Hounded To Death. Laurien Berenson

used to say in earlier times, before women had minivans to cart around their expanding bodies.

      Yes, I had begun to outgrow my clothing. But needing an entire bench just to sit by myself? Thankfully I wasn’t expanding that fast.

      “Speaking of which,” said Bertie, “how are you feeling?”

      Let’s recap here for a minute. When my lovely redheaded sister-in-law had been pregnant the previous year, she’d sailed through that nine months with the same aplomb she brought to most endeavors. No matronly maternity clothes for her; she’d simply borrowed some of Frank’s shirts and jeans, refashioned them around the slight bump in her figure, and made do. She’d eaten whatever she wanted, glowed like an angel, and handled her clients’ dogs to numerous wins nearly right up until the day she delivered.

      Remembering that was enough to make me feel like giving her another poke.

      Bertie must have read my mind because she moved out of easy range. “Everything okay?”

      “Just fine,” I replied.

      Which was true if you didn’t count the fact that I felt grumpy, and lumpy, and had to pee every five minutes.

      “I’m delighted to have your company,” said Aunt Peg. “But under the circumstances, frankly I was a little surprised that Sam let you go.”

      Sam was my husband. We’d eloped in the spring after an extended engagement. But despite the brief duration of our marriage, not only had I not had a hard time getting away, but Sam had all but packed my bag and pushed me out the door. He’d claimed to be acting for my own good.

      It was amazing how many times that phrase seemed to have popped up lately. This current pregnancy was my second. The first had taken place ten years earlier and produced my son, Davey, who had remained at home with Sam. I supposed I’d forgotten in the intervening time how involved other people tended to become when a woman was carrying a baby. Not to mention how many decisions they felt qualified to make on her behalf.

      Sometimes it seemed as though the general consensus was that pregnancy was not only changing my body but also addling my brain.

      Nevertheless I knew that Sam had been trying to do the right thing. He had wanted me to slow down my schedule, and somehow that solicitude on his part had morphed into my accompanying Aunt Peg on a small vacation of sorts.

      During the school year, I work as a special needs tutor at a private academy in Greenwich, Connecticut. Luckily, however, Aunt Peg’s proposed getaway had come up in the middle of October and coincided with fall break. Which was how I’d come to find myself in the backseat of a minivan, on my way to a dog show judges’ symposium at the Rockwall Mountain Inn in the Poconos.

      “Sam knew I’d be in good hands.” I was careful to keep any trace of irony from my voice.

      “Good luck with that,” said Bertie. “Not that I don’t love Maggie to bits, but taking care of a baby is a fulltime job. This trip is going to be my great escape and I intend to make the most of it.”

      “Really?” Aunt Peg slanted a look down her nose. “What exactly do you have planned?”

      Usually those looks are aimed at me. Most times they make me squirm with discomfort. Not Bertie; she just grinned.

      “You know,” she said, “the usual. Sleeping until seven-thirty, wearing clothes that don’t have spit-up on the shoulder, enjoying a little privacy in the bathroom. All those wild things.”

      “Good.” Aunt Peg nodded with satisfaction. “That won’t interfere. While I’m busy with lectures and such, you’ll be the one taking care of Melanie.”

      “Taking care of Melanie?” I echoed incredulously from the backseat. If they could talk about me in the third person, so could I. “Melanie is a grown woman, thank you very much. She doesn’t need to be taken care of.”

      “You know how she has a propensity to get herself into trouble.” Aunt Peg blithely ignored my protest.

      While I was busy sputtering, Bertie came to my defense.

      “Funny thing about that,” she said to Peg. “When it comes to trouble, I seem to recall you’ve found your share.”

      “Nonsense. That’s been nothing more than a bit of bad luck and poor timing.”

      “And general nosiness,” I said.

      Aunt Peg mustered a credible show of outrage. “Perhaps you might be thinking of yourself, because you certainly can’t be referring to me. I’ll admit that on occasion I might feel obliged to step in and lend a hand when a problem arises unexpectedly. But mostly I keep my opinions to myself and let other people find their own way. Why, if I were a country, I’d probably be Switzerland.”

      “Switzerland,” I said faintly.

      The mind boggled. Aunt Peg thought of herself as a neutral country. And here I’d always imagined her more like an elite special forces unit. Something along the lines of Mossad.

      “Don’t worry,” said Bertie, “I’ll do my best to keep an eye on her.”

      She looked back and winked.

      “Neither one of you needs to worry,” I said firmly. “My schedule is going to be totally filled with panels and seminars. With so many events crammed into the agenda, I doubt there will be time for any of us to get into trouble.”

      “Amen to that,” said Peg.

      “This is my first symposium,” said Bertie. “Tell me what to expect.”

      “I’m only one ahead of you,” I admitted. “This is just my second.”

      My tenure in the dog show world was relatively new. Not like Aunt Peg, who’d been involved for decades, first as a Standard Poodle breeder, and then more recently as a judge. Initially approved for the three varieties of Poodles—Standard, Miniature, and Toy—she’d quickly moved on to add more breeds to her resume.

      The surest way to judging success is to gain approval in multiple groups, and Aunt Peg was well on her way. The Non-Sporting group was already hers, and by the end of the year she would have approval for all the Toy breeds as well.

      Bertie, on the other hand, was a professional handler. Her knowledge of judges and judging came from the other end of the leash. She had neither a breeding program, nor strong ties to any one particular breed.

      Her forte was presentation. Breeders who lacked either the skill or the desire to handle their own dogs in the ring hired her to do it for them. She had handled hundreds of dogs to their championships and dozens to coveted group and Best in Show victories.

      Part of Bertie’s job was to study judges she exhibited under and figure out exactly what each one wanted to see in a dog. It was a skill she excelled at. Even so, the thought of becoming a judge herself still seemed like a foreign concept to her.

      To tell the truth, it did to me too. Not that I would have dreamed of admitting as much to Aunt Peg. She would have seen such a notion as heresy.

      “There was a symposium held in conjunction with Westminster last year,” I said. “That was my first. It covered a bunch of breeds and ran all day Saturday and Sunday.”

      “I was busy showing at specialties then,” Bertie said with a sigh. “Nobody plans these things with handlers in mind.”

      Casual spectators think of the Westminster dog show as the crown jewel of the dog world. It’s the show that has the cachet, the television coverage, and Madison Square Garden. But for many of the exhibitors who come to New York, wins at the specialty shows that precede the main event are equally important.

      “That’s why you’re in luck now,” said Aunt Peg. “This should be a tremendous learning opportunity both for aspiring judges and for those of us who are already approved. Aside from the various breed lectures, there will be panels on the mechanics of the judging process, on bookkeeping, hassle-free traveling,