Flawed Dogs (19 page)

“There!” Sam pointed to a spiral staircase that disappeared up to the arena’s roof far above. “Remember to wait for my signal!”

“Forever, handsome,” cooed Madam. Tusk galloped up the stairs toward the roof, Madam hanging on to his back with a cat’s nimble balance.

Sam then led his team to the arena’s main backstage area. It looked like the pits of the Indianapolis 500, the dozens of racers surrounded by their crews prepping them for the big event. But instead of engines being tuned, it was fur being poofed, nails polished and painted, teeth whitened, noses wiped, eyelashes curled, tails trimmed, breaths sweetened and bottoms perfumed.

The mutts below the fur coat peeked out, eyes wide and disbelieving. They simply had no idea that such creatures existed outside of legend.

“Look,” said Ol’ Blue, her voice hushed in awe. Never had these unwanted mutts imagined that any dogs could receive so much slavish, smothering, all-consuming devotion from any human being.

This they mistook for love, and it only focused them on the task at hand.

A blast of trumpets startled them. It was the signal for the grand procession of champions. The backstage exploded into a sudden flurry of action, and the dogs and their owners lined up to enter the main arena.

The commandos found a hidden corner behind a support pillar and tumbled forth from the clothing. They moved to a curtain, and each poked out an un-wiped nose to behold the extraordinary sight unfolding inside the cavernous coliseum.

Amidst flashing camera bulbs, men and women led the show dogs in a procession around the arena, circling a central area covered by a vast red carpet. The hundred thousand people in the seats cheered and waved and thundered their approval or disapproval of the canine gladiators strutting before them as they prepared for their battle of beauty. Occasionally, one human would break from the procession and run to the arena’s edge and raise his dog above his head before the mob and send them into spasms of hysteria—bewitched as they were by the animal’s groomed glory.

On and on the parade of dogs and people went, strutting and prancing and basking in the crowd’s passionate roars. Sam scanned the dogs, desperately looking for the huge poodle whose scent even now filled his nostrils, just as its memory filled his thoughts and dreams. He would find Cassius.

And he would kill him.

Or die trying.

The dogs and their owners returned backstage while another blast of trumpets announced the next vital stage in the day’s events:

Lunch.

As if called by trainers, the humans streamed out from the backstage area and departed for the miniature sandwich squares at the Grand Breeders Lunch in the terrace, leaving their spoiled champions in their little curtained stalls to do what they did best:

Sleep.

Sam whispered to his commandos: “Get going.”

His squad of saboteurs scampered off in all directions and got busy. With paint. Hair gel. Super Glue. Hair dye. Breakfast cereal.

And in Willy and Bug’s case, hair clippers.

A fluffy-furred, puffy white prize bichon from Paris snoozed on his grooming table but awoke to a familiar noise. He sleepily looked up to see what he believed to be an enormous hairy potato beetle hanging from the light post above him, with another tiny dog the size of a rodent wrapped in his tongue and dangling just over his body. The rodent dog was holding electric dog clippers and was nearly finished shaving the bichon’s body smooth. Except for the buttocks.

The bichon laid his head back down, comforted in the knowledge that he was either dreaming or he was dead and being set upon by demons. Either way, worrying about it was more stress than he was used to and he returned to sleep.

Sam watched with limited interest as his commandos worked . . . for this wasn’t why he was really here, of course.

He crept quietly down the aisle of stalls, inspecting the sleeping dogs. Looking. Sniffing.

“Where are you, Cassius, old boy?” whispered Sam, his heart racing. His nose led him to the final stall, its curtains completely closed, hiding the dog within. He stood poised, unmoving, like a bird dog pointed at its prey.

Suddenly he caught another familiar scent. He knew this one too.

Mrs. Beaglehole.

Sam smelled her dreadful perfume made from the feet of Turkish peahens.

Suddenly the curtains flew open and she appeared, chewing a chicken leg. Sam froze and stared up at her staring down at him only feet away.

The huge woman cocked her head and stopped chewing.
That beautiful dachshund looks familiar.

They locked eyes. Sam didn’t breathe.

“Couldn’t be,” she said out loud to herself. “You’re DEAD!”

She never actually got a chance to say the word
dead,
for when she inhaled her mighty lungs to do so, she sucked the chicken leg into her gaping throat. Grasping at her neck, the choking woman stumbled backward and fell onto the dog bathtub, splintering it into shards of fiberglass while wrenching an ankle made weak from years of supporting more bulk than it was designed for. She belched out a shriek of pain, which shot the chicken leg forth from her mouth like a bazooka, hitting a Persian pekinese in the pooper in the next stall, saving her life but forever traumatizing his.

Sam thought it best to run, which he did, but not before glimpsing the unmistakable puffs of Cassius’s white kinky fur as he lay slumbering on a table inside.

Cassius! There! So close . . .

Sam’s mind raced . . .

At that same moment, a TV news helicopter circled over the Madison Square Garden arena, reporting on the dog show.

“Lookit that,” said the reporter, staring down at the building’s roof during a break.

“Lookit what?” said the pilot.

“There’s a skinny little mutt on the roof looking through the skylight.”

“It’s a dog show. He’s sneaking a peek.” The pilot laughed.

“There’s another mutt dragging buckets of dirt from the palm trees up to the water tank and dumping them in.”

“Dumping dirt into the water tank?” said the pilot.

“He’s making mud,” said the reporter. “Wait. Hold it . . .”

He looked again.

“It’s a rhinoceros.”

“Sabotage team, fall back!” whispered Sam, running through the dog stalls moments before the humans returned from lunch. His happy saboteurs poked their heads up from their tasks. The show dogs still napped, professional beauty being exhausting work.

Wee Willy spat out the electric shaver in his mouth. “What’s the matter?”

“Get back into the clothes. We’re suiting up!”

Bug trotted over to Sam, trying to keep up with him. “We’re not finished, Sam.”

“Doesn’t matter! Change of plans! Let’s go!”

“Go and do what?” said Bug, running behind.

Sam and his team disappeared again into the dark corner where they’d left Mrs. Nutbush’s things and started piling atop each other below the clothes, putting the poor woman back together once again. Sam slipped the collar over his head, still connected to the leash that was tied to the empty sleeve and glove.

Jeeves pulled himself into the bosom position but stuck a foot into Fabio’s ear, making the two-legged mutt jump and sending the lot of them tumbling to the floor in a furred heap.

“C’mon! The others are leaving!” whispered Sam, growing frantic.

“Tell Jeeves my ear is not a footstool,” said Fabio. Wee Willy looked out from under the blue vole fur hat as the confused commandos started construction yet again.

“Sam,” he said. “What are we doing?”

“Meeting an old friend,” said Sam.

Trumpets blew and the lights dimmed in the arena as the crowd roared in anticipation of the final competition . . . and the naming of the grand champion. The judge stood in the center of the red carpet and spoke into the microphone:

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, the finalists for the Westminster best in show . . . the most beautiful dogs in all the world!”