature Poodle.
There was a money tree covered in two-dollar bills, as well
as such diverse articles as a lamp shade, a Christmas stocking, and tea towels, all decorated in a Poodle motif.
What, I thought, no Poodle skirt? I probably just hadn't
seen it yet.
"You must be Melanie." A compact older woman with a
lined face, tightly waved gray hair, and a ready smile,
stepped out from behind the table and held out her hand.
Her voice was softened by the lilting cadence of a southern drawl. "I'm Edith Jean. Sister and I have been waiting
for you."
"Sorry I'm late." I grasped her hand. Her fingers, long
and thin, felt surprisingly fragile. "I didn't realize things
got started so early."
"Not to worry, you haven't missed a thing." Edith Jean
turned and swatted at the colorful tablecloth that covered
the table and fell to the floor. "Betty Jean, haul your butt
out here and say hello to Melanie."
"Hold your horses," a voice grumbled from beneath the
table. 'Tm trying to find the tickets. They're not in the
box you said they were in."
"Are, too," Edith Jean snapped, then sent me an apologetic smile. "You'll have to excuse Sister. Her eyes aren't
what they used to be."
"I heard that. There's nothing wrong with my eyes, or
my ears."
I leaned down and lifted the hem of the floor-length
cloth. Half a dozen boxes were piled haphazardly beneath
the table. I caught a glimpse of more gray curls, then Betty
Jean lifted her head and looked in my direction. She had
the same sharp blue eyes, narrow nose, and thin, pursed
lips as her sister. In fact, they looked remarkably alike.
Maybe it was a trick of the dim lighting. Or maybe Aunt
Peg had neglected to mention that the sisters were twins.
"Anything I can do to help?" I asked.
"Not a damn thing." On her knees, Betty Jean began to
inch backward. "Hold on a minute. Let me get out from
under here so I can say hello properly."
"Didn't I just tell you to do that?" Edith Jean asked.