“What do you mean you didn’t qualify?” My best friend, Scarlet Jefferson—Dixie, to her friends—stared in utter and complete disbelief. Dixie was wearing a beautiful pink sweater with rhinestones, slacks, and black leather boots. At close to six feet tall, she was a Southern belle with Dolly Parton big hair. Despite the fact that we were attending a dog show, she looked as beautifully made up and well dressed as ever.
Pleasantly plump at five foot four and with dark hair and eyes, I was comfortable in jeans, tennis shoes, and an Eastern Tennessee Dog Club T-shirt. Without makeup and my hair pulled back in a ponytail, I felt like a troll next to Dixie.
“I thought we had done well enough to at least qualify.” I held my Toy Poodle, Aggie, close to my chest. “I was hoping you noticed what we did wrong.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong, nothing that should have gotten you disqualified.” She took a deep breath and paused. “Aggie lagged a little bit during the heel free exercise, but it wasn’t bad. She caught up when you went faster, and she stayed up the entire rest of the time. Apart from a couple of crooked finishes, she was great.” She reached over and gave Aggie’s ear a scratch.
I should have known this trial wouldn’t run smoothly from the first moment I stepped out of my car and saw Dixie and the club president, Lenora Houston, in an intense discussion.
Lenora was an Amazon of a woman with short-cropped white hair. Head up. Shoulders back. Lenora marched around the front of the building like a drill sergeant, which wasn’t unusual since she was former military. However, her lips were moving, and she looked ready to spit bricks, as my friend Monica Jill would say.
I had gotten there just in time to hear Dixie ask, “What’s wrong?”
“This is a mock trial. You and all the other judges recognized that and graciously waived your fees.” She glared. “All except one.”
“Let me guess—Naomi Keller,” Dixie said.
Lenora nodded. “She was as sweet as pie when she agreed to judge. Now . . .” She pounded her fist in her hand. “We’re only charging five dollars per entry, just enough to cover the expenses of Utility and an extra trash pickup. If we have to pay her, we’re going to go in the hole.”
Dixie sighed. “Do we have a choice?”
Lenora stared for a few moments. “No.”
“Then, as much as I hate to admit it, we’re stuck between a rock and a hard place, and we’ll just have to pay her.”
“I know, but it really burns my butt that she told us she was waiving her fee and now says, ‘I changed my mind,’ like she’s decided to have decaf rather than regular coffee.” Lenora turned and marched back inside the building.
On the surface, Dixie had looked as cool and calm as always. Only a close examination revealed the vein pulsing on the side of her head and the hardened look in her eyes.
“Was the lagging enough to disqualify us?” I asked.
“Not at all. It’s a few points off. She should have qualified.”
The Eastern Tennessee Dog Club (ETDC) owned a building that was crude but functional. It was a long, low building with a metal roof. It wasn’t fancy, but it was located on more than three acres of land, which was mostly fenced, and provided a great venue for dog shows. The building also offered tons of parking, another must-have for dog shows and training facilities. Inside, the walls weren’t insulated, and the concrete floors were covered in green vinyl mats. The matted area of the room was sectioned off with white, folding, accordion-ring gates that made what looked like a small picket fence. The unmatted area was left for spectators. There wasn’t a lot of space for chairs, but the building had a few bleachers, which today were full, and limited space for dog crates along a side wall near the door.
We stood outside of the ring and watched a woman with a large playful St. Bernard puppy.
B.J. Thompson joined our group. “Is this the kiss and cry area?”
“You too?” I asked.
B.J. was Black, with dark skin and hair, which she wore in long braids that trailed down her back. “I don’t care what that mean old judge thinks.” She cuddled her white West Highland Terrier. “Mummy wuvs you, and you’re going to get that smelly liver treat anyway.” She looked up. “I was saving it for a celebration if she qualified, but I think she earned the treat, and I’m giving it to her.”
Dixie petted Snoball. “She absolutely earned the liver.”
An excellent obedience instructor and judge, Dixie was known for being tough but fair. She believed in a positive approach to dog training, which included lots of positive reinforcement and treats, but not just any treats. She advocated the use of treats that were so special, a dog would sell its soul to get them. These “soul-selling” treats included some of the most foul-smelling dried liver, which Dixie ordered in bulk.
The third woman in Dixie’s dog training class, Monica Jill, sauntered over to our group.
“Where’s Jac?” I asked.
“In his crate, where he belongs.” She folded her arms across her chest. “I am so angry with that dog.” She looked from me to B.J. “Did you see what he did?”
Jac was a black dog with a white spot. He was most likely a terrier/Labrador mix, but you couldn’t tell what he was by looking at him. He was a young dog with a lot of energy. Getting him to the point that he was able to compete, even in a mock obedience event, had taken a great deal of practice and patience. He had done surprisingly well in the early part of the trial. He heeled both on and off leash. He stood still while the judge examined him and even did the recall exercise. He lost points during the figure-eight heel pattern when he stopped to sniff the crotch of one of the men who was serving as a post for the figure eight; however, that should have only been a few points off. Jac’s disqualification came during the group exercise. When all the owners lined up their dogs against the wall, commanded the dogs to sit and stay, and then walked six feet away, Jac didn’t stay. Instead, he followed Monica Jill and was standing there looking up at his owner, tail wagging and big brown eyes full of love and adoration, when she turned around.
“He’s still young,” Dixie reminded her.
Monica Jill, a tall thin woman with dark hair and dark eyes, wasn’t ready to forgive so easily. She pointed to Aggie. “He’s older than Aggie.”
“You can’t always go by age. The breed and sex can play a big part in development and maturity.” Dixie smiled. “Aggie’s a female and a Toy Poodle. They tend to mature a lot faster than males.”
Monica Jill huffed. “Well, he isn’t getting any liver treats today.”
B.J. and I exchanged glances, which indicated we knew Monica Jill wasn’t as tough as she pretended to be. She also wouldn’t hold a grudge for more than a few minutes. By the time she went home tonight, we knew Jac would be eating liver, just like Snoball and Aggie.
We became distracted watching the St. Bernard puppy. He bounded around the ring like a small pony, tongue hanging out, a look of pure joy on his face, while his owner walked the heel pattern alone. Eventually, the puppy finished his romp, hiked his leg, and peed on the ring gate.
“At least Jac didn’t pee in the ring,” B.J. said.
“Soiling the ring is an automatic disqualification, isn’t it?” I asked.
Dixie nodded.
We watched as two members of the dog club sprayed and wiped away the soiled area to prevent other dogs from getting distracted and adding their own scents. Having spent an entire day cleaning up at a dog show a few months ago, I was grateful to be competing and not working this event.
The last member of Dixie’s obedience class, Dr. Morgan, and his German Shepherd, Max, were next. We watched as they entered the ring and waited for the judge to begin. Dr. Morgan was short and bald, with an egg-shaped head that always reminded me of Agatha Christie’s detective, Hercule Poirot.
Both Max and his owner were serious, and they performed their exercises with an intense concentration that bordered on obsession. No smiles cracked their exterior façades. The only hint of levity came from the bright green ETDC T-shirt Dr. Morgan wore over his dress shirt and slacks. The shirts were a gift from Monica Jill for the members of Dixie’s class and bore the ETDC logo on the front, with the words Dixie’s Pack on the back.
From our vantage point, it looked as though Dr. Morgan and Max would qualify and save our class from total humiliation. When the last exercise was over, we cheered as they walked out of the ring. Within minutes, Dr. Morgan and Max joined our group.
“Good boy, Max.” We showered both the dog and owner with praise. Snoball had a crush on the GSD and licked him shamelessly, while Max ignored her and tried to get Aggie’s attention.
The club volunteers who were working the table at the edge of the ring took the scoresheets from the judge. They tallied the points for each handler and then recorded them on a whiteboard outside the gate. We waited excitedly until the worker marked DQ beside number 23, which was the number on the armband worn by Dr. Morgan.
We stared in shock at the two letters. I didn’t think anything could have been worse until the judge grabbed a large, blue first-place ribbon and turned to face the crowd.
“St. Bernard number twenty-two.”
There was a stunned silence in the building. Eventually, the woman with the St. Bernard puppy returned to the ring and received their first-place ribbon.
When I finally found words, I turned to Dixie. “How is that possible? I didn’t see anything that would have disqualified Max.”
“Neither did I.” Dixie glared. “But you can bet your bippy I’m going to find out.”