Free The Barker Street Regulars by Susan Conant Page A

wife’s neck—I always imagined that Scott played incompetent guitar in what tried to pass itself off as a hillbilly band.
    “This is monstrous,” said Leah as we left the cafeteria. “But I can’t believe that anyone listens to her.”
    “You’d be surprised. People don’t always consider the source.”
    “I’ll bet they have awful dogs,” Leah said hopefully.
    “Wrong. Their dogs are quite decent. None of this is the dogs’ fault.”
    “Steve won’t do anything?”
    “Leah, he’s entitled to deal with it in his own way. And at least he isn’t here to have to listen to her.” Ah, but at about one-thirty, Steve turned up. He found me in what could hardly be called a romantic setting. Been to a show lately? No, not Broadway. A real show. A dog show. If so, you’ve undoubtedly noticed that old-fashioned chewies like bones and rawhide are being rapidly displaced by the moderately gruesome and, in some cases, by the outright macabre. The trend started with pig ears. Then it was hooves and cow ears. Then what are called “muscle chews.” And what are muscle chews? Hunks of cattle neck. Ligaments. Muscles. Yes, body parts cooked in their own gravy. Ick! And now it’s tracheas, great big dead-white tracheas removed intact from beasts of heaven knows what species and—enough!
    “The problem with these tracheas,” I said to the vendor, “is that they look human. Are you sure they’re...?”
    “A hundred percent digestible,” the vendor assured me without actually answering my question. “And dogs love them.”
    Just as my right hand rose protectively to my throat, Steve appeared at my side. Although he’d been up in the night with the ugly cat, he looked more rested than he had for a week. He wore new jeans and a navy sweater I hadn’t seen before. I love being seen with him. Superficial? Yes. But then I love being seen with Rowdy and Kimi, too, and there’s obviously no question about the depth of my devotion to them. I ran a hand over Steve’s cheek. He’d shaved today.
    “Caressed with fingers fresh from tracheas,” he said.
    “Sterile tracheas. What are you doing here?”
    He has the most beautiful smile. I tried to remember the last time I’d seen it. “Leading a normal life.”
    I smiled back. “Good.”
    “I heard Rowdy took the breed. Someone called Buck, and he called to leave a message for you. I thought I’d drive out and watch the group.”
    Translation: the judging of the Working Group.
    “He isn’t coming, is he?” I was filled with alarm. Buck is my father. Even if he weren’t, he’d still be the most mortifying person to be seen with on the liver-littered surface of the dog-show world. If he were small, quiet, introverted, and mortifying, it wouldn’t be so bad, but Buck’s appearance, demeanor, and voice are overwhelming in a remarkably mooselike fashion. He crashes through life as if it were underbrush. He bellows. Worse, everyone not only knows him, but knows whose father he is or soon finds out. If I’m in the ring, be looms just outside radiating paternal pride and criticizing every move I make. The one time he didn’t do it Was the day he stood outside the obedience ring and hatched my Vinnie score a perfect 200. I expected him to lecture me about the handler errors the judge had missed, but he didn’t. He said, “Well, I guess that’s all right.” His behavior toward me is a little like Robert’s toward Hugh. He considers himself a member of an elite group from which I’ve been excluded, and he scrutinizes me for the equivalent of misquotation.
    To my relief, Steve said, “No such luck.”
    “Rowdy’s not going to go anywhere in the group,” I said.
    “Then why stick around?”
    “Because I’m a good sport. Besides, he just might. So, where’s your new cat?”
    “At the clinic. Under your name. They’re working on that ear, and I want to keep an eye on her for a couple of days.”
    As we made the rounds of the booths, I wondered whether to warn