The Bark Before Christmas Read Online Free Page B

a Saint Bernard wearing a drool bib, to a Dachshund navigating a broad jump, to a rolling ball of fluffy white hair.
    By the time we reached the setup, Sam already had the dolly unloaded. He’d shoved the big crate in line next to one of Bertie’s, then arranged the tack box and Kev’s diaper bag on top of it. As we approached, he was setting up the grooming table in the middle of the aisle. He was also frowning.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” I asked.
    We’d just arrived. Surely something couldn’t be wrong already.
    â€œBertie has some bad news.”
    â€œWhat?” I swung my gaze her way.
    â€œThere’s a change of judge in Poodles. Mrs. Wilburn had a fall this morning in her hotel room, and she was taken to the hospital. She’ll be out of commission until after Christmas. Bartholomew Perkin is taking over her assignment.”
    â€œWho?”
    I looked back at Sam. Like Aunt Peg, he’s been involved in the dog show world for many more years than I have. He was often familiar with judges I didn’t have the experience to know. Now, however, Sam just shrugged.
    â€œNever heard of him,” he said.
    That wasn’t good.
    A great deal of time, effort, and expense is involved in getting a dog to the show ring. So exhibitors choose their judges with care. There’s no point in taking a typey dog to a judge who only cares about soundness, or in showing a silver Poodle to one who favors blacks. Nor do owner-handlers waste their time showing under judges who are known to play politics. There are few things more frustrating than knowing you have the best dog in the ring, only to watch the judge hand the purple ribbon to one of the pros anyway.
    An unknown quantity might turn out to be a decent judge. But since none of us had ever even heard of Mrs. Wilburn’s replacement, I was pretty sure that the odds were against it.
    â€œYou all look like you’ve just arrived at a funeral,” Aunt Peg said, coming up behind us. Standing a hair under six feet tall, she towers over me. It’s a circumstance she’s not above using to use to her advantage. “I take it you’ve heard about what happened?”
    â€œBertie just told us,” I replied. “How much trouble are we in? Who is Bartholomew Perkin?”
    â€œGood question.”
    That she didn’t know either was really bad news. Aunt Peg is a steadfast member of the dog show community. She’s spent the majority of her six decades devoted to the Poodle breed she adores.
    While I’m the kind of person who is continually out of the loop, when it comes to dogs, Aunt Peg is the loop. She knows everything. She’s on top of every new development.
    If Aunt Peg didn’t know who our new judge was, then he was clearly not worth knowing.
    Kevin tugged at the hem of my jacket. Distracted by the conversation, I’d forgotten all about him. Quickly I leaned down and zipped him out of his parka. Kev unwound his scarf. I balled it up and shoved it down the empty sleeve of his jacket. With luck, we’d leave the show with as much clothing as we’d had when we arrived.
    â€œMr. Perkin’s breed is Pekingese,” Davey announced, finally arriving at the setup. He hopped Augie up onto the grooming table, slipped off his leash, then patted the rubber matted surface so that the Standard Poodle would lie down.
    â€œHow do you know that?” I asked.
    â€œI ran into Crawford and Terry.” Davey sketched a wave toward the other side of the ring. “They’re grooming over there. Crawford isn’t happy about the judge change either.”
    Crawford Langley was the busiest and most talented Poodle handler in the Northeast. He’d handled Standard Poodles to top wins at Westminster, Eukanuba, and our national specialty. Terry was Crawford’s partner in life, his assistant at the shows, and the most talkative person I’ve ever met. He’s my best buddy and I