Kizzy Ann Stamps by Jeri Watts Read Free Book Online Page B

nose, and it has to be large for the size of the dog. Who gets to decide “large”? That judge. So you can win in one dog show but not even get third place in another. It all depends on the judge.
    To try to make things even, though, they have all these rules written down, like not having a snippy muzzle on some breeds (meaning it is pointy when it should be squared). It gets
real
particular. I don’t think Old Man Hubbard’s coon dog, Howler, would even be allowed
in
the ring, and he is the best tracker in three counties.
    There was a lot more in there — how a dog is considered a champion if he has won fifteen points at two different major shows with two different judges, how a dog that doesn’t get that champion designation is “unfinished,” how a dog has to be judged while moving, not just in a stack (which is when the dog stands, posing almost), because a moving dog shows flaws that could be covered up when he’s standing still. It made my head swim, I tell you.
    And then I realized it didn’t matter. Because the AKC doesn’t recognize border collies, so Shag can’t be in a dog show.

    I appreciate your kind words telling me not to take things personal. But it
is
personal. When people talk together, it has to be personal, doesn’t it?
    “Your dog’s not real.” That’s what that stupid Laura told me when I got to school today.
    “She looks real to me,” I said, reaching down to pass a cupped hand over Shag’s well-shaped head. “Feels real, too.”
    Then she called me stupid and told me her father said a border collie was a no-account dog, not even registered with the AKC.
    “I know that,” I told her. “I know about the American Kennel Club. And I know that Shag could win any old dog show that lets border collies in.”
    “Not while she’s with you, Kizzy Ann.”
    “You think I don’t know about dog shows? For example, I happen to know that Shag is a natural at stacking.”
    Now, of course, you realize, Miss Anderson, that I hadn’t known this for all that long, nor was I really sure that the stacking Shag did was actually correct, but sometimes the spit and vinegar just gets in me.
    Granny Bits says my spit and vinegar is my curse, and she would say that what Laura told me next was my payback.
    Because Laura knew what I didn’t. She knew that black folks aren’t allowed to participate in dog shows. That book in the library didn’t say one thing about it. But Laura knew. Here’s how she said it: “Read between the lines, dummy.” She knew that the biggest strike against Shag isn’t the fact that border collies aren’t recognized by the AKC. The rule book might not say anything spelled out clear like the snippy muzzle or being registered in the United States as a breed. But it’s a rule just the same, she said.
    Laura Westover knew Shag’s biggest problem is that she belongs to me.
    I know you could tell something was wrong. And I’m sorry you were so bold as to touch my forehead to see if I was feeling poorly. I don’t think you’ll hear kindly about that from parents, seeing as how everybody gasped when your palm grazed my skin. I didn’t mean to be pouting or anything. I just couldn’t believe that my color would block my dog from opportunities. Sure, I can’t go to the movies in the front door, and I can’t order in a white restaurant, and I can’t sit on the same school bus seat as the white kids. But I never thought my dog would be affected just because of me.
    I went home and tied a bow in Shag’s fur, right behind her right ear, all perky looking. I thought it would make me feel better. Shag didn’t growl or show her teeth, but she let me know she didn’t like it. Just like when she lets Mama bathe her in sweet-smelling shampoo sometimes, but she stands there with that hard look on her face. She lets Daddy trim her fur with shears, and she stands perfectly still, even when he doesn’t do it very well. She knows, better than any of us, I guess, that she is just a