Dogged Pursuit Page 7

  We reach the trial site—the Boone County Fairgrounds—and park on the lawn, then go to seek out the rest of the All Fours team. It’s a fine autumn day. The air is crisp but the sun just warm enough to counter it. Really the perfect weather for competing under an open sky.

  There are, as usual, two courses set up—one for standard, another for jumpers—and the excellent dogs are already running. We circle the perimeter of both rings, Dusty lagging behind because he’s riveted by the fascinating aromas of so many passing rumps. I don’t see a single familiar face. It occurs to me that even though a lot of the members of the All Fours crew are hardcore agility folk, they don’t necessarily go to every single trial. And that if I want the benefit of their company at a given event, I should probably ask in advance if they plan on going.

  I’m just resigning myself to a weekend spent on my own—and a corresponding relief, somewhat shameful, that at least I won’t have to attempt small talk—when I spot Gus, of Gus and Deb, one of the other agility couples in the All Fours ranks. He’s slouched deep in a folding chair, fast asleep. There’s an empty chair next to his, which can only be Deb’s. I stand dithering for a minute, uncertain of what to do. I could wake him, of course, but that’d be a tad rude. Plus, what do I say after the initial, “Hey, Gus, how’s it going?” My eternal problem: the conversational freeze-up.

  With Deb this will not be an issue, as she’s one of those people who seem able to keep up a steady stream of conversation with anyone who might happen to be within a dozen yards. Or thirty. Or a hundred. It’s a trait a lot of Italian women possess, and that a lot of Italian men don’t—probably for that reason. Growing up among them, I’ve learned to marvel at the lives of these women, which all seem to follow the same unvarying arc: demure and virginal in girlhood, shy and smiling as brides, and then accruing more and more presence and power with age—even becoming physically larger, until they actually seem to swallow up the men in whose shadows they once meekly stood. Italian men suffer the inverse: growing taciturn and leaner, even spectral, with age.

  Gus, however, has escaped this fate; he hasn’t diminished at all. Both he and Deb are substantial people, and ranged around their chairs today are coolers, hampers, bags of goodies—a real bounty. They’re very generous with it too, in the time-honored Italian way, always offering up a handful of this or a paper plate of that. They’re a very likable pair, but I’ve always felt a little intimidated around them; this is, after all, a couple who have really sat down and made some choices, and everything about them broadcasts confidence in the results. They’re a team, a unit, a bulwark of certainty. They even dress alike, in complementing windbreakers. Whereas here I am, all by my lonesome, plagued by the moral relativism of this modern era that makes it so difficult to commit wholly to any decision at all. Should I even be here today, amusing myself by cavorting under the open sky, when the rain forest is disappearing and AIDS is sweeping across Africa?

  I look down at Dusty, who’s quivering with anxiety. It’s no wonder he’s a neurotic mess; I must still be infecting him with my aura. I try to shake off the languor and doubt—literally so; I jiggle my arms in the air and shake my legs, then set off on a brisk walk to steady our nerves.

  We head away from the trial ground and across a broad lawn that gently slopes downward and then up again, as though God just got up from a nap and left his elbow imprinted here. Dusty sniffs contentedly, and I let him follow the scent—allow him, in other words, to lead me, a rare privilege, since in the crowded, perilous city it’s vital that I be the one guiding his steps.

  Eventually he looks up at me and blinks, as though he’d temporarily forgotten my existence. The smells here must be deeply engrossing reading for him. I look over my shoulder and am momentarily surprised at how far we’ve meandered. The trial site is just a barnacle clinging tenuously to horizon line. An occasional whistle is the only sound to break through the cloaking buzz of the surrounding insects—nature’s white noise. I feel a little thrill of pleasure at being so far removed from any other sentient soul. It’s bracing, this sudden shower of solitude, after so many months of life in the city, where it seems there’s always somebody pressing against you from one angle or another.

  I used to enjoy this privilege fairly frequently, back when Jeffrey’s mom was alive. We’d drive out to see her—just a dozen miles or so from this very spot—and while Jeffrey went on into the house to greet her, I’d take the dog to stretch her legs after the long car ride. Together we’d walk to the very perimeter of the orchard on the property, where I could be reasonably certain I was the only human being within a quarter-mile radius. It was exhilarating; it felt like I was getting away with something—opting, for a few clandestine moments, out of the entire human race.

  Dusty’s eyelids are nearing half-mast. He seems to have entered some kind of fugue state. He continues to trot along, nose to the ground, but there’s no purpose in it now—it’s a Zen thing, if a dog has the capacity for Zen. Looking at him now, I’m tempted to say that dogs are Zen, that they embody the principle at its purest—that kind of oneness with everything, a quiet melding of the self into the great harmony of being. Of course I’m deliberately ignoring any inconvenient memories of him yapping wildly out the window or hurling himself at FedEx trucks.

  His equilibrium seems restored, so I gently tug his leash to steer him back the way we came. I still have to check in, get my armband, and pick up the maps of the courses we’ll be running. Dusty emits a little huff, as though reading my mind. But he follows me all the same.

  After checking in we come upon Deb, who’s just parting from another acquaintance so that she doesn’t even have to take a breath between conversations. “Hi, Rob, I didn’t know you were gonna be here today. It’s beautiful out, isn’t it? What are you running in today, still novice? Don’t feel bad—Becky’s been in novice for six years. Did you see Gus? Are you thirsty? No, no one else is here; they’re all at Fort Wayne. You didn’t know about Fort Wayne? I thought everyone knew about Fort Wayne. Me and Gus stayed here because we think maybe we’ll get a chance to take the boat out, not too many weekends left for that. We’re staying at a bed-and-breakfast tonight. Gus, wake up. Rob’s here.” We’ve reached their small encampment, and Deb shakes his shoulder. He sputters awake.

  “Hey, Rob, how ya doin’?” he says. “Want a Coke or somethin’?”

  Their accents are genuine South Side Chicago, and are like music to me out here on the rural frontier. “Where are the girls?” I ask, referring to their cocker spaniels, Becky, Bridget, Brittany, and Brandy. I’ve trained with all of them for a number of years and I still can’t tell them apart, a fact I do my best to hide from Deb and Gus. After all, I know how irked I get when someone can’t tell the difference between Dusty and Carmen (to me they barely look like the same species, much less the same breed). Thus whenever one of the four steps up onto my thigh to say hello, I always respond with an all-purpose, “Hey there, sweetheart!”

  “They’re in their crates,” Deb says.

  “Oh, I’ve still got to set up mine,” I say. “Which one of these buildings is the crating area?”

  She tosses her head in the direction of one of the long, flat out-buildings and says, “That one, I think; I’m not sure ’cause we’re just keeping the girls in the van.” I turn to see the van in question, parked next to a tree with its back door hanging open for circulation, and am a bit surprised that Gus has parked so close to the rings. I ask Deb about this, and she hints that they know someone who gave them a nod. I don’t recognize the name, and feel again like I’m on the outside of some vast agility fraternity—a dilettante, a dabbler.

  Still, my Saab 9-3 isn’t quite as accommodating for a crate—the only way I can fit one in at all is to fold it up first—plus I’d be too nervous to leave the door hanging open. The odds of anyone stealing my stereo way out here, east of Eden, are remote at best, but what can I say. Living in the city all these years has left me more than a little paranoid. Well, paranoia is
good on the mean streets; it’s what helps you survive.

  And yet Gus and Deb are Chicagoans too. I try not to draw any deflating inferences. Possibly it’s just one more example of strength in numbers: as a couple, they can pool their self-assurance in a way I really can’t. I try to imagine being out here with Jeffrey. He would absolutely, no question about it, pull up as close to the trial site as possible; hell, given half a chance he’d park under the A-frame. Of course he’d do that even without me. Maybe I’m the only one who’s suffering a self-assurance deficit here. I’m always minding the rules and doing what I’m told, no matter how it chafes. Actually, more often than not it doesn’t chafe, as if my will has been permanently whittled down.

  I remind myself that the whole point of this agility adventure is to shake off that shroud of timorousness and restraint. To be bold, to be heroic, to strive and achieve. I need it, Dusty needs it—it’s high time we went out there and just did it.

  First, however, I need to sit down and examine the novice standard course. It seems a rather puny segue from my big rhetorical exhortation, but as Alexander or Caesar certainly knew, every great victory hinges on a series of small maneuvers.

  Which in this case seem to begin with a front cross after the tire—something I’m almost positive Alexander and Caesar never had to pull off.

  The front cross ends up going beautifully. Unfortunately, I follow by leading Dusty to the wrong obstacle, which officially constitutes an off course—my bad, not his—after which I grow nervous about making another mistake, and of course transmit that nervousness directly to him, as if by laser beam. I stop short, he stops short; I start second-guessing him, he starts giving up on me. At one point he even sits down. Just plonks his butt right in the middle of the field. I feel like joining him.

  Deb is there at the end with kind words and an ice-cold Coke, but I’m not to be placated; I have to steel myself against panic for my next run, jumpers with weaves. While I’m putting Dusty back in his crate, someone comes up—tall guy, glasses, salt-and-pepper beard—and introduces himself as Jim. He has Shelties too, he says, and knows how skittish they can be in the ring. As if to provide exhibit A, he reaches down to stroke Dusty, who responds by backing to the farthest corner of the crate and hiding his head under his shank.

  “Have you tried lavender oil?” he asks.

  I blink. The question seems to have been reeled in from some other conversation. “I . . . don’t think I have,” I say, uncertain of his meaning. Is this some inquiry into my personal hygiene? I give myself a surreptitious sniff.

  “It really calms them down,” he says, nodding toward the crate. I’m just wondering what it would take to get Dusty to ingest lavender oil when Jim adds, “You rub a little behind their ears just before you go in the ring. It’s a very soothing aroma.”

  “Ah,” I say. And I can’t think of anything to add. I’m having too much trouble with the idea of going all airy-fairy-herbal on a dog. I mean, the happiest I’ve ever seen my pack was after they’d managed to roll themselves filthy in deer shit. That’s the scent that made them feel contented and complete. It took over an hour to bathe the skin-blistering, Agent Orange-like stench out of them and they were sullen and resentful every single second of it. In view of which, I seriously doubt a few polite daubs of flowery foofaraw would do anything but annoy a real canine.

  “You’re here tomorrow?” Jim asks, completely unperturbed by how antisocial both my dog and I are being. “I’ll bring you some.”

  “That’s very generous,” I say, “but really you don’t have to do that. I can pick it up myself. Do I find it at a pharmacy or . . . ?”

  He waves dismissively as he turns on his heels. “It’s no big deal, I’ve got plenty. See you then.”

  He’s gone before I can think to thank him. God damn this urban-cynic wariness that makes me suspicious of anyone who approaches me unbidden. “What the hell does he want from me?” is my reflexive reaction. And I hate to admit it, but there’s part of me that’s half-convinced the guy will show up tomorrow, slip me a vial of some cheap gunk, and then demand fifty bucks for it.

  But I’ve got to remember that I’m not in the city. I’m out here on the prairie where honest, decent, God-fearin’ folk help a body out, whether it’s with the hayin’ or the reapin’ or his agility dog’s nervous complaint.

  Some lavender oil can only have improved our jumpers run, which devolves rapidly into a circus. Dusty has a clutch of refusals, and we end up straggling off the course, gasping, after seventy-seven seconds. The allowed course time is forty-one. We were more than thirty seconds over. I’d gone out there striving for an epochal run and succeeded only in that an epoch is about how long it took. I’m surprised we weren’t whistled off the course. Then someone at the gate tells me we were—I just didn’t hear it and kept going. A real festival of humiliation I’ve got on my hands here.

  And the weekend’s only half over.

  CHAPTER 10

  From the Jaws of Defeat

  After a performance like that, all you can really do is skulk out of town. Which we do. Straight back to the city, where hordes of people are out in the gorgeous weather, biking and picnicking and grilling burgers in the park, and jamming up traffic something awful.

  We’re on Lawrence Avenue, about three-quarters of a mile from our block, and traffic is just . . . Not. Moving. Ninety minutes I’ve driven—close enough to home to stumble there blindfolded—only to be stopped in my tracks by the great human comedy unfolding before me.

  And just when I think my nerves have been shredded as completely as they can be, I hear an awful sound from the backseat. A kind of muffled gastric rumbling: mmm-glrp, mmm-glrp, mmm-glrp . . .

  I whirl around and find Dusty with a hideous grin on his face, his head bobbing like a pigeon’s. Mmm-glrp, mmm-glrp—

  “No . . . no! Hold on, boy,” I say desperately. “We’re almost home—just calm down, please.”

  But of course he’s far beyond the reach of any blandishments I might fire at him. A moment later he projects a really quite impressive amount of vomit all over my leather interior.

  “Oh, God,” I say, craning my neck to survey the damage. The hothead in the Chevy Impala behind me lays on his horn. I turn back to find that traffic has crept up a good yard and a half; apparently the Impala guy is afraid someone might cut in front of me and claim it. Possibly someone on a tricycle or a pogo stick. I don’t know and don’t care. I’ve got bigger problems.

  A few minutes later, we reach a corner that hosts a gas station. I pull in and retrieve from the trunk one of the towels I keep on hand for such emergencies. When I open the back door, the vomit oozes out like lava. It’s really a startling amount; how can so small a dog have had this much bile in him? Dusty looks guiltily up at me, his head hung low. “Don’t worry, boy,” I say; “it could happen to anybody. Nothing to be ashamed of. Have it cleaned up in no time.”

  But cleanup is actually more challenging than that. The offending substance is just viscous enough to resist absorption by the towel yet liquid enough to seep into every nook and cranny, with rivulets running under the seat beyond the reach of my hand. I throw in the towel (or rather, throw out the towel) after managing to clear away the worst, by which time my head is pounding and the sun dipping low in the sky.

  I give Dusty an absolving scratch under the chin, get back behind the wheel, and pull into traffic—with some difficulty because no one wants to readmit me. In fact when I do succeed, it’s only by daring to cut off someone on the assumption that her car means more to her than mine to me (since hers is a brand-new BMW and most likely vomit free). She brakes hard and then curses me out—I can read her lips in the rearview mirror. “Geez, lady,” I mutter. “You kiss your mama with that mouth?”

  Traffic picks up a bit, and we make up the rest of the distance in only a matter of minutes. As I turn into the alley that leads to our garage, I feel physically lighter, as if I’ve come through a gauntlet relatively unscathed. Finally, we ar
rive. I depress the garage opener, and as the door slowly rises, I hear again from the backseat, mmm-glrp, mmm-glrp.

  “No, Dusty. No! We’re here! We’re here!”

  And so we are. But for the second time today, thirty seconds too late.

  “I’m thinking of not going back tomorrow,” I say to Jeff over dinner.

  “Mm,” he says, unimpressed. When he’s swallowed his last forkful of chicken marsala, he reminds me, “Your crate’s still there.”

  “They can have it. I’ll buy a new one.”

  He shrugs and says, “Your call,” then starts to clear away the dishes.

  “I mean it,” I tell him. “Today was brutal. I don’t see any point in repeating it.”

  “Fine,” he says. “You want dessert?”

  “No, thanks.” I give him a piercing look. “You think I’m being juvenile.”

  “No,” he says as he fetches a tub of ice cream from the freezer. “Actually, it’s a sign of maturity to forgo dessert.”

  I clench my teeth. “You know what I meant.”

  He plunks two scoops of dulce de leche into a bowl. “If you say so.”

  “You think I’m being adolescent. A crybaby. Giving up.”

  “Someone seems to be saying that, but it doesn’t appear to be me.”

  “I know what I’m doing. I’m a grown man, at least allow me that.”

  “No one’s saying otherwise.” He holds up the tub before replacing it in the freezer. “Last chance. Sure you don’t want any?”

  I shake my head. “I’m a grown man and I know my own mind. I don’t make decisions lightly. I make them in the fullness of intent, and they mean something.”

  He brings the bowl to the table. “I’m not arguing.” He tucks into the ice cream.

  I watch him enjoying it for almost nine whole seconds, then reach over and say, “I’ll just have one bite . . .”