Free A Pedigree to Die For by Laurien Berenson

than others, can’t you?”
    Why not? I thought, nodding.
    â€œWhat the thief desperately needs now is access to bitches who would match with Beau, both physically and genetically in such a way as to have the potential capability of producing superior puppies. And you’re going to have one of those.”
    I looked at her warily. “Do I have to go out and buy a Poodle?”
    â€œDon’t be silly. You don’t actually have to have a bitch, you just have to say you do. Once I work up a description and a pedigree, you’ll be all set.”
    â€œSo what you want me to do is dangle this mythical bitch under a few noses and see who jumps at the bait?”
    â€œPrecisely.” Aunt Peg nodded. “There are plenty of shows coming up, more than enough to hope that you’ll run into the thief somewhere along the way. And when you do, I’ll just bet he won’t be able to resist telling you about the super new stud dog he has at home.”
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    The following Saturday was the first of the month, which meant that Frank would be by early in the morning to pick Davey up for what my son gleefully referred to as “boys’ day out.” Whatever irritating habits my little brother may have had, they were more than compensated for by the way he’d behaved with Davey since my divorce. Unasked, he’d stepped in to provide my son with the male influence and companionship Davey so desperately needed. What had started as a series of casual visits had gradually evolved into a monthly routine that only the most dire of emergencies was allowed to disrupt.
    I was never consulted on their plans in advance and often not even privy to what happened during their meetings. Davey’s outings with Frank were a special time, and a vacation from his mother’s supervision. Once he’d brought home a new catcher’s mitt; another time, a skateboard I was certain he was much too young to use safely. He was often disheveled and always tired. As I tucked him into bed, he would murmur about all the “man things” he had seen and done, then fall contentedly asleep. If I hadn’t loved Frank already, this alone would have been reason enough.
    Early Saturday morning, I delivered Davey to his uncle’s care and set out. For once the Volvo was running like the marvel of Swedish technology it was supposed to be. I arrived at the showground in late morning, leaving myself several hours to look around before the start of the Poodle judging at two.
    Eyes wide, like a kid at her first circus, I took in the sights. The large field had been broken up into rings of various sizes, all at least partially covered by brightly striped tents. The dogs came in all shapes and sizes as well. Some, like the Golden Retrievers and Collies, I recognized right away. Others didn’t look even the slightest bit familiar. Still others were hardly recognizable as dogs at all.
    Slowly I browsed from ring to ring, watching the breeds that were being shown. Aunt Peg had explained the judging procedure to me in great detail, but even so it took a while before I was able to sort things out. According to what I’d been told, the whole purpose of the exercise was to win enough points to make one’s dog a champion. This was done within each breed by first entering a class: say, Puppy, or Bred-By-Exhibitor, or Open. The classes were divided by sex, and after they’d been judged, the class winners returned to vie for the points and the title of Winners Dog and Winners Bitch. The number of dogs in competition on the day determined the number of points awarded.
    These two competed against the finished champions for either Best of Breed; or in the case of breeds like Poodles, Dachshunds, and Fox Terriers, that had more than one variety, Best of Variety. The breed winners went on to fight it out in the groups. Ultimately by day’s end the narrowing down process was complete, and one dog was