my fat spaniel was ridiculous.
That morning before the dog show I brushed William again. He didn’t even complain when I paid particular attention to his curly tail. Ever since the shark nipped the tip off, it wasn’t much of a tail, and he was sensitive about it.
He was ticklish around his paws. “Stop squirming!” I said.
“Get it over with!” he growled.
“Alex!” my mom called from the direction of the kitchen. “We have to get going. I don’t want to be late for my match.”
I knew all about her way of playing tennis – just knocking some balls about for a couple of minutes. The main thing was to have tea and scones with her friends afterwards. William understood this too, and he winked at me.
Mom deposited us in front of the town hall. The place was teeming with dogs and their owners.
“Please behave!” I said to William. I knew him well – he always acted bossy around other dogs, convinced that none of them were as clever and as strong as he was. Well, he was probably right.
He’d been trained by the International Detective Agency (better known as the IDA) and he was an expert in the martial arts, among other things.
William made a snide remark in dog-language to a passing Jack Russell. The smaller dog was visibly upset and started barking furiously.
“I told him the Doberman behind us said his
mother was a Chihuahua,” William whispered to me.
“This is no time to start a fight,” I warned, but the Jack Russell jerked his leash out of his owner’s hand and went for the Doberman. He fought dirty: he ran straight under the larger dog’s legs and got hold of his softer bits, staying clear of the snapping jaws. Other dogs readily threw themselves into the fight, and a terrible commotion broke out.
“Control your dogs!” A round man in a black suit boomed. He bore down on the tangle of fighting dogs. A Weimaraner, a Labrador and a wire-haired fox terrier were dragged away by their collars. Leashes got tangled, women were screaming and someone shouted, “Spray them with water!”
William and I quietly sneaked off.
“You are all disqualified!” we heard the round man shouting. I glanced back and saw that his face was glowing red with rage.
“Excellent!” William said. “That Doberman was the favourite to walk away with the blue ribbon today.”
“William, did you start the fight on purpose?” I asked.
But he put on an innocent face and said: “Hurry up, the judging is going to start soon!”
Open cages were set up around the hall. William’s entry was number thirty-nine, and we found his spot in the right-hand back corner of the hall. Proud owners were putting finishing touches to their pets’ grooming. Tails were being curled, whiskers were being waxed and tufts of hair sprayed with small bottles of special styling lotion. There were Pomeranians with bushy tails, pugs with bulging eyes and sausage dogs almost half a metre long. I had never seen so many dogs in one place. People were laughing and chatting, dogs were barking and yelping, the air was thick with excitement.
“William, how did you manage this?” I suddenly remembered the question that I had wanted to ask all along.
“Manage what?” he asked.
“To enter yourself in this competition.”
“On the Internet, of course,” he said.
Too bad he couldn’t earn extra marks for that, I thought. A dog that could enter himself on the Internet should get a few bonus points but, glancing around me at all the splendid thoroughbreds, I didn’t see much of a chance for my spotted spaniel.
“Who is that guy?” I asked when I caught sight of the round man in the dark suit again.
“That would be Sibelius Sprok,” William whispered, taking care that no one heard him talk. The band of judges was moving closer, keenly making notes on their clipboards. Sibelius Sprok was clearly in charge. He led the other judges from one cage to another, loudly criticising every dog he encountered. Horn-rimmed spectacles were balanced on the tip of his nose, and his bushy eyebrows wriggled as he addressed the owner of a minute Yorkshire terrier.
“How much does she weigh?” he asked.
“About one thousand and fifty grams, before breakfast!” the owner nervously replied. “She is a very light eater. About three pellets will see her through the day …”
“Hmm … that will bring her weight to one thousand and fifty three grams, at least, and, as you well know, that is three grams more than we can allow for small toy dogs.” A round lady in a flowery dress made careful notes of everything he said.
The owner of the Yorkie now appeared to be close to tears. “But she is such a splendid example of her breed!” he protested. “Look at the set of her eyes and the perfect balance of her little shoulders and her hindquarters …”
“Disqualified!” Sprok said and moved on to his next victim.
All of this made me very nervous. It was clear that this guy Sprok was impossible to please. None of the dogs were good enough for him. The other judges were falling over their feet to agree with everything he said, making big red crosses on their clipboards.
It was going to be a disaster. William wouldn’t take kindly to criticism like that, and the judges were moving closer and closer to us. And what would happen if Sprok poked William with a thick finger, as he was now doing to an innocent-looking beagle?
“Let’s go, William, this was a really bad idea,” I said.
But William just sat there, staring straight ahead in the distance and puffing out his chest.
Then it was our turn.
“What is your dog’s name, young man?” Sprok asked me.
“William. William Simpson!” I said.
“Oh yes?” Sprok asked, looking at my dog with interest. He scribbled something on his clipboard and glanced at William. Was it my imagination, or did the two of them exchange a sly wink?
“Notice these extraordinary ears!” Sprok said to the lady in the flowery dress.
“Truly remarkable – but maybe too large?” a scrawny guy said and made some notes. Sprok glared at him until he turned bright red and stopped writing.
I breathed again. Sprok had said something positive, hadn’t he? I straightened up next to my dog with his extraordinary ears.
“This type of dog are retrievers; they were bred to fetch the kill of the hunt,” Sprok lectured. “It is usual for them to be slightly more … copious. As insulation against the cold conditions of the outdoors.” The scrawny guy who was now hiding behind one of the other judges frowned and chewed on the end of his pencil. I could see him writing on his pad: It is acceptable for spotted spaniels
