~On With the Show....
"… The Wager …"
Written and Illustrated by Ron Hevener
“Brothers and sisters, gather ‘round! Dog Man Billy has come to town!”
It wasn’t his looks -- it certainly wasn’t that -- which intrigued the handlers and exhibitors at the dog show. It was the man’s audacity! His spirit! His absolute confidence that he could take any dog and make it into a champion.
“Are you telling me,” said a handler of considerable renown, pointing to a shadow of an Afghan Hound beside him, “that if I hand over this dog, right here, you could make him a champion?”
Billy looked at the young dog, frightened by every sensation around it, and said, “Mister, not only could I make that dog a champion, but, if he were mine, I could make his pups into champions, too!”
“A hundred bucks says you can’t.”
“Make it a thousand, and you’re on,” said Billy.
The handler hesitated.
“What are you scared of?” Billy asked. “A minute ago, you didn’t think this dog was worth anything at all. You were sure nobody could train it, because you had done everything in your power to get through to this dog and it didn’t work. If I can make him a champion, isn’t that worth something?”
“You’re on,” grumbled the handler.
By the end of the show, with what the handler had wagered and what the others had bet, too, Billy had himself a job. In his trailer, hitched to the pick-up that served him well but would never win any beauty contests, Billy looked at the fawn-colored dog lying at his feet. “Want some coffee, fella?” he asked.
The dog indicated no interest.
“Sure you don’t,” said Billy, settling in for a smoke, hesitating, and stuffing the cigarette back in the pack. “Just my luck, I get a health nut.”
The dog looked at his surroundings, his first sign of interest in anything, and yawned.
“Better get used to it, boy,” said Billy. “This is home for a while.” The dog wasn’t impressed.
“Hey,” Billy sounded defensive. “Maybe it ain’t much, but it’s paid for. And the chow’s free,”
Billy said, tempting the dog with a piece of raw meat, as he had been doing for the past hour.
This time, the dog stretched forward, testing the smell. If his neck had stretched any further, he would have been a giraffe. “No, boy, I’m not going to leave you alone while you eat, no matter how much you want me to. If you and I are gonna be friends, you’ve gotta trust me. And I’m gonna trust you. Deal?”
Breathing a sigh, the dog ate.
As night closed in around them, dusking out the sky and summoning its stars, Billy slumped in the dark on a mattress and pillows. Why had he made the wager, he wondered? Every time he asked himself the question, all he could see was the non-responsive dog; all he could feel was the nothingness emanating from the dog’s eyes … from the eyes of a pup that should have been overflowing with joy and curiosity. The dog was, after all, just a pup by most opinions. Hardly more than a year old, was Billy’s guess. He wasn’t an expert on the breed, but he knew dogs like other men knew baseball.
He woke to feel something pressing against his side. During the night, the pitiful dog had inched closer and closer to the mattress… closer and closer … until, one paw at a time, he had touched the blanket covering this soft-spoken man who actually looked at him when speaking. They had dreamed … they had run through the forests in the moonlight … they had danced to the music of the summer crickets … they had seen what was hidden from each other, but sensed, and it was good.
“What’s this?” Billy mumbled. “Scared to be alone?” Thinking about his own life, he said, “Welcome to my world.”
Through a morning walk, then breakfast, Billy and the dog watched each other. “He said your name’s Fontaine DeMille. What kind of name’s that, I’d like to know?” The dog looked up at him, perhaps wondering the same thing.
“We gotta get you a better name,” Billy said as they walked … “I can’t call you Fontaine DeMille and I can’t just keep calling you Dog.” As the dog ate his breakfast, not hesitating this time, Billie made himself some scrambled eggs and toast. “Comp’ny," he said … “I could call you Comp’ny. You know, like I got company stayin’ with me for a while.” The dog looked at him, perhaps considering the sound of the word, and finished his meal, along with the eggs Billie made for him.
The sudden sound of the phone shook his nerves. “Shhhh … easy …..” Billie touched the dog’s ear and twirled it between his fingers. “Hello?” he asked the caller as he lifted the phone from its hook on the wall.
“How’s my dog?” the handler wanted to know. “Is he a champion yet?” he laughed.
So this is how it’s going to be, Billy thought, holding his breath. “We’re working’ on it,” he managed to say -- when what he really wanted to do was reach his hand through the phone and slam the guy on the head.
“You better be tough with that one,” the handler said. “He’s lazy, that one. You have to show him who’s boss.”
“I’ll remember that,” Billy said, knowing exactly what the dog’s problem was now.
Summer sizzled the trees into a blaze of fire -- red, yellow and golden-brown -- and the frost of Autumn chilled the leaves into Winter blankets over the countryside. The dog, never far from the side of the lonely man he had come to accept as his own, grew strong and sure. His carriage, once humble and slumped, was bold. His coat, once the coat of a young dog, had grown luxuriant and shiny. His eyes, once vacant and blank, glittered with purpose … and thought.
Since the dog show, money from the wager had seen them through. Billy had been able to work with the dog, groom him and talk with him, without leaving for long spells to paint the houses by which he normally made a living. The dog’s progress had been quick, but he had started with the disadvantage of not trusting people. “Come on, fella,” Billy had coaxed. “All you have to do is trust ’em enough to go in that ring and stand proud.” He knew it was more than that, of course. But, he didn’t have to tell Comp'ny so.
Billy found a place to make a practice ring and he fashioned a low fence on each side. Each day, faithfully, rain or shine, ice or snow, he and the dog went through their paces: Enter the ring, line up for the imaginary judge, stand for the judge to examine the body, trot away from the judge and back, trot around the ring and back to the end of the line. The dog knew every move by heart.
Sometimes, Billy would ask a neighbor or a friend to pretend to be the judge. Other times, he would ask a few friends to stand around the outside of the ring, pretending to be on-lookers. He would ask them to shout, pop balloons, to move suddenly and toss paper. He would ask them to bring their dogs from home and follow the routine -- enter the ring, stand for the judge, around at a trot. With each exercise, Comp'ny became more sure of himself and his place in the ring. With each exercise, he grew stronger and the dog show was one day closer. Billie should have been happy, but he was scared.
“We got a problem, fella,” he said one night, as he studied a book about the breed and its standard. “From what it says here, you fit everything they want you to be. But, me an’ my big mouth went an’ said your pups could be champions, too.”
The terms of the wager were clear. Billy had bragged that the dog could be a champion, and his pups, too. Why had he said that? He should have known better. Nobody could predict such things; least of all a dog man like him. Closing the book and snapping off the light, he settled into bed with his hand resting in the fur of the dog on the floor beside him.
By morning, much against his liking, Billy knew what he must do. Picking up the phone, he called the dreaded handler: “Do you know anyone with a good mate for the dog?” he asked.
“Sure,” the handler smiled … “I know somebody.”
Billy’s hackles went up. Was it how the handler had said it? Something in the tone of his voice?
“I was thinking maybe his owner would like to pick a mate,” Billy said. “That’s only fair, isn’t it?”
The handler, realizing Billy was no fool, cleared his throat. “Right. She’s going to be at a show about fifty miles from here next month. What do you say we enter him and see how he does?”
“In what class?“ Billy wanted to know.
“Bred By,” came the answer with finality. “That ought to prove something,” the handler said. “That way neither you nor I will take him in.” Again, there was that same tone of voice. “Only fair … isn’t it?” the handler smiled. If a gun had been aimed point blank at his chest, it would have missed the mark. Billie’s heart had just dropped right through his shoes.
Parking lots filled with cars … kids laughing, … blue and white striped tents … dogs, ice-cream, officials buzzing around in golf carts and people with dogs of every variety scurrying to their next classes …. It was a dog show and excitement was in the air.
“Hey, Billy!” somebody called out. “Is that the same dog you picked up last year?”
“Billy! Is that your big champion?”
“It’s OK, Comp’ny,” Billy reassured the dog. “Just pretend we’re walking downtown, like we’ve done before. It‘s just practice, that‘s all.” But, it wasn’t practice. They both knew it wasn‘t pretend any more. “I should have taken you to a few of these first,” Billy said, reassuring the dog. “Sorry, fella.”
“Well!” came the familiar voice of the handler from nearby. “I see you brought the dog.” Turning to a quiet, well-dressed woman beside him, he said, “This is the man I told you about,” making no effort to introduce them.
Nodding and glancing away -- looking at the grass, the sky, a flipping butterfly -- looking anywhere but into her eyes, Billy managed a lame-sounding, “Hello” as the dog, over-joyed and filled with life, pulled him toward Roxanna DeMille and covered her with shameless, longing kisses. Funny, how dogs could do what we only wish for, he thought. Funny, how a wager -- once so important -- was no longer on his mind ….
©2010 Ron Hevener—This illustrated story is brought to you by RonHevener.com
Mr. Hevener is the author of such novels as Fate of the Stallion, The Blue Ribbon and High Stakes. He is a successful designer inspired by animals and the adventurous, romantic, fun-loving people who make animals an important part of their lifestyle. Mr. Hevener's stories are broadcast on public TV and he is listed in Wikipedia, the on-line encyclopedia and reference guide to public personalities. Readers can ask him about issues facing them in today's crazy world by writing to Hevener@dejazzd.com
Please spend a few minutes and visit Mr. Hevener's new home site 