Page 31 of Worst in Show

I tilt my head back in a silent plea for strength. “Pop’s care.”

“Oh, right. Okay. Will do.”

I put my phone away, squeeze my eyes shut, and then look at the brochure again. The first part reads the same as I remember from previous years. County fair, vendor sign-up, yada, yada, yada. Below that is the information about the dog show. While I’ve been at the fest every year, I haven’t seen the show since Grandma passed. That was her thing. Every year she’d enter with one of the many rescues in the shelter, and adoptions always soared afterward. She loved that anyone was allowed to compete and that most of the contestants were in it for the fun experience, not the five-hundred-dollar prize.

Except, this year, the amount listed for first prize is a little more than that, if I’m to believe what I’m seeing.

I stare at the bold font on the page.

ONE WINNER TAKES HOME $15,000!

(Thank you to our generous sponsors.)

I drop the brochure on the counter. The peace of mind that amount of money would bring… I glance behind me at the photo of my grandma and Patch the dalmatian mix with their blue rosette. “Can you believe this?” I ask her. Of course, I get nothing but a sanguine smile in return.

My brain is churning. Is this even possible? And if so, which dog would I run in the show? There are two parts to the competition—an obstacle course and a talent show—and none of our mutts is a clear choice. I glance at the big wolfhound at the bottom of the stairs. Well, it would have to be Cap or Cholula since Boris is an obvious no-go.

I open a browser and do a quick search of past winners. There was the bloodhound from Kenosha whose talent was finding all five peanut butter cups hidden in the audience within three minutes, the Yorkie who could climb his owner like a baby mountain goat, and the terrifying German shepherd who did impressions of famous movie dogs on command. (His Cujo scared the bejeezus out of half the audience.) But these were all dogs with agility experience and years of training. There’s no chance I could compete with that.

My excitement dwindles as I browse the official page for the fest, but when I reach the sign-up page and see that the cutoff for registering is in less than a week, something snaps inside me.

I’m about to ask Pop what he thinks we should do before remembering the state of things. What was true this morning is suddenly false. I no longer have a boss; I am the boss. If vendors need to be paid or orders need to be placed, it’s on me. I’ll have to figure out our accounting system and our order status, not to mention whatever Harvey uses for regular bills. I can’t go home tonight—or any night for the foreseeable future—because the dogs are here, and so I’ll need to move in with them. Everything is upside down.

If I want to win $15,000 and save the store, I’m on my own.

Before I can change my mind, I sign up for both the booth and the competition, pay the fees, and then click the browser closed. Exhale. No looking back. I turn on music over the speakers and start bopping my head along to shed all worries. Boris joins me, and the beat does make me feel better.

“Come here,” I tell the big dog, lifting his front paws up onto my shoulders. For a few measures we sway together—a fitting celebration of this next big step. Now all I have to do is discover Cap’s and Cholula’s secret talents, and we’re set.

That evening, Micki helps me move my things from our place to the tiny store apartment. Cap and Cho circle our legs, but Boris stays away. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he still feels guilty for sending Harvey summersaulting down the stairs.

“It’s the end of an era,” Micki mopes as we carry bags and boxes up the stairs.

“Three years—pretty short era. Plus, I’ll be back.”

She bumps my arm with her shoulder. “You know what I mean.”

“I know. And I’m really sorry.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t be. Like you said, it’s temporary, and Jaz was actually hoping to stay a bit longer, so I think this will work out okay. She can pay rent now that she has a job.”

My vision clouds at the thought of Canine King. Despite what’s happened, Leo hasn’t taken down his competing doorbuster. Showing his true colors.

“God, you have way too much fabric,” Micki says after bringing the third box up and tucking it in a corner.

I didn’t think I had that many belongings, but for this space, I have plenty. After I set up my sewing machine on the small table, fit my clothes next to Harvey’s in the closet, and tuck a box of photos and books under the bed, I’ve run out of space. Anything else I don’t immediately need will have to go into storage if Jaz wants it out of the way.

The doctor calls right as we finish. “I’ll take it downstairs,” I tell Micki. “Be right back.”

To my great relief, everything’s gone well, and Harvey is resting.

“We received a call from a Lynda Lewis earlier about transfer to Dalebrook once Mr. Morton is ready,” the doctor says. “Are you aware of this?”

Thank God. Mom came through with a nursing home placement. “I know my mother was making arrangements. In your professional opinion, is that the right place for him? I want to be sure he’ll receive exactly the care he needs to get better.”

“Oh yes, Dalebrook is one of the best. He’ll be in their rehab wing. I think you’ll both be very happy.”

That’s the first piece of good news I’ve had today, and I thank the doctor and tell her I’ll be by to see Harvey tomorrow during visiting hours. Then I hang up and take a deep breath. Everything will work out. Everything will be fine.

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