Catwalk by Sheila Webster Boneham Page A

Anthony Marconi, my mother’s new love, Louise Rasmussen’s father, and that odious Charles Rasmussen’s father-in-law.

eighteen
    The euphoria I felt after Leo’s spectacular agility performance stayed with me through most of the afternoon. I served as leash runner for half of Tom’s class, moving leashes from the start gate to the end gate for competitors to collect on their way out. Drake had an all-but-flawless run in the excellent class. He lost a few seconds when he sat up part-way through the down-stay on the pause table, but otherwise ran clean and true. Tom did a little victory jig on their way out, garnering a wolf whistle from somewhere in the stands. Rhonda Lake and her lovely Eleanor had a clean run that finished Eleanor’s AX—Agility Excellent—title.
    Jay’s class was next and, not to be outdone by Leo, he ran fast but with a close eye on my directions and earned his first AX leg with third place. I dished out a half dozen quarter-size hunks of roasted chicken from the container in my ice chest and played a nice game of tug-the-bungee-duck, to Jay’s growly delight. I took him for a short walk, then put him in his crate with a new marrow bone and fresh water inside and two bright new ribbons hanging on the door. I spent another three-quarters of an hour helping in the ring, and then Ray Williams, the chief ring steward, said he had plenty of people if I wanted to take a breather. Time to shop , Janet demon whispered. I checked Jay and Drake and Leo, then shoved a couple of twenties and my credit card into my pocket, locked my billfold in the van’s console, and closed the door.
    Something rustled in the tall grass across from my van and I stood still to see what was there. Nothing for a moment, and then a pair of bright yellow-orange eyes appeared among the dry brown stalks. “Hello,” I said, and knelt. “You must be Jorge’s little rainbow girl.” The cat stepped toward me and made a meow-face, though I didn’t hear anything. “Would you like something to eat?”
    I rinsed out a plastic coffee-cup lid and filled it from the container of cat food I’d brought with us. “Here you go,” I said, moving slowly toward the cat. Her coat was, as I’d been told, a glorious mix of colors—black and orange and gray and white—all swirling and mingling in wild patterns. She mouthed another silent comment and watched me but didn’t move away, and as soon as I backed off, she sniffed the food and took a bite. I left her in peace and set out to find Jorge, among other things I needed to do.
    It was just after three, but we still had a nice crowd of spectators outside watching the final canine runs and inside looking at the various felicentric exhibits and, of course, the vendors. Alberta had five or six people at her table so I moseyed down to the local cat fanciers’ table where a handsome Birman sprawled across a variety of handouts on everything from litter and scratching posts to cat training to health issues and care. A little girl just tall enough to reach comfortably across the table stood with her hand resting on the Birman’s shoulder, fingers wedged in under the strap of his harness, eyes fixed on the cat’s beautiful face. I swear he was smiling back at her, and I could hear him purring from the other end of the table.
    My favorite vendor’s booth featured gorgeous dog collars, leashes, harnesses, and show leads bedecked with ribbons, fabric, and, in a few cases, charms and glittery stones. I didn’t see anything I needed for my guys, but a navy-blue fabric collar embroidered with ducks —five different species—caught my eye. It would look great on Drake. Yeah, until it soaks in lake water or snags a gezillion burrs, whispered the voice of caution. I smiled at the booth’s owner. “I’ll think about it,” I said, and headed for the exit, amazed that I’d spent a