Behaving Badly by Isabel Wolff Page A

of ‘Scarborough Fair’ I heard the church clock chime a quarter past three.
    ‘And now,’ Caroline announced with the megaphone, ‘we’re going to start the highlight of the afternoon—thedog show—in the small arena there at the end of the lawn. I’d like to tell you that we’re very lucky in having Miranda Sweet, the animal behaviourist from Animal Crackers , adjudicating for us today. So, for anyone who’d like to watch it, the “Waggiest Tail” category will be starting in five minutes.’
    ‘Thanks for the nice intro,’ I said, as we walked towards the ring with Herman.
    ‘No,’ she said, ‘thank you . Now, we’ll both have cordless mikes so that everyone can hear us.’
    There were about ten dogs taking part in this category, their owners all holding up numbered cards. The audience sat on folding chairs or perched on hay bales as the competing dogs were walked round. In the background we could hear the band playing ‘Mad Dogs and Englishmen’. Caroline tapped on both mikes, and then spoke.
    ‘Now, it’s the quality of the wag that matters, isn’t it, Miranda?’ she said with mock-seriousness, as a butterfly fluttered past her.
    ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It is. That English setter has a lovely sweeping wag, for example—you could polish the floor with it. The retriever’s got a nice strong wag too.’
    ‘It has—I can feel the breeze from here!’
    ‘Interestingly, we have two dogs that don’t actually have tails—the boxer and the corgi—both waggling their behinds there; but it would be unfair to discriminate against the docked breeds.’
    ‘It would. The St Bernard has quite a slow, deliberate wag, doesn’t he?’ Caroline added. ‘I must say that the pug doesn’t look as though he’s doing much wagging at all.’
    ‘Well, their tails don’t actually wag very well, because of the way they curl over their backs. But he certainly looks as though he’s trying his best.’
    ‘He does. There’s some very enthusiastic wagging therefrom the Norfolk terrier and a slightly twitchy wag there from the collie cross. Maybe he’s a little nervous,’ she suggested with a smile. I saw the owner laugh.
    ‘Okay, everyone,’ I announced. ‘Please would you walk round the ring just once more?’
    ‘Have you made your decision?’ Caroline asked a minute later.
    I scribbled in my notebook, then held up my mike. ‘I have. In reverse order, the winners of this category are: in third place—number five, the boxer; in second place—the English setter, who’s number six. And in first place is number nine, the Norfolk terrier, whose tail really does wag the dog.’
    Everyone clapped as I handed the owners their respective rosettes. And now, from out of the corner of my eye, I could see Jimmy, his arms folded, just standing there, watching.
    ‘Now for the next category,’ Caroline announced. ‘This is always a popular one—the dog most like its owner. So would all the contestants for this class please enter the ring.’
    Some of them resembled their canine partners to an astonishing degree. There was a jowly looking man with a bloodhound, a tall, aristocratic-looking woman with a borzoi, and a poodle accompanied by a white-haired woman with a very tight curly perm. Others had resorted to artifice—like the young boy who’d had his face painted white with a black patch over one eye to make him look like his Jack Russell, and the little girl and her yorkie with matching coiffures. Some had clearly entered with a fine sense of irony. There was a bald man with an Afghan, an overweight woman with a whippet, a thin little man with a massive bulldog, and a woman my size with a Great Dane. As they paraded round the arena I found myself thinking that if the competition were about finding a similarity between the human and canine temperaments then Jimmy and Trigger would winhands down. By now, Jimmy was standing on the opposite side of the ring. I could sense that he was looking at me. Suddenly I