The watchers seem charmed by her antics, chuckling good-naturedly as her master feigns exasperation and goes to fetch her. She drops the lead when he tells her to and blinks up at him, wide-eyed and adoring, as he fastens it to her collar and walks her over to the handler and passes him the lead.
‘She’s all yours, Mr Veith.’
The handler gives Phoebe an affectionate pat on the head and the show begins. He takes her through a series of basic obedience commands – sit, stay, fetch – and then leads her around the ring. She is very nimble on all fours, much more so than I am, and she tosses her head as she prances past the men I take to be the judges. Her enthusiasm is infectious and I find myself looking forward to my turn in the ring, my turn to show how good I can be, how obedient and responsive.
The judges mark their cards, occasionally smiling at something Phoebe does, occasionally frowning in serious contemplation. From time to time the handler rewards her with a treat – a small biscuit shaped like a bone. I worry at first that it’s a genuine doggy biscuit. Phoebe is so lost in the role it wouldn’t surprise me if she didn’t notice. But when he tosses one near us and commands her to fetch it, I catch the smell of gingerbread and smile.
There is a small round of applause at the end of the performance and Phoebe dances in place, made even friskier by all the attention. Mr Veith lets her off the lead and tells her to stay and, although she clearly doesn’t want to sit still, she obeys. Then she watches with keen interest as her master places a low grooming table in the centre of the room. Mr Veith joins him and Phoebe seems not the slightest bit nervous or uncertain as the two men lift her up and set her on all fours on top of it.
Her master stands in front of her and nods to the handler. ‘She’s ready.’
Mr Veith removes his jacket and rolls up his sleeves. Phoebe looks round at him as he approaches but her master gently guides her head back so that she is facing him instead. Mr Veith studies the naked woman before him, running his hands over her body as though testing the firmness of her skin. He squeezes her breasts one at a time and then pushes her lower back down, arching her body to raise her bottom up. She parts her thighs without being told and I see the men share a grin. It’s obvious they know her well.
Mr Veith slowly draws a finger over the curve of each cheek, making her shudder. Then he slips his hand between her legs. She closes her eyes and a sigh of pleasure escapes her lips as she abandons all her canine mannerisms. Throughout the examination Phoebe never once seems embarrassed or discomfited. My heart begins to pound as I realise that I am likely to be subjected to the same intimate inspection and I know there is no way I’ll have the composure that she does. Beside me Tara gives a soft little whimper and I take some perverse comfort in knowing that at least I’ll handle it better than she will. I hope so anyway.
I glance over at my master, who is watching with detached interest. I lift my head, trying to catch his eye, but he studiously avoids my pleading gaze. Chastened by his silence, I turn back to the tableau in the centre of the room. Phoebe’s master is holding her firmly by the arms now, keeping her still. Mr Veith’s hand is well out of sight between her legs and Phoebe moans and gasps without a trace of shame. Suddenly I envy her fiercely, wishing I could be as uninhibited – as both a pet and a person.
Whatever he’s doing to her soon proves too much and she reaches a fast and noisy climax. Blushing, I turn away, although I know she can’t mind my watching. The room is filled with spectators, after all. I’m sure she relishes the attention.
Her master praises her and Mr Veith smilingly says she has done very well. The judges sombrely mark their cards, although I can’t imagine what criteria they’re evaluating.
The two men help Phoebe down and she makes her way over to me on all fours, wobbling slightly. Her face is flushed and glowing as she offers me a lopsided grin. She looks positively radiant. I bite my lip, too flustered to return her smile fully. I wonder if my arousal is as obvious to her as hers was to me?
Tara cowers on my other side, head down. I can sense her unease, although my intuition tells me it’s only the public display that she objects to. I suspect I am the least experienced of the three of us.
The judges confer quietly and I silently hope I will be next. I’m so nervous about the prospect I’m lightheaded but I know that I absolutely don’t want to be last. Better to dive in at the deep end and get it over with than linger on in torturous suspense.
‘Let’s have Tara next,’ says Mr Veith.
My heart sinks.
Tara cringes and backs away towards the fire. For a moment I worry she’ll burn herself but then her master comes forward. He’s young. Early twenties, I guess, probably the same age as his pet. He doesn’t convey the authority of either my master or Phoebe’s.
‘Tara, come,’ he says sharply. He snaps the lead to her collar and pulls her like a reluctant mule into the centre of the room. ‘She hasn’t really been trained yet,’ he mumbles.
‘Well, let’s take her around the ring at least,’ says the handler, holding his hand out for the lead.
But Tara refuses to move. Mr Veith tugs at the lead, first gently and then more firmly. He tries coaxing her with a biscuit but she turns her head away. I glance over at her master, who slouches at the edge of the ring, hands shoved deep into his pockets, frowning at the floor. The judges’ pens scratch away in the background.
‘Oh dear,’ says Mr Veith. ‘Quite a stubborn streak.’
‘You have no idea.’
‘Shall we just proceed to the examination?’
Her master shrugs.
Tara struggles as she is lifted on to the table. Her master tells her to be still and when she doesn’t obey he flicks the end of the lead smartly against her backside, making her yelp.
I edge closer to Phoebe, who presses against me with silent reassurance. She nuzzles my face and I return the affectionate gesture. She’s back in full puppy mode and for one crazy moment I’m tempted to pounce on her and instigate a game of play-fighting. But I don’t dare. Not until my turn has passed.
We look back to see Tara’s master holding the lead firmly while the handler strokes her and tries to calm her. The black waterfall of hair hides her eyes and Mr Veith gathers it in one hand and draws it aside to peer into her face. She stubbornly turns her head away and he tightens his grip on her hair to hold her still. Her eyes blaze with defiance. Across the room several of the men shift and murmur to one another. There is more scratching of pens.
‘Spirited,’ Mr Veith says, although I can’t tell whether his tone is admiring or disapproving.
When he reaches out to touch Tara again she bares her teeth at him and he frowns. Her master says her name in a warning tone and she closes her lips, only slightly cowed. Mr Veith tries again to approach her and this time she snaps at him. I jump as I hear her teeth clack together in the air just beyond his fingers.
‘Bad girl!’ her master says, his voice low and harsh.
Tara glares at both men and shakes her hair free of the handler’s grasp.
‘I’m very sorry,’ Mr Veith says, ‘but I’m going to have to disqualify her.’
Her master scowls and Tara lowers her head like a puppy scolded for biting the postman. He gathers her up and sets her on the floor, her body language conveying both ongoing rebellion and regret at having disappointed her master. In my submissive state the scene distresses me intensely and I watch in horror as he leads her to a cage in the corner of the room and shoos her inside. He latches it closed and shakes his finger at her. ‘Bad girl,’ he says again. Then, shaking his head, he returns to his seat and flops into it with a heavy sigh.
Beside me Phoebe grins and I immediately feel silly. Of course. For Tara, this is what it’s all about. Indeed, now that she’s safe in her cage I see the corners of her mouth curl in a mischievous smirk. As far as she’s concerned, she’s won. I know at once that the red stilettos