to my parents’ backyard and trained them to gait properly. I was seriously considering showing them, the way my mom and I did when I was a kid. I’d loved traveling to different parts of California with her, taking care of the dogs, watching them compete. We made the perfect team: my mom would fill out the paperwork and talk to the handlers and breeders and judges, and I would groom the collies and keep them company until the show.
One time, we traveled all the way up to Fresno for an AKC competition. It was the farthest we’d gone from home, but we thought it was worth it because our dog Royal was doing so well that year that he had a good chance at winning first prize. A lot of people watch conformation shows on television and think that winning is about appearance, but the truth is that it’s about much more than that. A dog can look great and never win, because aside from appearance and behavior, what the judges are really looking for is purity, the kind of traits that will be passed down the line to the offspring. Not that appearance doesn’t matter. Of course it does. It was my job to make sure Royal looked perfect, that his fur was smooth and shiny, his ears clean, his teeth bright, all of that. When he won Best of Breed at the Fresno show, I felt as if I had won something myself, that’s how much work I put into it.
But late that Sunday night, when we came back home, my dad was waiting up for us. I remember that David Letterman was on TV, and that the volume was cranked all the way up, because my dad was starting to lose some of his hearing.
“We won,” I hollered, just so he could hear me over the sound of the Top 10 List, and held up Royal’s first-place ribbon as if for proof.
My dad turned off the TV and struggled out of the armchair. He was a big guy, and he had to look down to meet my mom’s eyes. “Do you know what time it is?” he asked her.
“We didn’t leave Fresno until late,” she said. She put down her purse on the coffee table and unzipped her fleece jacket, but didn’t take it off. It was a cold night in February, and my dad hadn’t turned on the heater. He was cheap like that.
“You told me you’d leave by four at the latest.”
“Oh, I know. But there were so many people to meet after the show. One of the judges is from Ashland, and she said we should enter Royal in a show up there.”
“Ashland. All the way in Oregon?”
“Yeah.”
I came closer so I could show him the ribbon. It was blue and yellow and had the AKC logo on it. “We won first prize,” I said.
Who knows what set him off? Maybe it was the sound of my voice, or the fact that Royal was jostling him, trying to take his seat on the armchair. “First prize, huh?” he said. “And how much did this cost?”
I had no idea. I glanced at my mom for help, but he put his heavy arm on my shoulder and, pushing Royal aside roughly, made me sit down in his armchair. On the coffee table was a yellow notepad filled with his scribblings, and he tore out a page from it and told me to write down the cost of everything we had spent that weekend: gas for the van, lodging at the dog hotel, our meals, the show fee, everything.
My mom hovered about, saying things like Come on, honey, not now, and Why don’t we do this in the morning? But my dad waved her off and made me write down the numbers and add them. I wasn’t very good at math, and it took me a while to finish.
“How are you planning to pay for this?” he said.
I couldn’t understand why he was asking me these questions. I was thirteen years old, I didn’t handle the money. “Mom,” I said.
“Mom,” he mimicked. Then he turned on her. “All right, Mom.