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about ten inches at the withers, the withers being above the forelegs, more or less where a dog’s back stops and the neck begins. She must’ve weighed about twenty-five pounds. Her head was what the standard—the official description of the ideal Pembroke—calls “foxy,” meaning what it says, reminiscent of the head of a fox. Ears are terribly important in Pembrokes. In fact, the language of Pembrokes abounds in derogatory terms for bad ears; the breed is not supposed to have bat ears, hooded ears, catlike ears, button ears, rose ears, or drop ears. Llio’s were lovely: medium sized, erect, and neither too pointed nor too round at the tips. Color and markings are also important in the Pembroke ring. In fact, the standard is exceptionally detailed, so almost every feature is vital. Llio was black and tan with white on her legs and chest, where it’s allowed. She had an intelligent expression and a smooth gait. Suddenly, the sun was shining a bit more brightly than it had been only moments earlier. Ever noticed that phenomenon? It happens whenever a beautiful dog appears.
    Human and canine members alike, the dog group had an endearing habit of greeting each new arrival with warmth and enthusiasm. The people welcomed Llio by name and called out to their own dogs: “Llio’s here! Come say hi to Llio!”
    “Llio stays on leash, too,” the woman in purple informed me. “Don’t you, poor girl?”
    “She’s beautiful,” I said to her owner, the tall, darkhaired man. From a distance, he’d looked moderately attractive, but viewed from up close, he was unappealing. Although he’d shaved, his hair was greasy, and his teeth needed the attention of a skilled hygienist. He was munching on a jelly doughnut. Grains of sugar clung to his thin lips. Someone should have told him to close his mouth when he chewed. Still, his bitch was beautiful. “Do you show her?”
    After replying that he did, he complimented Rowdy and asked whether I showed him, as I did and do, and then naturally I recounted a few high points of Rowdy’s career in the breed and obedience rings, and Llio’s owner reported that she needed only one major to finish, meaning, as almost no one else there understood, that Llio needed only one major win (a win worth three or more points) to finish her championship. My own bitch, I said, hadn’t finished yet. My cousin was handling her for me, but I always used a professional handler for Rowdy. Did my new acquaintance handle his bitch himself? No, he didn’t. By now, Noah, Ceci, and the other mommies had tuned us out and were saying hello to a variety of people and dogs joining the group.
    Having discovered that we were both show people, Llio’s owner and I ignored the proletarian hordes surrounding us and continued to converse about bitches, majors, professional handlers, recent shows, upcoming shows, and various other topics of exclusive interest to the dog elite. Eventually, I said that my name was Holly, and he said that his was Wilson, and then we were off again. Long before that, it had become apparent to me that Wilson’s dog-social standing was not quite... what’s a nonsnobbish way to say this? In the, a-hem, highly structured social world of the dog fancy, my own standing borders on the illustrious, not so much because of my own accomplishments as because of my late mother’s. She was not only a famous breeder of golden retrievers and a successful obedience competitor, but the sort of personable personage who joins everything and knows everyone who’s anyone in dogs, including, for example, Mrs. Nigel Waggenhoffer, whose name Wilson dropped. And when I say dropped, I mean let fall with a bang. Mrs. Waggenhoffer is big in goldens and is the president of the prestigious Micmac Kennel Club, to which I belong and Wilson didn’t.
    “I was the co-breeder on some of my mother’s litters,” I explained modestly. “I’m sort of a legacy admission. I’m not active in the club at all.” So don’t