“Go!” hissed Ben.
Griffin swiped his credit card and pressed the button. There was a loud click, and a deluge of ice-cold soapy water poured down from above. For an instant, Luthor disappeared inside Niagara Falls.
When the spray cleared, Griffin and Ben braced themselves for his rage. What they saw instead was an oversized puppy, cowering and shivering in misery, raking them with reproachful eyes.
They gave him the second shot — the rinse cycle. The dryer was last — a powerful, sustained blast of wind that threatened to beat him into the ground. This time, Luthor howled like a soul in torment. He sounded so distressed that the boys rushed right into the teeth of the gale with their towels, wrapping him up and bringing him warmth and comfort.
“Sorry, Luthor,” Griffin apologized, “but we had to do it. If we tried to give you a real bath, we’d both be dead by now.”
“And — no offense — you kind of reeked before,” Ben added.
Luthor actually seemed to enjoy being warmed and dried for a while. Then the primping got to be annoying, and he snarled the boys away.
Griffin checked his watch. “We’re right on schedule.” He picked up the leash, and the three headed to the bus stop just as the Nassau County transit pulled alongside the curb.
The driver was a little reluctant at the sight of the large guard dog in the care of two kids. “Is he well behaved?”
“Are you kidding?” Griffin answered. “We’re on our way to the dog show.”
“Fine. Take him to the back and keep him quiet.”
Luthor was so fascinated by his first bus ride that he was completely manageable. He spent the entire trip peering at his fellow passengers with great interest. It went well until the lady sitting next to Ben began to fix her makeup. The lipstick must have had an appealing scent, because the big dog leaned over and took the end off with a single swipe of his mighty tongue. She dropped her compact, which shattered on the floor, and jumped up with a screech. The driver braked hard, knocking several people out of their seats. Fortunately, the transfer point for the Garden City bus was at the next corner. By the time the man rushed back to investigate the disturbance, Griffin, Ben, and Luthor had escaped via the back door.
The second leg of the journey passed without incident, and they got off at the campus of Garden City Community College, the venue for the Long Island Kennel Society’s summer show. They could see several trailers parked in the distance. Maintenance workers were setting up a series of tents.
“I guess this is the place.” Griffin turned to Luthor. “Got your game face on?”
In reply, the Doberman opened his mouth wide enough to swallow a basketball and yawned expressively.
“His back teeth are pink where he chewed the lipstick,” Ben put in nervously.
“Nothing a tartar-control dog biscuit can’t handle,” Griffin decided. “Let’s go.”
10
As they approached the check-in table, they began to get a sense of how the show would run. Everything was outdoors, with three judging rings and a large “benching” area, where dogs and their owners and trainers would await their turn.
Contestants were pouring in from cars, pickup trucks, bicycle baskets, shopping carts, kiddy wagons, even a few limos. There were big dogs, small dogs, and everything in between — long hair, short hair, no hair. There were animals with so much hair that they seemed to become lost in a cocoon of it.
“Check it out,” Ben whispered. “Some guy entered a sheep thinking no one will have the guts to ask what breed it is.”
Griffin nodded. “And look at that one. That’s not a dog; that’s a blanket with legs.”
Luthor was taking it all in, fascinated. Not even in the pound had he been in the company of so many other dogs. And there was another big difference. The pound was an unhappy place, resounding with angry and anxious howling and yelping. But the show dogs seemed calm and serene. There was a buzz of human conversation, but only the occasional bark from one of the contestants.
“You know,” Griffin commented as they took their place in the registration line, “this may be the best idea I’ve ever had. Look at Luthor. He’s totally into it!”
“Name?” inquired the lady behind the desk.
“Oh, hi. I’m Griffin.”
“Not you. The dog.”
“Right — Luthor. With an o.”
She was patient. “That’s what you call him. What is his registered name with the American Kennel Club?”
Griffin had no idea. But he wasn’t going to let her know that. Reading upside down — a specialty of his — he glanced at the forms in the pile. The other contestants had official titles like Evander Wyoming Starcatcher and Wilmington General Jackson III.
“His name is Lex Luthor Savannah Spritz-o-matic,” Griffin deadpanned. “Luthor for short.”
He half-expected to be thrown out. The registrar simply wrote it down.
“He’s a Doberman,” Ben added helpfully.
“I can see that,” the woman replied, “but he’s awfully big. I don’t recall the breed standard off the top of my head, but the average Doberman is perhaps twenty-four inches to the withers.”
Griffin shrugged. “More to love.”
“Yes, but I’m sure you know that a conformation dog show means that the contestants are judged on the basis of how they conform to the breed standard.”
“He conforms,” Griffin insisted. “Just — like — amplified.”
“The judges will deduct for that,” she warned.
“We’ll see,” Griffin replied through clenched teeth.
There were forms to sign, and the woman placed an armband with the number 11 at Griffin’s elbow. Next, she handed the boys a complicated judging schedule that neither one could make out. There were hundreds of categories — several for each of the 90 different breeds represented today. Dizzying as this seemed, it was just over half of the 167 breeds recognized by the American Kennel Club. The winners of the breeds would compete for Best in Group, and those seven dogs would vie for the top prize, Best in Show.
Griffin and Ben focused on Luthor’s first appointment: Dobermans, open class. 10:15 a.m. in ring two.
The benching area resembled an overcrowded outdoor baggage claim in a third-world airport. Piled around the hundreds of kennels and carriers were beat-up suitcases, bundles, and plastic bags that contained the necessities of dog show life — snacks, bottled water, hair-care products, blow-dryers, whisks, and currycombs. The owners and handlers brushed and fussed over their pets, determined to present them in the best possible condition. A few even had portable vacuum cleaners in case dust and dirt dared to fall on their dogs. Nothing could be allowed to distract the judges from the perfection of the contestant.
They found themselves a space and pulled over a couple of bales of the paper bedding used for the dog run.
Ben nudged Griffin. “Get a load of the poodle next door,” he whispered. “Talk about a fuzz ball with a shaved butt!”
Griffin snickered appreciatively. “You know what’s the worst thing you could do to a dog like that? Let her see herself in the mirror.”
“Even Luthor can’t look away,” Ben added. “Man, when a fellow dog thinks you look dumb, it’s time to find a new barber.”
Yet the expression on Luthor’s face wasn’t curiosity, exactly. There was something more. Interest, perhaps, but also playfulness — goofiness, even. It was evident that he was aware of her, and he was trying to make her aware of him.
He strutted up and down in front of her. And when she continued to ignore him, he began to frolic about, which was no small thing when Luthor did it. The benching area was crowded, and the aisles were very narrow. It was only a matter of time before Luthor’s gyrating hindquarters knocked over a tower of boxes and duffels leaning against the grooming post. A bag of dog treats spilled out onto the ground.
Luthor was onto the food like a starving shark. Amazingly, this windfall did not attract any of the well-trained show dogs in the vicinity. Even the po
odle sat passively by as her food was wolfed down by this oversized neighbor.
The whole thing happened so fast that there was nothing Griffin and Ben could do to stop it. By the time they could react, only a single dog biscuit remained. They watched, transfixed, as Luthor suddenly hesitated. Instead of swallowing the final morsel, he picked it up delicately and deposited it gently in front of the poodle. She inclined her be-frizzed head and accepted the offering in a regal manner, nibbling in a ladylike fashion. Luthor hunkered attentively at her feet.
Griffin was blown away. “That’s the first time I’ve ever seen Luthor give up so much as a crumb to anybody else. Do you believe in love at first sight?”
“Love?” Ben stared at him. “Are you telling me that Luthor has a crush on that sheep-shearing accident?”
And then a voice behind them snapped, “You keep your animal away from my Jasmine!”
11
A girl about their age was storming down the makeshift aisle, expertly sidestepping water dishes and rubber bones. Griffin blinked. If they had breed standards for humans the way they did for canines, this newcomer would be a perfect example of a pretty twelve-year-old girl, right down to the finest detail — the arch of her eyebrows, the slight curl of her blond hair, the right angle of her elbows as she swooped down and scooped up her poodle, holding her protectively away from Luthor.
“Sorry,” Ben began. “We tried to stop him, but he —”
Griffin silenced him with an elbow to the ribs that knocked Ferret Face out of Ben’s shirt and dropped him to the grass. Terrified, the little animal disappeared up Ben’s pant leg. A venue packed with dogs was not very ferret friendly.
The girl scowled at the empty bag by Luthor’s front paw. “And you owe me one package of doggy treats!”
In answer, Griffin pulled a bag of s’mores out of his duffel and held it out to her.
She was horrified. “I can’t feed Jasmine that! It’s not right for her health! It’s not right for her teeth!”
With his toe, Griffin edged the duffel behind one of the square bales until its mother lode of cookies was out of view. “It’s not for Jasmine. It’s for you,” he said smoothly.
“Oh — that’s okay, I guess.” She accepted a s’more and took a bite. “These shows always give me low blood sugar. If I eat breakfast, I throw up, so I don’t eat breakfast. I’m Emma Hightower.”
“I’m Griffin and he’s Ben. And you’ve already sort of met Luthor — at least Jasmine has. I think they like each other.”
“That’s another thing that’s going to change,” Emma declared. “Jazzy’s a serious show dog. She hasn’t got time for men in her life.”
“Luthor’s pretty serious, too,” Griffin told her. “This is just a tune-up for him. He’s got his sights set on the Global Kennel Society show in New York.”
Emma snorted. “Him? Can he even stack?”
“Like a deck of cards,” Griffin assured her.
She was dubious. “Looks like he can’t sit still long enough to be judged.”
“He’s sitting still now,” Ben pointed out.
“Only because he’s all googly-eyed over Jasmine.” She wagged a finger at the Doberman. “Don’t even think about it, Romeo. She’s in training.”
It had been nearly two years since Luthor’s guard dog days, but he remembered that a wagging digit was a challenge. His eyes narrowed and the short fur stood up around his collar. He snapped at the finger — missing, but not by much.
Emma jumped back, horrified. “If a judge saw that, he’d kick you so far out of this competition that you’d be swimming in Long Island Sound!”
Griffin tried to cover it up. “He’s just playing with you. He’s a great kidder —”
She wasn’t buying it. “He was growling. He’s still growling. He’s a — a” — she goggled, barely able to finish the sentence — “a bad dog!”
Her words echoed like bomb blasts all around the campus. Heads turned in amazement. Even four-legged contestants sought to know the source of such a statement. In the show world, there were good dogs and better dogs. There may even have been the occasional medium dog. There were no bad dogs. Zero.
If Griffin didn’t know better, he could have sworn that Jasmine was making eyes at Luthor.
At that moment, a stir rippled through the benching area. An elegantly dressed woman marched imperiously out to the parking lot, following a beautifully groomed Yorkshire terrier. The animal’s silver-gray coat was so lustrous that he shone on the end of his leash.
“Who’s the snoot patrol?” asked Ben, noting that the dog’s nose was only slightly higher in the air than his owner’s.
“That’s Xerxes,” Emma told him reverently. “He’s the second-highest-ranked canine on the circuit today — after the great Electra, of course. You know what happened to her, right? Some terrible savage dog went wild and broke the stage at her last personal appearance.”
Griffin reddened. “You don’t say.”
“Yeah, we heard something about that,” Ben mumbled.
“Thanks to that untamed monster, Electra is out of competition. Which makes Xerxes the dog to beat now.”
“I don’t think that’s going to be too hard,” Griffin said smugly. “Look at them — they’re leaving. They’ll probably miss their judging time and get disqualified.”
Emma shook her head. “Xerxes doesn’t have to compete at the class level. He’s a champion.”
“He is?” Ben was dismayed. “Why do they bother having the dog show if they already know who wins? This whole thing is rigged!”
“Champion just means that he’s earned enough points from other shows to get a ‘bye’ past the class level,” Emma explained. “Jasmine is just four points shy of her championship. We should reach that today. Of course, dogs like Electra and Xerxes are grand champions.”
Griffin nodded. “We were thinking of going that route with Luthor — you know, skipping over regular champion and going straight to grand.”
Emma regarded him pityingly, but before she could comment, the PA system burst to life, calling the contestants in for the initial round of judging. Border collie puppies were in the first ring; the open class of Norwich terriers were in the second. American-bred standard poodles were in ring three.
“That’s us, Jazzy,” Emma sang out.
Jasmine followed reluctantly, tossing soulful gazes over her shoulder in Luthor’s direction. Her “boyfriend” peered back, his heart in his dark eyes.
“I guess girl dogs fall for the bad boy thing, too,” Ben commented.
Griffin wondered if Emma would take more notice of him if he was a bad boy — instead of just a bad dog handler.
Jasmine’s departure seemed to make Luthor antsy, so the boys took him over to observe the poodle judging. They pushed their way into the crowd around ring three. There were twelve dogs of various colors, all groomed exactly like Jasmine.
“I guess the butt-shave is all the rage this year,” Ben commented.
Griffin tried to seize the teachable moment for Luthor. “You see? That’s stacking.”
The Doberman only had eyes for Jasmine, who was still as a statue, her front legs perfectly perpendicular to the ground. She might have been carved from white marble.
Griffin and Ben were waiting for the judging to begin when it was announced that the judging was over. Numbers were spoken, which meant absolutely nothing to the boys. The man might just as easily have been a quarterback calling a football play. And then a beaming Emma led Jasmine triumphantly to the winners circle.
“That must be good,” Ben mused.
Everyone applauded, even the other owners and trainers. Luthor looked on with interest.
“Way to go, Emma!” Griffin cheered loudly.
It earned him a disapproving look from the winning handler.
Jasmine stood a little taller and preened.
“Come on, let’s go congratulate them!” Griffin urged.
Ben was mystified. “Why?”
&
nbsp; “They won!” Griffin insisted. “They’re moving on to Best of Breed.”
“What do we care about the poodle contest? We’re Dobermans.”
Sure enough, the next announcement called the open class of Dobermans to the second ring.
“This is it!” Griffin exclaimed excitedly.
They had always known that Luthor was large for his breed, but this was the first time they’d seen him next to other Dobermans. They barely came up to his withers, and his head towered over them. In every other way, the eleven dogs were identical — short black-and-tan fur, elegant body lines, strong and muscular, with a proud demeanor. There was a buzz around the ring as spectators discussed “the big guy,” and whether or not he was a true Doberman, or perhaps interbred with Great Dane bloodlines. Ben tried to counteract this by announcing loudly, “Are you sure those little guys are the real deal? They look part Chihuahua to me!”
One of the owners, a man with a heavily waxed mustache that gave him the appearance of holding a stick in his mouth, seemed to be arguing with the judge. Griffin couldn’t hear the conversation, but from the pointing and gesturing, it was clear the man was complaining about Luthor. The judge seemed to be ignoring him, but she was looking at Luthor with perhaps a touch of suspicion.
Before lining up for stacking, the smaller contestants formed a group around Luthor, as if acknowledging the king.
Griffin knew a moment of fear when the judge stepped into the ring. Luthor was nothing if not unpredictable. But as the other dogs fell into stacking position at the end of their leashes, Luthor followed suit. So far, so good.
This judge — an older woman — was all business, grim and unsmiling. At first, she walked around the ring, examining the animals from many different angles.
Hurry up, Griffin thought to himself, you’re judging, not buying a used car.
“Take them around,” she commanded.
Around what? But when the other handlers began leading the dogs around the perimeter of the ring, he fell into line. It was a little tricky, since Luthor’s stride was longer than that of the competition, and soon he was tailgating. Griffin tried to pull back on the leash, but Luthor cast him a look of such annoyance that he eased off. The big Doberman was used to obstacles getting out of his way, not vice versa.