‘Come on, folks!’ he shouted. ‘How often do you get the chance to do this to a politician?!’ He was in his element—the good-egg country squire, entertaining the locals. And he never once looked over at me. I knew what he was doing, of course. He was letting me know that whatever had happened between us in the past, my presence didn’t affect him. I decided not to seek him out yet—I would wait. As the band played the opening chords of ‘Scarborough Fair’ I heard the church clock chime a quarter past three.
‘And now,’ Caroline announced with the megaphone, ‘we’re going to start the highlight of the afternoon—the dog show—in the small arena there at the end of the lawn. I’d like to tell you that we’re very lucky in having Miranda Sweet, the animal behaviourist from Animal Crackers, adjudicating for us today. So, for anyone who’d like to watch it, the “Waggiest Tail” category will be starting in five minutes.’
‘Thanks for the nice intro,’ I said, as we walked towards the ring with Herman.
‘No,’ she said, ‘thank you. Now, we’ll both have cordless mikes so that everyone can hear us.’
There were about ten dogs taking part in this category, their owners all holding up numbered cards. The audience sat on folding chairs or perched on hay bales as the competing dogs were walked round. In the background we could hear the band playing ‘Mad Dogs and Englishmen’. Caroline tapped on both mikes, and then spoke.
‘Now, it’s the quality of the wag that matters, isn’t it, Miranda?’ she said with mock-seriousness, as a butterfly fluttered past her.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It is. That English setter has a lovely sweeping wag, for example—you could polish the floor with it. The retriever’s got a nice strong wag too.’
‘It has—I can feel the breeze from here!’
‘Interestingly, we have two dogs that don’t actually have tails—the boxer and the corgi—both waggling their behinds there; but it would be unfair to discriminate against the docked breeds.’
‘It would. The St Bernard has quite a slow, deliberate wag, doesn’t he?’ Caroline added. ‘I must say that the pug doesn’t look as though he’s doing much wagging at all.’
‘Well, their tails don’t actually wag very well, because of the way they curl over their backs. But he certainly looks as though he’s trying his best.’
‘He does. There’s some very enthusiastic wagging there from the Norfolk terrier and a slightly twitchy wag there from the collie cross. Maybe he’s a little nervous,’ she suggested with a smile. I saw the owner laugh.
‘Okay, everyone,’ I announced. ‘Please would you walk round the ring just once more?’
‘Have you made your decision?’ Caroline asked a minute later.
I scribbled in my notebook, then held up my mike. ‘I have. In reverse order, the winners of this category are: in third place—number five, the boxer; in second place—the English setter, who’s number six. And in first place is number nine, the Norfolk terrier, whose tail really does wag the dog.’
Everyone clapped as I handed the owners their respective rosettes. And now, from out of the corner of my eye, I could see Jimmy, his arms folded, just standing there, watching.
‘Now for the next category,’ Caroline announced. ‘This is always a popular one—the dog most like its owner. So would all the contestants for this class please enter the ring.’
Some of them resembled their canine partners to an astonishing degree. There was a jowly looking man with a bloodhound, a tall, aristocratic-looking woman with a borzoi, and a poodle accompanied by a white-haired woman with a very tight curly perm. Others had resorted to artifice—like the young boy who’d had his face painted white with a black patch over one eye to make him look like his Jack Russell, and the little girl and her yorkie with matching coiffures. Some had clearly entered with a fine sense of irony. There was a bald man with an Afghan, an overweight woman with a whippet, a thin little man with a massive bulldog, and a woman my size with a Great Dane. As they paraded round the arena I found myself thinking that if the competition were about finding a similarity between the human and canine temperaments then Jimmy and Trigger would win hands down. By now, Jimmy was standing on the opposite side of the ring. I could sense that he was looking at me. Suddenly I caught his eye, and he looked away and immediately began chatting to the man on his left. He was determined to ignore me. I wouldn’t let him. I announced the winners—the first prize went to the aristocratic-looking woman with the borzoi—then it was the Fancy Dress.
‘This is always a very popular category,’ said Caroline, ‘so we have a big field. Would all the competitors please walk their dogs round.’ There was a bichon frise dressed as a French onion-seller and the boxer I’d just seen, now in stars and stripes boxer shorts. There was a Rottweiler dressed as an angel, complete with gold halo, and a puli in a Rastafarian hat. There were two Pekes in tutus, a corgi in a headscarf, and a Sheltie in a pink feather boa, which was making it sneeze. There was a wolfhound dressed as Little Red Riding Hood and a Newfoundland wearing fairy wings. Finally, there was a dachshund dressed as a shiny Christmas cracker, its nose just visible through the crimped end. I looked over to where Jimmy had been standing, but he’d gone.
‘Are you ready to announce the winners?’ Caroline asked me.
‘I am. In joint third place are—number seventeen, the regal looking corgi, and the Christmas cracker dachshund, number twelve. In second place is—number eight, the very Gallic-looking bichon frise. But the first prize for the Fancy Dress category goes to—the Angel Rottweiler!’ Everyone applauded. This seemed to be a popular choice.
‘And finally,’ said Caroline, ‘we come to “Pup Idol”, the canine karaoke competition, the result of which will be decided by you all, in a popular vote. So thanks to Miranda Sweet for being such a great judge.’ My duties done, I stepped down. This was my chance to find Jimmy, while the dog show was still going on. ‘Now, we’ve got a selection of songs here,’ Caroline went on, ‘so may we please have the first of our three talented contestants—Desmond the Dalmatian?’ Desmond and his owner stepped up onto the podium and Caroline passed them the mike. Then she pressed the button on the sound system. A familiar song started up.
‘Ebony and ivory…’
The dog threw back its head.
‘Woooow-ow-owwww-oooo…’
‘Live together in perfect harmony…’
‘Ooooo-woowwww-ow-ow-ow…’
‘Side by side on my piano keyboard…oh Lord…’
‘Ow-ow-oooooowwww…’
’Why don’t we-ee?’
‘Oowwoowwwwwwwwwwww…’
‘—That’s rather good,’ I heard someone say as I moved through the crowd.
‘—Yes, very nice tone.’
‘—Bit of an obvious choice though.’
‘—But the diction’s clear.’
‘—Hmm—you can almost make out the words.’
The song went on for another minute or so, then Caroline faded down the music. Desmond stepped down to a burst of applause and the Christmas cracker