“Peter!” he exclaimed, brightening. “Well, what a surprise!”
He was a nice enough man. Retired accountant, if I remembered correctly. Just a little too friendly.
At dinner the night before, after a few glasses of wine, he had practically hovered at my side.
What had started as a casual conversation about grooming and training had quickly turned into nonstop praise and questions.
I wasn’t comfortable with that much attention, and I had no intention of going through it again.
Unfortunately, Harold was already steering his dog toward me.
“You and Pampi had a marvelous run yesterday,” he said warmly. “Absolutely marvelous.”
I nodded politely. “Thank you.”
He gave his poodle a quick scratch behind the ears. “You handled her beautifully. Very skilled. You don’t see that kind of rapport much anymore.”
I resisted the urge to grimace. He had already said something similar last night.
Pampi, traitor that she was, puffed up beside me like she understood every word. Her tail wagged harder, and she shifted her weight as if ready to prance. I pressed my palm gently against her lower back.
“Sit,” I murmured under my breath. She obeyed, though I could feel the smug satisfaction radiating off her.
Harold beamed at her. “See? She adores you. You can tell.”
Then Harold sighed. “I would have loved to watch you both run in the finals, but we’re leaving today.”
That caught my attention. “Why? What happened?”
He bent to stroke the poodle’s head. “Daisy isn’t well. Must have eaten something she shouldn’t have. She’s feeling quite lethargic. Not herself at all.”
My spine went still. “Since when?” I asked.
“Oh, late last night, maybe early this morning. Hard to tell. Dr. Mitchell is giving her something to tide her over, but I’ll be taking my sweet Daisy to our regular vet back home. No point staying if she’s unwell. Shows come and go. My girl doesn’t.”
I nodded, feeling a twinge of sympathy. “That’s rough. Did she get into anything unusual?”
He frowned slightly. “Not that I noticed. Though with all the commotion these past few days, who knows?”
Harold straightened with a faint groan. “Well, I’m glad I saw you and Pampi one last time, Peter. I hope we meet again at the next show, preferably one with fewer incidents.”
His gaze lingered, warm and almost sentimental.
I gave him a genuine smile. “Safe travels.”
He gave Pampi one final affectionate look before shuffling toward the exit, Daisy walking slowly at his side.
My thoughts moved quickly. Harold was human. Up until now, the working theory—mine, at least—had been that shifter-owned dogs were the target. Harold didn’t fit that pattern.
Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe Daisy had really eaten something off the ground. It wouldn’t have been the first time a dog grabbed something questionable near a show venue.
Still, the other cases hadn’t sounded severe enough for handlers to withdraw. Harold had looked genuinely worried.
Then again, he did struck me as the kind who would pull out at the first sign of discomfort rather than push for a ribbon.
The curtain shifted again.
“Mr. Hill?” Dr. Mitchell called.
