The Wicked Witch of the Westminster Kennel Club
By Mlle. Dinkley
Disclaimer: Scooby-Doo and all related characters and elements are trademarks of Hanna-Barbera and/or Warner Brothers. All rights reserved. This is an amateur, not-for-profit work, and is not intended to infringe upon the property of the original copyright holder or holders. This piece is a work of fiction. Any similarities to any persons and/or animals, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
A/N: This story is a sequel to "The Great Dane Napping," but features only two characters from that story. You need not have read "The Great Dane Napping" to follow this story.
I
"…And now, making her run around the ring is Champion Sandhill's Desert Rose, know by her handler as "Rosie."
A hush fell upon the crowd at Madison Square Garden as the graceful Afghan Hound trotted alongside its handler, its long, silky coat swaying in the gentle breeze created by the dog's movements.
"This is Rosie's third consecutive appearance at the Westminster Kennel Club show; last year, she represented the Hound group in the 'Best in Show' competition, beating out the favorite, Champion Jermiah's Jumping Jericoh, the Jack Russell Terrier. If all goes well, we should be seeing Rosie and her handler in the Best in Show competition this year too."
Having finished their run around the ring, the dog and its handler paused in front of the official, both waiting patiently as the judge carefully scrutinized every hair and muscle on the beautiful dog's body. Nodding his approval, the judge signaled for the dog and its handler to take their second run around the ring.
Seconds into the pair's first steps, the florescent lights on the ceiling began to flash. "What the..?" the surprised judge muttered out loud, lifting his head toward the ceiling in an attempt to locate the source of the flicker; but before he could discern it, the lights went out, momentarily plunging the arena into darkness. An audible murmur arose from the previously hushed crowd as the confused spectators tried to make sense of the strange happenings.
An electric buzzing sound filled the dark exhibit hall. The ceiling lights flickered again, as if an emergency generator had kicked in, but instead of replacement lighting, a bright green flash filled the air, followed by the eerie sound of cackling laughter. A collective gasp rose from the crowd as the stunned exhibitors, judges and spectators beheld the spooky sight in front of them.
Floating just below the ceiling was the figure of a woman clad in the long, black robe of a medieval sorceress; her face glowed an eerie green, accentuated by the strange ambient lighting in the hall. In its left hand, the figure held a pentagram-capped scepter, which pointed directly towards the crowd below.
The witch let forth an evil cackle. "No one shall win at this show, now or ever! The Westminster curse shall strike all who set foot in the show ring from this day forth." The demonic figure punctuated its announcement with another cackle. She raised the scepter above her head then thrust its headpiece toward the judges and handlers standing in the ring. With an electric crackle, a blinding flash of green light shot forth from the staff, revealing the form of a demonic mastiff baring its teeth. The demonic dog let forth an unearthly roar. "Let the curse of Westminster befall all those who set foot in the ring at this show," she cackled, before disappearing in a bright flash of green light and a cloud of smoke. The handlers and the judge in the ring looked away, shielding their eyes from the flash and the acrid smoke that filled the arena.
As the smoke dissipated and the florescent lighting returned, the stunned spectators and judges gasped at the sight in front of them. The beautiful Afghan Hound, which had stood in the ring only moments before, had vanished without a trace. Her frightened handler gasped in sadness and surprise. "Rosie!"
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Fred Jones sat calmly and confidently in the driver's seat of the Mystery Machine, skillfully driving the van through the crowded streets of Manhattan. The city's infamous traffic conditions would have cowed a lesser person, but the blond man seemed almost oblivious to the noisy, somewhat rude antics of his fellow drivers. "It sure was nice of Mr. Wyndham to invite us to the dog show," he commented, never even taking his eyes off the road.
"And what a treat it will be," replied the bespectacled girl in the passenger's seat. "The Westminster Kennel Club show is the oldest and most prestigious dog show in the country." Velma reached down to the floor and picked up a well-worn copy of the American Kennel Club's The Complete Dog Book. "There are over one hundred fifty breeds recognized by the AKC," she continued. "I can't wait to see all the different dogs." She turned to the group's resident dog lover, seated in the back with his travelling companion, a large, brown-coated Great Dane. "What about you guys?" she asked, curiously.
"R'I'm excited," Scooby replied, eagerly. "R'I get to see Rala again!" The enamored Great Dane sighed contently as he dropped to the floor of the van, taking an old towel between his front paws and nuzzling it as if it were a dog. "Aaah, Rala," he breathed, romantically, recalling Marc Wyndham's beautiful champion Great Dane and drifting off into a state of canine reverie.
"I thought Marc Wyndham retired from the show ring," commented Daphne.
"He did," Velma replied, "or at least he intended to. Shortly after we solved that case for him, he received a letter from the show's secretary stating that he and his dog had earned an automatic bid to Westminster. He accepted the invitation, but stated blatantly that this would be Kala's last show, sort of her 'last hurrah'--and his—before he leaves the world of dog showing for good. An invitation as exclusive as this you just cannot turn down."
"Well I hope his crazy ex-wife doesn't decide to crash the show," joked Daphne, though there was a hint of concern in her tone.
Velma smiled. "I don't think she will, not unless she broke out of prison." The bespectacled girl began enumerating the counts against Laura Whitney, Marc's ex-wife. "Six counts of animal torture, one count of animal cruelty, breaking and entering, possession of stolen property…she'll be behind bars for awhile, and with her bellicose personality, I doubt that she will be getting out for good behavior."
"That's a relief," the redhead replied.
The Mystery Machine pulled up to a large, underground parking structure, on top of which stood an immense building. "Well, here we are, gang," Fred announced, "Madison Square Garden."
Daphne, Velma and Shaggy glanced upward at the structure in front of them. "The exhibit hall and arena share a common entrance with a train station and a subway station," commented Velma, reading from her New York guidebook, "thereby giving the illusion that the facility is larger than it actually is."
"Illusion or not," said Shaggy, "like, something this big has got to have some decent eating places in it." He glanced at his canine companion. "Once we get in, like, how's about we check out the concession stands, eh Scoob?"
The Great Dane licked its lips with an audible slurp. "Reah, r'ets eat."
"You two can raid the concession stands later," admonished Fred. "Right now, we should get inside and find Marc."
The four humans and the dog walked up to the entrance of the exhibit hall; a heavy-set man in a security uniform stopped them in front of the turnstiles. The guard looked past straight past Fred, Velma and Daphne, focusing directly on Shaggy and his canine companion. "Hold it, kids," the guard announced, gruffly, putting his hands up in a 'stop' position, "only dogs entered in the show are allowed inside the exhibit halls; no other dogs allowed!"
Scooby looked up at the guard. "Rog?" he queried, puzzled, "r'where?"
"Uh, we were invited here by one of the handlers, Mr. Marc Wyndham," Fred explained, "he told us to meet him in the exhibit hall."
The guard looked sternly at the blond man, as if evaluating his story. After a few minutes, he relented. "Well, I can let you three in, but that kid's gotta dump his dog."
Fred shook his head in defeat. The gang's—especially Shaggy's--closeness to Scooby sometimes led them to forget that the latter was a dog and did not merit the same treatment as his fellow, two-legged travelling companions. Scooby seemed to realize that he was the cause of the problem and made a feeble attempt at reasoning with the door guard. "Rut r'I'm ramous," the Great Dane insisted, "R'I'm Scooby-Doo." The skinny man corroborated the dog's statement, but the guard wasn't buying it.
"I don't care if he's Lassie," the guard insisted. "The rules are clear: 'no outside dogs' means no outside dogs. Now you either remove that dog, or I will have to have you forcefully removed from the premises."
Shaggy looked woefully at Fred, Velma and Daphne, as if hoping that they could reason with the guard. The blond man shook his head. "We'll meet you inside," he intoned, monotonously, as he and the girls walked through the turnstiles and into the exhibit hall.
Shaggy and Scooby watched, dejectedly. "Come on, Scoob," the skinny man sighed, "you heard the man; like, we're not welcome here." The Dane looked longingly at the closed doors, before turning to follow his master back to the parking lot.
His tail tucked between his legs and his head lowered, Scooby whined, pitifully, the mournful sound echoing off the walls of the parking garage.
"Like, don't worry, Scoob," Shaggy reassured him. "We'll get you in, it just may take awhile."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The giant Great Dane was not too enthralled about wearing the 'grandmother costume' for a second time. The strong floral scent of the perfume irritated his sensitive nose and the narrow, high-heeled shoes pinched his oversize paws. No matter what he did, Scooby just could not seem to get comfortable in the costume. If he walked on all fours, he tripped over the long dress and stumbled on the shoes; if he walked on his hind legs, the dress was no longer a hindrance, but now, the shoes interfered with his gait. And despite having walked on his hind legs many times, he was still ungainly in his steps and would frequently topple forward.
"Now remember, Scoob," Shaggy whispered, "don't say anything, just like, walk on through."
"R'okay."
Shaggy approached the arena entrance once again, this time with his "grandmother" in tow. The same guard who had turned him back only an hour earlier still stood at his post, eyes peeled, as if on the look-out for anyone else trying to sneak an unauthorized dog into the show.
"Like, two," said Shaggy, flashing the guard the tickets (actually, one ticket and the side panel from a box of Scooby snacks).
"Enjoy the show," the guard intoned, monotonously, completely oblivious to the con.
"Like, thanks man," said Shaggy, walking past the guard and through the turnstiles a few yards further on. He paused to watch Scooby's attempt at doing the same. Scooby walked effortlessly past the guard, but as he passed through the turnstiles, he tripped over the shoes, snagging the lower portion of his dress on the turnstile bars. The fabric stretched, allowing the dog to walk forward, then promptly snapped back, taking Scooby with it. "Yowwww!" the dog howled, spinning around the bars and tearing the dress in the process.
Shaggy put a finger to his lips, hushing the dog and helping him out of his entanglement; he hoped that the security guard had not seen or heard any of the spectacle. "What the…" the guard intoned, turning his head in the direction of the noise.
Glancing over his shoulder, Shaggy verified that the guard was still at his post, relieved to see that he was. Shaggy wiped his brow, then continued to disentangle Scooby from the turnstile bars. Shaggy knew that he had to work quickly. Quickly taking out a pocketknife, he began cutting through the fabric of the dress. Moments later, the giant dog was able to move freely, but not before the guard began to approach the entryway.
"I swear I heard a dog," he muttered to himself, looking around, but seeing no one other than Shaggy and the old woman accompanying him. Believing himself to be mistaken, the guard turned around and walked back to his post at the entrance.
Shaggy and Scooby sighed collectively in relief. "Come on, Scoob, like, let's go find Fred and the girls."
The Dane obliged, remaining on his hind legs and stumbling in the costume.
"I guess we fooled that security guy, eh Scoob?" quipped Shaggy.
The dog chuckled in response, not noticing that the lower portion of his dress had fallen away, revealing his tail and bow-legged stance.
From his post at the door, the guard began having second thoughts. That was the ugliest lady I've ever seen, the guard thought to himself. If I didn't know any better, I'd say she looked like a dog.
