Free Live and Let Growl by Laurien Berenson Page B

Bertie said as Faith and I approached.
    Alarmed by the unexpected greeting, I quickly scooted Faith into an empty, floor-level, crate. Snapping the latch shut behind her, I straightened and held out my empty hands, ready to go to work.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” I asked. “Am I late? What do you need?”
    Bertie had an apricot Mini Poodle lying on the table in front of her. She was line brushing through its wispy coat, the first stage of preparation for the ring. Now she leaned across the tabletop so that her lips were only inches from my ear.
    â€œIt’s Crawford,” she whispered.
    â€œCrawford?” I was so surprised that I repeated his name out loud without thinking.
    The handler was standing at the other end of the next setup. Though he was currently facing away from us, I’d suspected for years that Crawford had eyes in the back of his head.
    â€œShhh!” Bertie snapped. “Not so loud! He’ll hear us.”
    â€œWhat’s the matter with Crawford?” I whispered back, casting him a quick glance. He and I had been mates for years. I hoped it was nothing serious.
    â€œHe is driving me insane.” Bertie grabbed my arm and squeezed it, hard. “You have got to do something. Because if this keeps up, I swear I’m going to have to kill him.”

Chapter 7
    P regnancy hormones . Surely that was the problem. There was no other way to explain Bertie’s outburst.
    Crawford Langley was one of the first people I had met when I became involved in the dog show world. He enjoyed Elder Statesman status in the Poodle community, having reigned for years as one of its premier professional handlers. Crawford presented his Poodles in the show ring with an enviable mix of talent and flair. He knew how to make a good dog look better than it was, and he could make a great dog unbeatable.
    Crawford was two decades older than I was, and it had taken us some time to become comfortable with one another. The handler was dignified and charming, and he always knew the right thing to say. In short, we had little in common beyond our mutual love of dogs. But beneath Crawford’s reserved exterior was a man who cared deeply about his friends, and I was honored to count myself as one of them.
    Terry Denunzio, on the other hand, was a whole different kettle of fish. Terry was not only Crawford’s assistant, he was also his life partner. He was young, gorgeous, and flamboyantly out-there.
    Terry cuts my hair and he criticizes my wardrobe. He always knows the latest gossip, sometimes because he’s created it himself. I was well aware of Terry’s propensity for stirring up mischief. So if Bertie had a complaint I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear that it concerned Terry. But Crawford?
    â€œBertie, what on earth are you talking about?” I asked.
    She looked over my shoulder and her eyes widened at what she saw. “Here he comes,” she whispered unhappily. “You’ll see.”
    I turned around. Crawford was threading his way toward us down the narrow aisle between his numerous grooming tables. The Miniature variety was first to be judged and Crawford had four Mini Poodles, all in various stages of preparation, out of their crates and waiting patiently on their tabletops.
    He didn’t look like a man with time to spare.
    Nevertheless, as Crawford approached I gave him a big smile. Like many of my dog friends, we usually only saw each other when our show schedules meshed. And since Augie was our only Standard Poodle “in hair,” and Davey, who handled him, was in the middle of basketball season, I hadn’t been to many shows lately. At least a month had passed since Crawford and I had last seen one another.
    He answered my smile with a glower and barked, “You’re late!”
    â€œNo, I’m not,” I replied uncertainly. It was unlike Crawford to be wrong about anything. “The show hasn’t even started