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Mr. Winer a big smile. “I’d love to sit down, if you don’t mind.”
    When Doug had excused himself and promised to be right back, his father practiced the courtly art of helping a lady to her seat. The folding chair and I must both have challenged him, and, of the two, I was probably the greater challenge. I’d ironed my shirt but not my jeans, which were, however, clean. My old Reeboks weren’t. I usually smell like training treats and dog shampoo. Mr. Winer’s courtesy deserved Joy—the perfume, naturally, not the dog chow, which, as far as I know, at least, is made by a totally different company, but, in its own way, is very good nonetheless.
    “Is this your first dog show, Mr. Winer?” It was as close as I could come to asking the gentleman about himself.
    He nodded.
    “And Doug is showing one of Morris Lamb’s dogs?” I was genuinely curious. Doug used to accompany Morris to shows, but I’d always had the impression that he was there for Morris, not the dogs.
    “They’ve moved in with us.” Mr. Winer sounded surprised, as if the two Bedlingtons had shown up at his door only seconds earlier. “Nelson and...” He groped.
    I pretended to search my own memory. “Jennie, isn’t it?”
    “Jennie,” Mr. Winer confirmed.
    “They’re living with you? With you and, uh, Mrs. Winer?”
    I almost expected Mr. Winer to ask who was, but he didn’t. All he did was nod again.
    “Doug can’t have dogs?” I waited a second and rephrased the question. “His landlord doesn’t allow dogs?”
    Mr. Winer looked really bewildered now.
    “Oh.” I’d finally caught on. “Doug lives at home? With you?”
    “Brookline,” Mr. Winer answered. “Francis Street.” Unasked, he went on to give me first the address, and then precise directions for driving there and advice about where to park. The recitation of the familiar details seemed to comfort and reassure him. His voice lingered fondly at every turn and stoplight.
    When he’d finished, I said that the area, Longwood, was lovely—it is—but Mr. Winer wasn’t paying attention. He twisted restlessly around and looked here and there until he caught sight of Doug, who was five or six yards behind us listening to an impeccably groomed young woman with the brisk, confident air of a professional handler. Her blue-flowered dress matched the thin blue show lead in her hand. At the dog’s end of the lead pranced Ch. Marigleam’s Canadian Lovesong (Nelson to his friends), who paused midfrolic to lick the pretty woman’s hand, then Doug’s.
    Want some free advice? If so, ask a real dog person. You can’t shut us up. Here it is: With some breeds, amateurs do fine in conformation, but if you want to show your terrier, hire the best professional handler you can afford, because if you go out there and stumble around yourself, no judge will so much as look at your dog. Too bad, but that’s the truth. Morris Lamb knew it. So, evidently, did Doug Winer.
    I glanced at Doug’s father, who was beaming so jovially that his entire hairless head practically glowed. He turned toward me, winked, took another look at his son and the pretty handler, and in proud paternal tones murmured, “Doug has his eye on that one! Just you watch!”
    Any object of Doug’s amorous regard would so absolutely, totally, definitely, and unconditionally have been male that I found it almost impossible to imagine how anyone could suppose otherwise. But Mr. Winer wasn’t just anyone.
    Kennel blindness takes all kinds of forms. In dog fancy, of course, it means the inability to see the faults of your own dogs. Daphne’s owners, for example, probably don’t realize that her ears are a little big and slightly high set, at least by contrast with Rowdy’s, which are small in proportion to the size of his head and set exactly where they belong, on the sides, just as the standard says. Also, Daphne’s tail is rather short, and she doesn’t-have the best neck I’ve ever seen, either. But then some