Broaches, ornaments, bookends, piggybanks, buoys, stuffed animals, toys on wheels or whatever, let us end there our enumeration of articles that could be made in Palafox’s image and that we could mass-produce and unleash on the marketplace, our profits would be considerable, but Algernon wouldn’t have his heart in that kind of business (the kind of heart, let it be said between us and in passing as with everything else, the kind of heart at the mercy of an able pick-pocket). Algernon cares for the rosebushes. Algernon collects old earthenware.
Straight and curved scissors, thinning shears, brush, wool card, three hand clippers, #00 (
of an inch), #0 (⅛ of an inch), #1 (
of an inch), Olympia outfits herself. The Modern Style is accepted but a Lion Style, of equal quality, will be given preference. Go for the Lion Groom. Maureen will help Olympia, Algernon will keep Palafox on the kitchen table. The standard of the Lion Groom is very specific, disqualifies those who stray from it, the subject will be shaved on his hindquarters up to his sides. Also shaved will be: the snout, above and below, beginning with his lower lids; the cheeks; front and rear legs, except the cuffs or wristbands, and the optional patterns on the hindquarters; the tail, with the exception of an oblong pompon at the end. Moustache is required for all contestants. The shaping of the fur around the front paws, referred to as bloomers, is allowed. Palafox primped and groomed into such a shape will thus make his appearance in tomorrow’s competition, and if he wins the title we’ll keep him. Everything was decided quickly. Olympia, therefore, was changing the creature’s litter — yesterday’s scoops tossed onto the dump heap, fresh news from the morgue and the stadium — when her stare fell on an ad slipped into the local paper: major exposition-competition, sponsored by c.i.b.i. (Certified by the International Beauty Institute). Maureen and Olympia knew how to persuade us, understood, agreed, if Palafox carries the day we will keep him. Only on that condition. Algernon plays fair. If he is beaten, shoot! One shot from a pistol held behind the ear, we whack him. We will put ourselves at the mercy of the judges. Without their knowing it, they will rule on Palafox’s fate. All things considered, it is normal for judges to have the last word in this matter.
Olympia starts with his head, clipper #0, going against the grain of the fur over his muzzle, cheeks from ears to lips, the underside of the snout, the neck, the throat, shouts a curt order to Maureen, clipper #1, with which she shaves the slightly faded perimeter around the eyes, above all do not emphasize his ungainliness, then, scissors straight, she evens out the hairs of the short mustache, card, yes, she untangles the frizzy mane on his head, curved scissors, and clipping it along the shape of the head, careful, neither too flat on the top nor too low along the nose, so, at last, she grooms the ears, thinning shears, thin without shearing, and the hair around the ears is long, better that way, the head’s done. Clipper #00, onto the body. A cakewalk. Beginning at the tail, Olympia shaves the small of his back, his behind, the thighs, the belly and the flanks up to the middle of the body — stop! — the mane should cover the sides, a dense and furry muff flexible under your fingers, scissors straight, keep it to two inches thick, curved scissors, Olympia nonetheless rounds the angles, and cheats a little when cutting the hair on the chest, in such a way as to obtain an ideal curve from the sternum to the last rib, so the body’s done, we see that Olympia has given up on the patterns on his behind, vulgar according to her, and in terrible taste. For the same reason, she’s against grooming the bloomers on the front legs, clipper #00, she shaves the four legs one after another, then the four feet, sparing nonetheless the fur around the ankles, curved scissors, she trims them into bowls, highlighting the incredible finesse of the feet and their bluish nudity. Now only the tail remains, clipper #00, Olympia shaves it along two thirds of its length, opting at its end for the oblong pompon, it’s done, Algernon can let the animal go. Palafox wriggles his tail. It looks like he’s cleaning a baby’s bottle. The orphan and the dame smile sadly.
With that, as every evening, restful night — the sound of the sea, the only known variant of silence, diffused by a favorable wind yours for the taking, the grain of salt added by a nightingale, only a half-moon, but the prettier half, billions of stars both dead and alive, shimmering, darkness in the house, the regular exhalation of sleepers, their extravagant dreams — as every evening, night without trouble. At the moment when our story starts up again, Algernon pushes open the door to the registration office. We haven’t missed much: rising early, washing absent-mindedly (left to right, then right to left, then low to high, then high to low), scalding hot coffee drunk standing up, one gulp, like a sword it went down, and then out, Palafox on a leash, the sandy roads bordered by bushes and gorse one shouldn’t confuse, the barking of dogs from far off, from nearer still, the tents of the exhibitors in the distance, nearer still, the cages, the dogs in the cages, the bungalows of the officials, we rejoin Algernon at the moment when, understanding that he must pull and not push this goddamn door, he enters the office of the registrar. Palafox is in order, here are his vaccinations for rabies, Carré’s disease and contagious hepatitis. The official responsible for registration — quickly inflate a chubby flat character with rosy cheeks — notes the registration number, x366, tattooed on the inside of his right ear. (Scenes of vaccination and tattooing, whether forgotten or ignored, do not figure in this story.) Make your way to the veterinary checkpoint, hisses the functionary, suddenly less chubby cheeked and who seems to lose his composure in direct proportion to each step towards the door we take, stoops, withers, fades, who still finds enough breath to indicate the adjoining bungalow, then he passes away and rises to heaven, in a zigzag course, crushed against the ceiling and falling again, henceforth useless, in a wastebasket.
The veterinarian, but instead read the bill that concerns him, is alone responsible for allowing or rejecting a participant, before or even during the exposition: those specimens that appear sick or afflicted with skin conditions, blind specimens, crippled or deformed, those with one testicle or none at all, females that are visibly pregnant, lactating or accompanied by their pups, and those females in heat. The decision of this corpulent personage with rosy cheeks is without appeal. He examines Palafox, pure formality, and countersigns the registration form while whistling to himself, he wasn’t whistling, he was exhaling. We take Palafox to the cage he has been assigned. He will not leave it again but to be brought before the judges. Any infraction at this point can keep the animal out of the competition and any reward he might have earned be revoked. The organizers decline all responsibility in the instance of theft, loss, flight, sickness, death of animals on display, bites from those animals, whatever the circumstances. In other words, the exhibitors are alone responsible for any accidents or damages that are the result of their animals’ actions, whether involving a third party or the animals themselves, the organizers would be in no way liable. All the toy poodles are in the same boat, we count twenty-one, black, gray, white or brown, shorn into lions, with or without bloomers, bibs around their necks. There are some pretty creatures, but Palafox seems to be the only one apricot in color, an easy trump since the objective of all is to look most like a lion, and therefore as little like a little sheep.