Part 10 (1/2)

”You just said five,” he pointed out.

”Well, me and the Lord have got to have a little something to live on, too,” I said.

”What makes you think a wolf can win a dog show?” he said dubiously.

”Why don't you just concentrate on being a handsome, manly type of critter and let me worry about the rest of it?” I said.

Well, we argued it back and forth for the better part of the morning, but finally he admitted that he didn't see no better alternatives, and he could always commit suicide the next week if things didn't work out, and I went off to buy a leash and some grooming equipment at the local pet store, and then stopped by the arena for an entry form. I didn't know if he had an official werewolf name or not, so I just writ down Grand International Champion Basil on the form, and let it go at that.

The biggest problem I had the next two days was finding a vet who was open at night, so I could get Basil his rabies and distemper shots, but finally I convinced one to work late for an extra fifty dollars, which I planned to deduct from Basil's share of the winnings, since the shots didn't do me no good personally, and then it was Sat.u.r.day, and we just stuck around the hotel until maybe five in the afternoon, Basil getting more and more nervous, and finally we walked on over to the arena.

Basil's cla.s.s was scheduled to be judged at seven o'clock, but as the hour approached it began to look like the moon wasn't going to come out in time, and since I didn't want us to forfeit all that money by not showing up on time, I quick ran out into the alley, grabbed the first couple of cats I could find, and set 'em loose in the arena. The newspaper the next morning said that the ruckus was so loud they could hear it all the way over in Szentendre, which was a little town about forty miles up the road, and by the time everything had gone back to normal Basil was about as far from normal as Hungarian counts are p.r.o.ne to get, and I slipped his leash on him and headed for the ring.

There were three other dogs ahead of us, and after we entered the ring the judge came over and look at Basil.

”This is a cla.s.s for miniature poodles,” he said severely. ”Just what kind of mongrel is that?”

”You know this guy, Basil?” I asked.

Basil nodded.

”He one of the ones who's mean to you when you walk through town?”

Basil growled an ugly growl.

”Basil?” said the judge, turning white as a sheet.

Basil gave him a toothy grin.

”Now, to answer your question,” I said, ”this here happens to be a fully growed miniature poodle what takes umbrage when you insult its ancestry.”

The judge stared at Basil for another couple of seconds, then disqualified the other three dogs for not looking like him and handed me a blue ribbon.

Well, to make a long story short, old Basil terrorized the judges in the next three cla.s.ses he was in and won 'em all, and then the ring steward told me that I had five minutes to prepare for the final cla.s.s of the day, where they would pick the best dog in the show and award the winner the ten thousand dollars.

Suddenly Basil started whining up a storm. I couldn't see no ticks or fleas on him, and he couldn't tell me what was bothering him, but something sure was, and finally I noticed that he was staring intently at something, and I turned to see what it was, and it turned out to be this lovely looking lady who was preparing to judge the Best in Show cla.s.s.

”What's the problem, Basil?” I asked.

He kept whining and staring.

”Is it her?”

He nodded.

I racked my mind trying to figure out what it was about her that could upset him so much.

”She's been mean to you before?” I asked.

He shook his head.

”She's got something to do with the Gypsies who cursed you?”

He shook his head again.

”I can't figure out what the problem is,” I said. ”But what the h.e.l.l, as long as we let her know who you are, it's in the bag.”

He pointed his nose at the ceiling and howled mournfully.

”She's from out of town and doesn't know you're a werewolf?” I asked with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

He whimpered and curled up in a little ball.

”Will the following dogs please enter the ring?” said the announcer. ”Champion Blue Boy, Champion Flaming Spear, Champion Gladiator, Champion Jericho, and Grand International Champion Basil.”

Well, we didn't have no choice but to follow these four fluffy little dogs into the ring. The judge just stared at us for a minute with her jaw hanging open, and I figured we were about to get booted out, but then she walked over and knelt down and held Basil by the ears and peered into his face, and then she stood up and stepped back a bit and stared at him some more, and finally she walked over to me and said, ”This is the most handsome, rugged, masculine dog I have ever seen. I have a female I'd love to breed to him. Is he for sale?”

I told her that I was just showing him for a friend, and that she'd have to speak to the Count de Chenza Lupo about it later. She scribbled down his address, and it turned out that she was staying three rooms down the hall from me at the Hotel Magyar.

Finally she examined the other four dogs briefly and with obvious disinterest, and then she announced that Grand International Champion Basil was the best dog in this or any other show and had won the ten thousand dollars.

Well, Basil and me stuck around long enough to have a bunch of photos taken for the papers and then high tailed it back to the hotel, where we waited until daylight and he became Count Basil again and we divied up the money. Then he walked down the hall to talk to the judge about selling himself to her, and he came back half an hour later with the silliest grin on his face and announced that he was in love and she didn't mind in the least that he was a werewolf and all was right with the world.

I read in the paper that the other dog owners were so outraged about losing to a wolf that they tore the building down, and with the dog shows canceled for the foreseeable future I couldn't see no reason to stick around, so I bid Hungary farewell and decided to try my luck in Paris, where I'd heard tell that the sinners were so thick on the ground you could barely turn around without making the real close acquaintances.h.i.+p of at least a couple of 'em.

I never saw old Basil again, but a few months later I got a letter from him. He'd married his lady judge and left Budapest for good, and was living on her country estate managing her kennel-and he added a proud little postscript that both his wife and her prize female were expecting.

THE DIRE WOLF.

GENEVIEVE VALENTINE.

The bone is worrisome.

”It's huge, Lia,” says Christopher over the phone. ”The guy who found it thought it was a bear jaw.”

”What's the quality of the joint?” she asks, like she's stumped.

”Great condition on one side.”

She guesses the other side has been broken off. (When werewolves fight, it's almost always a dive for the throat-the skull gets in the way.) ”I'm sorry to call you,” he says, ”but I figured if anyone would know-”

”I'll come out tomorrow,” she says.

She hangs up the phone, her palm pressing flat against the receiver as if she can keep the news from spreading.

Velia doesn't really worry, the whole journey up to Fairbanks. People find bones from time to time. She can find a place somewhere in the Canis family to put almost anything. She's identified the remains of more rare species than any other xenoarchaeologist in the country.

She doesn't worry when Christopher shows her the jawbone and says wonderingly, ”I've never seen anything like it-I mean, there's no meat left, but it's so . . . ”

”Fresh?” she asks, and Christopher pulls a face that means Yes.