Chapter 25
GINA
My gaze is laser focused as I walk slowly down the row of hounds. They all stand at perfect attention, jaws level with the ground, four legs spread in an active stance. In dog-show language, it’s called a stack.
Their handlers, dressed in suits or formal dresses, are equally poised and alert.
Haze is here, the Afghan borzoi I’ve worked with on numerous occasions. Her coat gleams like spun gold in the lights.
Next to her stands a long-haired dachshund with an equally shiny black coat. I recognize him from previous shows, and I can tell they’ve been training, working hard to level up.
Two Irish wolfhounds jog out next, and their wiry gray coats and bearish gaits make me want to sit down and cuddle with them.
I do not. I am a very serious judge.
Following them is a dog I’ve never seen before, a whippet, which is similar to the Italian greyhound, but with a better temperament. His handler is also new to me, and he lifts his chin in a superior way.
I give him a tight nod. He has a very good-looking dog who has clearly been well-trained.
“I’d like to see the borzoi, the sloughi, the dachshund…” My chest tightens when I see a gorgeous, rust-colored bloodhound standing with its chin lifted. “The bloodhound and the whippet.”
A ripple of approval moves through the crowd, and the five dogs step forward. I walk slowly down the ranks, giving them all a good once-over. I’ve seen and inspected the first three on several occasions, so I don’t spend as much time on them.
I slide my hand over Haze’s soft fur, lifting her face and inspecting her eyes. Bright as ever.
The bloodhound is a new one to me, and I have him stand as I run my hands down his sturdy shoulders. He has a good build and nice, excessive folds of skin. A really good specimen.
Next is the whippet, who is a lively little guy. His light gray coat is smooth, and his ears are perky and eager. I do a quick rundown of his legs, I cup his balls briefly, and… wait.
My eyes flicker to his handler, who doesn’t make eye contact with me. He keeps his chin level, looking straight ahead, but I notice a twitch in his brow.
“I need a second opinion here.” I motion to Lisa, who has just finished judging the miniature breeds.
She walks over to me quickly, and I lean into her ear, whispering. “Plastic.”
Her brow rises, and she repeats my inspection, running her hands down the length of the dog’s body. She checks his legs, and when she gets to his testicles, she hesitates. Her lips twist into a frown, and she nods slowly, sadly.
Dammit. I agreed to judge this show last-minute because I’d hoped it would cheer me up. I’ve done nothing but lie on the couch and miss Owen for two days. Not even working with Haddy on the charity show could distract me.
Now this.
I look down at the bright-eyed little fellow, and my heart is heavy. They’re all such good dogs, such avid little competitors.
My eyes go to his handler, and I can tell he knows what he did. He thought he’d slip it past me. He thought I wouldn’t be experienced enough to notice.
It’s probably my pent-up annoyance with the whole Baxter situation and Owen and all of it, but I want to punch him in the nose.
Instead, I remain professional. “I’m sorry, we have to disqualify this dog.”
“What?” The man’s voice rises, and he has the nerve to act outraged.
“Neuticles are not allowed in American Kennel Club confirmation dog shows.” I lift my hand to the side for the officials to escort them from the ring.
“How dare you?” he shouts, but I turn away, going back to the remaining four dogs.
When I was a young judge, things like this would’ve flustered me for the rest of the day. Today, it simply makes my job that much easier. I can only award four ribbons, and I have the order all set in my mind.
“Take them out by the bloodhound, the dachshund, the sloughi, and the borzoi.” The handlers lift the leashes and trot around the large ring, showing off the dogs’ perfect gaits. “That’s the order, one, two, three, and best of breed.”
Applause fills the arena, and I walk over to the judges’ table to sign off on the book, making it official. The handlers will take the dogs to the platforms to receive their ribbons and be photographed, but my work here is done.
I give Lisa a wave, and she gives me a wry smile. She has to do another round of judging with the toys, but I’m done for the day. After that last little drama, I am so done.
As I make my way to the exit, my eyes land on a little girl sitting with an older woman in the stands, and my chest aches. I think about Maddie.
I’d love to bring her to one of these shows so she can watch and learn. I think of all the things I want to do with her, with both of them. I remember the circle I saw in my vision, holding hands with a sparkling, starry heart in the center.
Walking slowly through the curtained hall leading to the exit, I notice the winner of the miniatures competition. It’s a fluffy white Bichon Frisé wearing a bright blue ribbon.
I stop to pet his head. “He’s excellent.”
“Thank you so much, Miss Bradford.” The owner seems nervous, and I forget I’m kind of a celebrity in the dog world. “It’s our first blue ribbon.”
“It’s well-deserved. Miss Brashears is a strict judge.”
Pausing for a moment, I look into the dog’s big brown eyes, and I remember my spirit animal’s message. Even if it was a mushroom trip, my heaviness eases, and I decide to let hope walk beside me the way Heather said.
“He has a good heart. I can always tell.”
The dog owner says more words of gratitude, and I give her a wave.
Walking out to my car, I remember the last time I judged a last-minute, out-of-town show. The fuel pump went out on this silly car, and he came to save me.
I think about that night in the hotel room, all the things we said and shared. It gives me an idea for one last thing to try.
“Have you been on the couch all weekend?” Mav bustles through the front door, dropping his duffel and carrying his gym bag to the laundry room.
I’m lying on my stomach, watching bad reality television. The kind that makes me feel better about myself. At least I’m not that fucked up.
“No!” My tone is defensive. “I went to Haddy’s on Friday, and we did a lot of planning for the charity show. She needs you to give her the date of a free Saturday to teach you all how to walk your dogs.”
“Pretty sure I know how to walk a dog, Geeg.” He passes me on his way from the laundry to his bedroom.
“Then I judged a dog show this afternoon. It was pretty exciting.”
“How so?” He takes off his blazer and hangs it in the front closet.
He really is a handsome man, which is funny to think, considering we grew up together. He looks more like his dad every day, which is saying a lot. Tall, dark, and handsome, but with those Bradford blue eyes just like Haddy and Knox. I’m the only one with green eyes like my mom.
“I spotted a fake nut.” I do a little cupping motion with my hand.
Mav’s brow crinkles in horror. “What the hell does that mean?”
“We had this new dog today, a whippet, and he had a plastic testicle.”
“Why would you ever give a dog a plastic nut?”
“The owner clearly thought I wouldn’t catch it.” I dust off my shoulder, returning to the couch. “Clearly, he didn’t know who he was messing with. I had Lisa verify before we ejected him from the competition.”
“Dang.” Mav disappears into his room for a few minutes before returning in sweat pants and a long-sleeve tee. “That’s harsh, Gina.”
“I know.” My lips twist sadly. “I get so frustrated when owners try shit like that. Dogs have feelings, too, you know, and he was the smartest little hound. I liked him.”
“Does this mean our house is going to get TP’d again?” Mav flops onto the couch beside me.
My nose wrinkles, and I look in the direction of the front door. “I hope not.”
“Stink bomb in the mailbox?”
“That really hurts Mr. Gibson more than me. We need to set up a Ring camera or something to capture footage. Turn them in to the feds.”
“That’s not a bad idea.” He shifts on the couch beside me. “What’re we watching tonight? Best in Show?”
“I just watched that with Heather. Frankenweenie?”
“Nah, that’s a Halloween film. It’s after Thanksgiving. By the way, Friendsgiving next Tuesday?”
“I’ll check with Haddy. Turner and Hooch?”
“Sure.”
It might be just the two of us, but putting my head on Mav’s shoulder, watching Tom Hanks adjust to life with an oversized mastiff is just the comfort-watch I need.
I sent my last-chance text earlier this afternoon, and I still haven’t gotten a reply. Now I’m starting to get angry. I think it’s time for me to stop crying over men who ghost…