Read Once Bitten (A Melanie Travis Mystery) for Free Online

sort out the difference between the winners and the losers in breed competition; obedience is much more straight-forward. Even a novice can usually tell whether a dog has followed his owner’s command or not. Plus, the exercises are fun to watch.
    Each obedience class requires different obstacles to be set up for the competition. For Open, it was a high jump built of solid planks and a broad jump placed on one side of the matted floor. It only took a moment to locate our ring, which was at the far end, currently occupied by an exuberant Border Collie.
    As we headed that way, I gazed around the area, looking for a sable Sheltie. Yes, I know, most people would have looked for Sara. But I’m a dog person; we tend to do things differently.
    “There she is.” Abruptly, Bertie stopped walking.
    I managed not to crash into her, but Ping, following closely behind her brother, wasn’t so lucky. She and Pong went down in a heap, then apparently decided that was a great opportunity to engage in a wrestling match. Almost immediately, they had their leashes tangled, in part because Bertie wasn’t paying any attention to their antics.
    “Uh oh,” Bertie said under her breath.
    “What?” I looked up, leaving the playful dogs to their own devices. At least they didn’t have any hair to muss.
    Sara was standing somewhat away from ringside beside a wire mesh crate that held Titus, sleeping, inside. She wasn’t alone; an older man was standing next to her. From where we stood, it looked as though they were arguing.
    “Who’s that with Sara?” I asked. Ping, pushed by her brother, rolled into my legs and nearly knocked me over.
    “Grant Waring. Her stepfather.”
    “They don’t look too happy.”
    “Unfortunately, that’s not unusual. Sara doesn’t come from a close family. Hell, they’re not even a normal family. I guess Delilah must be showing something in Shelties. Grant hates dog shows. He never comes unless Delilah drags him along.”
    Bertie was too distracted to notice, but people were beginning to stare at us. In a setting where everyone took enormous pride in their dogs’ training and deportment, our tussling Shar Peis stuck out like a pair of circus clowns at the opera.
    “Let’s give her a minute,” she said. “I don’t want to intrude.”
    “Good idea,” I agreed. “Besides . . .”
    I lifted my hand, intending to gesture toward the problem at our feet. Unfortunately, Ping chose that moment to lunge once more at her brother. With a snap, the end of the short show lead flipped out of my fingers and ricocheted down to slap the Shar Pei on the flank.
    Ping’s first reaction was surprise. Delight quickly followed as she realized she was free. Before I could grab her, she’d taken off.
    “Oh, criminy!”
    I jumped over Pong’s prostrate body and ran after her, zigzagging between spectators toward the ring. Luckily the class was now between competitors and the stewards were adjusting the jumps. Otherwise, I’d have committed the cardinal sin of allowing my dog to disrupt another’s performance. As it was, Ping and I were merely providing something akin to halftime entertainment.
    Grant Waring was a fit, good looking man in his fifties, sporting a full head of steel gray hair and a tan that had to have been acquired somewhere other than Connecticut in November. His blue jeans were snug; his loafers, polished. A bulky fisherman-knit sweater hinted at an admirable physique beneath.
    “That is not an option,” I heard him say as I scrambled toward him, trying to grab Ping’s leash.
    “It is if I say so,” Sara snapped. “It’s my decision, and you can just—”
    Grant stumbled forward as the galloping Shar Pei barreled into him from behind. With considerably more grace than I’d have shown under the circumstances, he recovered quickly, reaching down to snag Ping’s leash and pull the dog to a halt.
    “Well,” he said, “what have we here?”
    “Sorry. She got away from me.” I took the lead