Nina Wright - Whiskey with a Twist

I eyed Abra warily. We hadn’t seen each other in eighteen hours. Her coat was as tangled as it had been the day before. But something had changed. She gazed at Susan with what appeared to be profound devotion. Then I got it: Abra wasn’t calm; she was waiting. Yes, that was it. The hairy beast was coiled and ready to spring into crazy mode the moment Susan handed me her lead.

“Here’s what we’ll do,” Susan said cheerily. “Ramona will make a brief announcement. Then you’ll hear a prerecorded drum roll and some marching music. That’s your cue to walk clockwise all the way around the arena, starting from the side door, over there.”

She pointed, but I didn’t play along.

“I know where the side door is. I went out that way. Right past you.”

Susan didn’t blink. “Then you know exactly where to go, don’t you?”

With that, she passed the leash. I held my breath as the leather loop slipped into my hand and around my wrist. Abra’s head rotated in my direction; we locked eyes. I willed the Afghan hound to read my thoughts: We will walk. Together. You will not drag me. You will not disgrace me. You will not dislocate my shoulder.

I wasn’t thinking about the march around the arena; I just wanted to make it to our starting position at the side door. Once we got that far, I would pray for the next miracle.

But something else happened first. Abra and I were turning toward the side exit when a cry went up from somewhere behind us. I heard Susan’s voice shouting, “Drop! Silverado, drop! Somebody stop that dog!”

The next few moments were a mad blur of Afghan hound and human commotion. I whirled around in time to see Silverado, the big blue dog that Kori had shown. He was now bearing down on me. I don’t mean that in a scary way. After all, this was the dog who had better manners than I did. Standing still, Silverado is a large, gorgeous dog, a picture postcard of male Afghan hound glory. In motion, coming straight at me, he was all churning legs and flying fur-an apparently airborne canine on a mission. And that mission, as it turned out, was making contact with Abra.

My bimbo bitch had attracted a brand new hunk. A champion, no less. And this time, the hunk was the chaser rather than the chased. Usually Abra instigated and controlled all things sexual. She saw, she chased, she conquered. In human terms, my dog was a dominatrix. But not today. As Silverado flew at her, she dropped into a submissive posture. And I accidentally dropped the leash. I don’t know what made me do it, the sight of Silverado charging or of Abra playing the coquette.

One brief instant of complete human detachment was all those two required. Abra bounced straight up as only an Afghan can, executed a spectacular mid-air twirl, and zoomed out the open side door, followed closely by her excited beau. Being an un-neutered male, his excitement was obvious to all.

Susan was still calling for her boy to “drop” even as his silver self vanished from the arena. Matt Koniger bounded valiantly after the dogs. If he’d asked my advice, I could have saved him some sweat. Been there, done that, got nothing for it. Nobody but nobody can catch Abra and partner in medias res.

I realized then that Susan had switched from calling Silverado to cursing Kori. Fleetingly I wondered if the other Bad Example was once again kissing the invisible bodyguard. I hoped so for her sake. That way even if Kori got nailed by her aunt for screwing up big-time, she would have the satisfaction of a face well kissed.

Did I mention that I had lunged all the way to the floor? I was now in the undignified position of having lost not only my dog-and, by association, Susan’s-but also my balance. Unlike some women-including, no doubt, Susan-I don’t slide gracefully down. I topple. I tumble. I crash. From my position on one knee with the opposite foot turned sideways underneath me, there was no elegant way to get vertical.

Fortunately, a gentleman extended a hand. Perry Stiles smiled down at me. Correction: the man beamed.

“Now that’s what I call a ‘Spotlight Moment,’” he said as he gently returned me to full upright position.

I moaned, “That turned out way worse than I’d imagined!”

“Au contraire. Think about what happened here. Susan’s unattended dog caused your dog to escape. I hate to speak litigiously, but let’s be realistic. Should Abra fail to return, you might very well have grounds for a lawsuit.”

“Abra never fails to return,” I assured him.

Perry kept smiling as Susan bellowed for Kori; he seemed deviously delighted by the Breeder Educator’s dismay.

“Isn’t Kori the one in trouble?” I said.

“Susan will blame Kori, of course. But the buck stops with the owner. That’s the law.”

I gazed at the side exit.

“Why is that door ajar? I had to push it open when I went out earlier.”

“Handlers prop it open to hear what’s going on inside while they’re outside with their dogs,” Perry said. “Quite a coincidence, don’t you agree?”

I nodded although I had to ask what he meant.

“That Kori the handler is nowhere to be seen when Matt the handler turns into an action-hero.”

I nodded again, but I still didn’t get it… 'til Perry summed it up.

“Kori, bad. Matt, good. Kori is on Liam’s side. Matt is on Susan’s side. Somebody wanted to make sure Kori looked bad.”

“You don’t think Kori just screwed up?”

“Oh, she screwed up, all right. She won her round! Bad examples aren’t supposed to best the competition. So Susan had to even the score. With a little help.”

My head was starting to hurt. “Are you saying that Susan and Matt framed Kori by setting Silverado loose after making sure the door was open for his escape?”

Perry grinned wickedly. “Do I have to say it?”

“I thought Matt seemed kind of nice. Except for the illicit lover thing. He was friendly when I asked about grooming Afghan hounds.”

“Oh, Matt’s very friendly. Ask any woman here.”

Ah-hah. Perry had given me an opening. Unfortunately, I lost it to the chaos following my Spotlight Moment. Someone was paging Perry, no doubt to deal with the complications of a lost champion and a missing Bad Example. Counting Kori, that was two missing Bad Examples. Perry excused himself to tend to business.

Meanwhile, for what I assumed was the benefit of the crowd around her, Susan continued to rant about Kori. I heard her say, “My niece is showing her true colors now. And they’re not pink, they’re yellow! When it’s time to take responsibility, Kori is afraid to show her face!”

Susan seemed almost as theatrical as Ramona. Then it occurred to me that I hadn’t seen Ramona lately. Not, in fact, since the Breeder Breakfast. Abra had left too soon to cue Ramona’s opening remarks for our Walk of Shame.

Two ashen-faced breeders intercepted Perry before he could walk twenty feet. His smug expression instantly disappeared; in its place was a look of genuine horror.

Perry Stiles dashed past me with such sudden speed that I couldn’t compute what was happening. His run was accompanied by a chorus of shrieking sirens. Also shrieking Afghan hound fanciers; they scurried through the side door after him. I joined the fray.

The scene of the crime was around the corner of the building, at almost the exact spot where I’d caught Kori kissing MacArthur (and MacArthur kissing her back). But there was nothing titillating about what had gone down since.

My height permitted me to peer over the heads of shorter mortals. A small crowd had gathered around the prone form of Ramona Bowden. She looked much as she had when she’d fainted in my driveway on Thursday, save three major differences: (1) Jeb hadn’t thrown himself on top of her for protection; (2) she was face down; and (3) there was a whole lot of blood.