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It was hotter than July and the sun beat down as I hugged the shadows of the catering tent. Ordinarily I wouldn’t be seen dead at a dog show, let alone naked at one, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I scanned the avenue of trade stands and there it was. From 30 feet away it looked authentic, from 10 feet away it was a plastic tent that could only be appreciated from 30 feet away. I decided to take a closer look. Hunching into my collar, I wandered closer. Without my raincoat I felt like a walking target with a big fat bullseye painted on my back. Dead ahead were the longest pairs of legs I’d seen in a month of Sundays. She was tall blonde and slender, with big brown eyes that would melt the heart of a tin man. “Well, hello there”, she drawled, in a voice as thick and soft as molasses. “All alone? My name’s Lola Lamont.” She looked down her aristocratic nose and smouldered enticingly. “Who are you?” She was the most beautiful Afghan I’d ever looked up to - but business was business and my time was running out. I handed her a card. |
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She read the card and gave me a sideways look. The kind of look that says volumes about a dame. “I like my men tough and my steaks rare,” she said. “And right now I’m feeling kinda hungry.” I felt a tremor through my tail but this was no time to get the shakes. I scribbled my private number on the card and gave it back to her. “I know a girl like you is rarely without company, but if you get lonely some time, give me a call.” I smiled at her winningly. She was a classy broad all right. She took a good hard look at me and tossed her head before answering. “I’ll bear it in mind.” A delicate scent wafted through the air: Vidal Sassoon Salon Mist, CFC-free, pump-action, ozone-friendly. Lola could turn me green anytime. She glanced over her shoulder suggestively. “If you change your mind about dinner, give me a whistle. You know how to whistle, don’t you Bob? You just put your lips together and blow." I slipped under the trestle table at the front of the Bonzo Bow-Wow Fine Chow stand and sniffed the merchandise. Noses don’t come any better and one whiff told me all I needed to know. I listened as the saleslady dished out the patter. “It’s economical, nutritious, and Bow-Wow adult maintenance contains 19% protein. For underweight animals, working and racing dogs or those under stress, we do Bow-Wow Supreme, which contains 30% protein, diced chicken giblets and saffron rice in freeze-dried gravy granules.” I stuck my head in the bucket and recoiled - you’d have to be pretty stressed-out to eat this stuff. I looked up just in time to see Lola’s owner picking up a six-pack. It was now or never. I leaped out from behind the plastic bins stinking like a stableboy. Grabbing the nearest giant-sized sack, I tore a huge chunk out of the centre and scattered the contents. A sweet and pungent aroma filled the air, familiar to all those who live in the countryside. “Rabbit droppings!”, bayed a passing hound, and within seconds, Trade Stand Avenue was a writhing scrum of show dogs taking time out for a quick roll in a damp substance. The haughty shampoo and spray set were miraculously transformed into shaggy dogs with slime green highlights shot through with Bow-Wow Fine Chow candied crunchy coating. A crowd of irate exhibitors were lining up behind Lola’s owner. “Bonzo Bow-Wow”, she complained, “has been passing off rabbit droppings as top-class premium dried dog food, and I wish to make an official complaint!” She was a tough cookie. I could see where Lola got her style. Lola slipped her collar and flowed across the grass towards me looking for all the world like a classic blonde in a Timotei ad. Too bad I couldn’t hang around: I had one eye on her chassis and the other on Ring 22. It was time for my big moment. Reluctantly, I blew her a kiss and left as the police arrived to investigate the fracas. Shame we couldn’t get better acquainted but business and pleasure rarely mix. I congratulated myself on another case solved: a hefty bill would be on its way to a rival manufacturer in the morning. I made it to Ring 22 just in time and lined up with the other saps. I took a quick look at the judge - the usual middle-aged party in a tweed skirt. These dames are ruthless: they fly all over the world for a free lunch and a ticket for the officials car park. Sure, they can spot good movement, but can they recognise a virtuoso? I do them all: pointers, terriers - you name it - I’m the Rory Bremner of Dogdom. I knew she had her eye on me - I pride myself on being quite a specimen, with or without clothes. “Watch this”, I said as I started on my triangle. Step, step, hop - step, step, hop. There’s this Miniature Snauzer down our way, never could walk straight, and I’ve got him down to a T. There’s not too many that could keep a free-flowing stride going with that kind of syncopation, but I’m no ordinary guy - my mother was a Texan gal and my old man? There’s more notches on his aluminium water bowl than a Red Indian’s got scalps. The expected gasp of horror whispered around the ring. I could tell they thought I was lame, so I changed legs on the next hop. That foxed them all right. I’ve got theories about most things and I’m usually right. Standing in the final line-up, I was passed over for the hum-drum guys with predictable footwork. And this babe knows good movement when she sees it? I was grinning through my whiskers when I made the bench.
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