It was, as a matter of fact, Guy Grand who, working through his attorneys, had bought controlling interest in the three largest kennel clubs on the eastern seaboard last season; and in this way he had gained virtual dominance over, and responsibility for, the Dog Show that year at Madison Square Garden. His number-one gérant, or front man, for this operation was a Señor Hernandez Gonzales, a huge Mexican, who had long been known in dog-fancier circles as a breeder of blue-ribbon Chihuahuas. With Grand’s backing however, and over a quick six months, Gonzales became the celebrated owner of one of the finest kennels in the world, known now not simply for Chihuahuas, but for Pekinese, Pomeranians and many rare and strange breeds of the Orient.
It was evident that this season’s show at the Garden was to be a gala one—a wealth of new honors had been posted, the prize-money packets substantially fattened, and competition was keener than ever. Bright young men and wealthy dowagers from all over were bringing forward their best and favorite pedigrees. Gonzales himself had promised a prize specimen of a fine old breed. A national picture magazine devoted its cover to the affair and a lengthy editorial in praise of this great American benignity, this love of animals—“... in bright and telling contrast,” the editorial said, “to certain naïve barbarities, e.g., the Spanish bullfight.”
Thus, when the day arrived, all was as it should be. The Garden was festively decked, the spectators in holiday reverence, the lights burning, the big cameras booming, and the participants dressed as for a Papal audience—though slightly ambivalent, between not wishing to get mussed or hairy, and yet wanting to pamper and coo over their animals.
Except for the notable absence of Señor Gonzales, things went smoothly, until the final competition began, that between “Best of Breed” for the coveted “Best in Show.” And at this point, Gonzales did appear; he joined the throng of owners and beasts who mingled in the center of the Garden, where it was soon apparent his boast had not been idle—at the end of the big man’s leash was an extraordinary dog; he was jet-black and almost the size of a full-grown Dane, with the most striking coat and carriage yet seen at the Garden show that season. The head was dressed somewhat in the manner of a circus-cut poodle, though much exaggerated, so that half the face of the animal was truly obscured.
Gonzales joined the crowd with a jaunty smile and flourish not inappropriate to one of his eminence. He hadn’t been there a moment though before he and the dog were spotted by Mrs. Winthrop-Garde and her angry little spitz.
She came forward, herself not too unlike her charge, waddling aggressively, and she was immediately followed by several other women of similar stamp, along with Pekineses, Pomeranians, and ill-tempered miniature chows.
Gonzales bowed with winning old-world grace and caressed the ladies’ hands.
“What a perfect love he is!” shrieked Mrs. Winthrop-Garde of the animal on Gonzales’s leash, and turning to her own, “Isn’t he, my darling? Hmm? Hmm? Isn’t he, my precious sweet? And whatever is his name?” she cried to Gonzales when her own animal failed to respond, but yapped crossly instead.
“He is called ... Claw,” said Gonzales with a certain soft drama which may have escaped Mrs. Winthrop-Garde, for she rushed on, heedless as ever.
“Claude! It’s too delicious—the perfect darling! Say hello to Claude, Angelica! Say hello to Claude, my fur-flower!”