Best in Show by Laurien Berenson

disappointed in me if I left now. We came here to do a job, didn’t we? Well by damn, I intend to see it through to the end and nobody’s going to stop me.”
    â€œOf course not. Not if that’s what you want.”
    â€œThank you, dear.” Edith Jean patted my hand. “I know you’re only trying to help. But Sister and I thought of our Poodles and the Poodle community as our family. I’d much rather stay here and fulfill our obligations than go home and wallow in self-pity. There will be plenty of time for that when the show is over.”
    Her words made me feel worse than ever. According to Aunt Peg, most of the PCA members barely knew the Boone sisters. None saw them more than once or twice a year. It was sad to think that these were the people whom Edith Jean regarded as those closest to her.
    The older woman marched over to the box she’d brought in on the dolly and began to unpack the raffle prizes. I hastened to lend a hand. Literally, since we only had three between us.
    â€œYou know, I’ll bet there’s a doctor here somewhere,” I mentioned. “A couple of PCA members are doctors, aren’t they? Maybe the announcer could make a request over the PA system.”
    â€œStop worrying about me,” E.J. said over her shoulder. “That’s an order. Keep going on like that, and you’ll drive me right around the bend. I may be old, but I’m not incapacitated.”
    â€œI never—”
    Her quelling look shut me up. Instead, I simply pitched in and went to work beside her.
    Business was slow for the remainder of the morning. Most people who came by, did so to offer their condolences. Edith Jean accepted everyone’s good wishes with grace and the firm assertion that she had no intention of abandoning her post, even under such trying circumstances.
    After a while, she got out the basket, loaded it up, and sent me and Eve on a tour of the show site. I suspected she was more interested in getting us out of her hair than she was in ticket sales. If Edith Jean wanted some time to herself, however, I was happy to oblige her.
    By noon, Eve and I had sold tickets to every person in the arena who was even remotely interested in the raffle, and probably some to those who weren’t. I’d missed the morning seminar, but now that Edith Jean was back on the job I was hoping to head back to the hotel for the afternoon. Aside from wanting to catch a glimpse of Aunt Peg’s psychic, it was time to start grooming Eve in anticipation of her class Thursday morning.
    â€œYou go on,” Edith Jean said when I broached the subject. “Of course I can handle things here. It’s not as if we’re even busy. Things will start perking up tomorrow when the breed show opens. Everyone will be here for that.”
    â€œWhat time is Bubba’s class?” I asked.
    The dog (or male) classes in all three Poodle varieties would be judged on Wednesday. For the first two days of the breed competition, two rings were set up in the arena and they ran simultaneously. Standard Poodles, with the biggest entry and one that usually took all day to judge, had a ring to themselves. Miniature and Toy Poodles were judged in the other ring—one variety showing in the morning and the other in the afternoon. Which size went first, alternated years.
    â€œMinis are first this time,” said Edith Jean. “Which puts Bubba in the second class after lunch. You’ll be here then, right, so I can go to the ring and watch?”
    â€œRight,” I agreed.
    The raffle table had an excellent location on the arena floor. In fact, if the crowds weren’t heavy, we could see the ring from where we stood. But being able to casually peruse the judging from afar, and analyzing the competition in your own dog’s class down to the most minute detail, were two distinctly different things.
    Not only that but most dog owners went into hiding when their dogs