Dogged Pursuit Page 9

  There’s no denying it: we’re on a roll. The national championships just got a little bit closer. They’re held in March, in Tulsa. It’s not too soon to check on air fares; we might get a deal by booking this early.

  I pick up our ribbon and head to the car. Dusty walks beside me with swagger bordering on arrogance. I feel compelled to take him down a peg. “Why couldn’t you have done that when Vicky Bruning was watching?” I ask. “Just to show her you’re not some twitching experiment by Dr. Mengele?” It’s no use. I can’t even dim his pride. He’s a little hero, and he knows it.

  CHAPTER 12

  Friends and Neighbors

  The next night our friends Annie and Kevin have us over to dinner. He’s an architect; she’s an archivist. He’s tall, carrot topped, bespectacled, a sly wit who’s quick with a quip, while she’s, well, pretty much the same (though admittedly more strawberry brunette than redhead). They’re one of the more perfectly matched couples I’ve ever met; they seem to have emerged from the same pod—and then carried the pod away with them. Their house is warm and spacious and is choked with paintings, found objects, and endearing bits of kitsch. They’re the parents we all wish we’d had. They have no children, which is probably the secret.

  Annie has cooked up an enormous pork roast—by the looks of it, all the butcher did was remove the legs, ears, and tail—and after an extended cocktail hour, we’ve at last sat down to eat it. Bottles of wine are opened and mashed sweet potatoes brought to the table, singing of ginger. A crisp green salad with fennel and citrus is set before me, completing the aromatic logjam. I feel completely contented.

  Inevitably, the conversation turns to my endeavors with Dusty. “Oh, we’re doing very well,” I say. “We’re only on our third trial, and we’ve already racked up two legs toward a title.”

  “How many legs do you need?” Annie asks.

  “For tap dancing, two,” says Kevin. “Hopscotch, one.”

  “Sack racing, four,” adds Jeffrey.

  “Three,” I say, retaking control of the conversation. “If he gets three qualifying scores in this particular class, he gets his novice title in jumpers with weaves.”

  “Is that like jumping with hair extensions?”

  I ignore this and forge ahead. “Then he moves up to what’s called the open class, and if he gets three qualifying scores there—”

  “It’s open and shut.”

  Everyone cackles, and I feel a sting of irritation that the people closest to me aren’t taking this entirely seriously. But the idea of saying so—of delivering or even implying some kind of rebuke—is inconceivable. I’m at a dinner party, for God’s sake. Suddenly, I realize that this must be an occupational hazard of belonging to two worlds. More than that, I have to admit to myself that I must actually, honestly belong to the agility world now, or I wouldn’t be feeling the chafing of its incongruity with my everyday, urban one. It’s a surprising epiphany.

  Accordingly, I introduce a more self-deprecating subject: the downgrading of Dusty’s previously revered cryptic blue status.

  “So he’s no longer Sheltie royalty?” Annie asks.

  “Apparently not. More like a Sheltie eugenics victim.”

  “Oh, now, hold on,” says Jeffrey, who’s not only gotten over his initial aversion to Dusty but has become particularly fond of him. “You’ve got, what, the word of one snarky old lady?”

  “A snarky old lady who breeds Shelties,” I point out.

  “ ‘Irresponsible breeding,’ isn’t that what she said? Those were her exact words, right?”

  “More or less.”

  “Well, that’s nothing but a value judgment. We’re free to disagree, and I do. To me it’s no more irresponsible than gardeners trying to breed different varieties of roses. Or trees that bear hybrid fruits.”

  “I think they do that by grafting the bark,” says Kevin. “Hey, maybe that’s how they get hybrid Shelties!”

  Annie kicks him under the table, but so theatrically that we’re all aware of it. “Well I don’t care what anyone says, I think he’s beautiful,” she says consolingly. “I may change my mind if he ever lets me within the same zip code as him, but for now, I totally admire him from afar.”

  “You can admire him up close any time you like,” I tell her. “Just come see him compete. You don’t have to drive very far, not more than fifty miles or so really, and you’d be amazed by the way these dogs perform. It’s . . .” I stop short, suddenly aware that I’ve gone a bit wild, trying to force my worlds to come together; it’s harder than I thought, coexisting in two at once. Especially since emotionally I seem increasingly more invested in agility.

  In the awkward silence that follows, Annie and Kevin’s black cat, Squid, makes a kind of liquid entrance, moving slowly across the room in a series of glistening ripples. When she’s gone, we find ourselves on the subject of cats. Now, I have nothing against cats; in fact I like them fine. But I don’t find them a riveting subject for conversation. There just isn’t that much to say about them. At least not compared to dogs: there’s a basic experiential chasm between the two species. Dogs pull sleds, catch Frisbees, herd sheep, guard warehouses, sniff out explosives, lead the blind, retrieve game, and rescue lost hikers. They join the army, the police force, and the circus; they work on movie sets and in hospital wards. Whereas cats? Not big on leaving the house.

  Then there’s the whole matter of physical variations. Domestic cats remind me of the kind of suburban development where you get to choose from five or six house models, all of which are pretty much alike. Whereas with dogs, you’ve got a dizzying range of architecture: from statuesque Great Danes to teacup Pomeranians; sleek-coated Doberman pinschers to luxuriously maned Lhasa apsos; snub-nosed pugs to flute-snouted borzois; solid, squat bull terriers to elegantly long-limbed salukis. There’s a dog to fit every aesthetic, from the aristocratic to the redneck. There’s a size and shape to accommodate every habitat, from a bolt-hole to a palace. And there’s a span of uncannily diverse facial variations not even the human species can match: Stare into the eyes of a Neapolitan mastiff, then into those of a cairn terrier: you’re looking into very, very different worlds. And yet you’re welcome there—you’re always welcome.

  But these are dear friends who have not only listened to me drone on about my dogs on more than one occasion but have done so with unfailing graciousness, and so I’m obliged to repay the favor with regard to their cats—who, admittedly, are amusing specimens, as cats go. The feline aptitude for playful murder is something I find particularly attractive; you just don’t get that from canines.

  I’m still pondering the differences between the two species when we return home to find our dogs all wound up about something happening somewhere on the street. We look out the window and can’t see anything ourselves, but the way Dusty and Carmen are acting you’d think the Battle of Hastings was under way out there. Finally, the yapping and leaping and whining get to be too much for me. I open the back door and let them spill querulously out into the yard. They immediately start fence-running, barking and spinning in outrage at the presence of—what? We still don’t know. Most likely we never will. Meantime, lights start flicking on in the apartment building next door, and a few wan faces peer down at us through the windows, exuding annoyance. I find myself thinking of Squid curled up atop a bookshelf, invulnerably contented and wholly self-contained and looking as though she just might decide not move a muscle for another eon or so. There are, I force myself to allow, as I corral my still-hysterical dogs and herd them back inside, some points to be made in favor of the cat.

  It’s late but I’m not tired, so I go and open my laptop and commence a good, solid hour of trawling the political Web sites, starting with the Drudge Report, Talking Points Memo, the Daily Kos, and the Huffington Post, then on to the various blogs on the Atlantic . It’s a big election year and I’m becoming increasingly addicted to the drama of the coming primaries. At one point Jeffrey calls out from the kitchen, “I’m letting Dusty
out again. He’s acting all itchy.” I murmur something noncommittal and continue reading.

  Eventually, my eyes go all bleary and the words start to intermingle before me—a sure sign it’s time to call it a night. I log off, then get up and douse the lights and drag myself to bed. My legs feel like they’re made of lead.

  The house is quiet; I seem to be the last one still up. I quickly strip down, leaving my clothes where they fall, and topple into bed; within seconds I’m dead to the world.

  I’m roused by the doorbell, and by Carmen’s howling response to it. I claw my way up from unconsciousness, lurch out of bed, and grab blindly for a robe. I connect with one, pull it off its hook, and try to don it while skittering down the staircase. I get the sleeves wrong and find myself wearing the thing backward, so that it flaps open behind me like a hospital gown. The doorbell rings again, signaling no small urgency, so I don’t have time to fix it. I flip up the dead bolt, pausing only to wonder why Carmen’s barking so furiously and Dusty not at all.

  I swing open the door and there’s a police officer on the welcome mat. Suddenly I’m wide awake. I reach behind me and try to pull the robe shut over my skinny white ass. “Hi,” I say, a bit lamely. “Can I help you?”

  It’s too dark on the stoop to be sure, but I think he shoots me a patronizing look. “You got a dog?” he asks—which is a rather pointless question, as he surely heard Carmen yapping in response to the bell; what’s more, she’s chosen this moment to stick her nose out and take the intruder’s scent. Do I have a dog? Hel-looh.

  “Yes,” I say, answering the question anyway, and I’m just about to introduce him to Carmen when I hear it: the unmistakable, if faint, sound of Dusty’s shrill barking. But—where’s it coming from?

  Suddenly it all becomes clear. “Oh, crap,” I say. “He’s still out in the yard.”

  “That’s right,” says the officer.

  “We forgot to bring him in.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Someone called and complained?”

  “Several someones.”

  “I’ll go get him right now. Sorry, this really isn’t like us; it’s never happened before and I promise it’ll never—” But he’s already down the front steps, waving a hand in dismissal. He’s got no more time for me; there are greater threats to public order to be dealt with tonight. I feel a sudden ecstasy of guilt that I’m responsible for diverting him from them. How many gang wars have now raged twenty minutes longer because I didn’t lock up my nineteen-pound Sheltie?

  From upstairs Jeffrey drowsily calls out, “What’s going on?” I tell him not to worry and to go back to bed. I dash across the house—Carmen at my heels, yapping anew—and throw open the back door. I step out onto the deck and summon Dusty in from the yard in a hoarse but urgent stage whisper. He dutifully comes trotting on up, looking not at all abashed. In fact he seems infuriatingly pleased with himself, as though he’s put in a fine night’s work of warding off all manner of suspicious citizens, stray dogs, raccoons, possums, squirrels, falling leaves, old plastic bags, and whatever else might have had the temerity to bestir itself on his watch.

  Taking a quick look up at the apartment building next door, I notice a few stray windows lit and scowling faces staring down at me. I’m utterly mortified, and not only because I look like an idiot, standing on the deck with my robe on backward, effectively mooning the moon, but also because I’ve become one of those people—the irresponsible, neglectful, contemptuous-of-their-fellow-man dog owners who plague every city neighborhood. How many nights have I lain awake, cursing some nearby householder for leaving his hound out all night to bay endlessly? It really is true: if we’re not careful, we become the thing we hate.

  Back inside I finally think to look at the clock: 3:18. I feel dizzy with guilt. Dusty must have been outside yapping for hours before my neighbors’ innate civility was overwhelmed by sheer frustrated rage. I can’t help wondering how many of them phoned in complaints—and which of them. It’s going to be tough to show my face tomorrow. Jeffrey’s lucky: he gets to slip away to his office in the early hours. I’m stuck here all day at the scene of the crime, as it were. Not that I expect any direct confrontations, just the inevitable daggers from accusing eyes, against which there is no real defense.

  As it happens, my first encounter of the morning is a direct one. While walking the dogs I run into Bunny, one of our neighbors in the adjacent condominium building. She’s on her way to work but stops to say hello to Carmen (who loves her)—then adds, a bit mischievously, “You left her out all night.”

  “Actually, that was Dusty,” I say. It doesn’t help that Dusty himself is now snarling at her as though he’s never seen her before in his life.

  “What happened?” she asks. Bunny’s a friend, so the question is a fair one, but I just don’t have an answer to it. I can’t even say, “It was Jeffrey’s fault,” because everyone in the neighborhood knows the dogs are principally my responsibility.

  I finally shrug and say, “We just forgot about him. I’m really sorry. If anyone else in the building mentions it, please pass along our apologies, and assure them it won’t ever happen again.”

  She good-naturedly accepts my contrition, then after a few minutes of small talk continues on her way. Dusty gives one final, mighty dive in her direction as she goes, as if saying, “And don’t come back!”

  It’s a wonder we have any friends on the block at all.

  CHAPTER 13

  A Glimmer of Glory

  Weeks pass. We compete in a several more trials, but the third and final Q that will earn us our first title remains elusive. I’ve begun to wonder whether our earlier victories were flukes. Whether Dusty is in fact the canine equivalent of the ape left alone with a typewriter who will, given enough time, eventually bang out the complete works of Shakespeare. (Possibly starting with Two Gentlemen of Verona, which seems to me like a chimp already had a hand in writing it.)

  But I refuse to give in to despair. And so today we’re on our way to a novice-only trial in Spring Grove, Illinois, another town I’ve never even heard of. I always wonder about places like this. I mean, whence came the name Spring Grove? Is it in fact a grove? And was spring there such a rapturous floral idyll that the town council was compelled to make it their official brand, snubbing the family of some flinty Presbyterian founder who’d rather have had the place named after him? Was Spring Grove, in short, really that much more a Spring Grove than a Kinleyville or a Tuckerton?

  Well if it ever was, it isn’t now; these days it’s just another depressing landscape of asphalt, strip malls, and drab little residential enclaves. Granted, the weather today is gray and rainy, the kind of day that can make Paris look Soviet.

  Even more depressingly, MapQuest seems to have led me on a merry chase; the sudden turns and roundabouts required of me are almost vertiginous. Fortunately, the CD I’ve chosen for the drive is helping me keep sane: Dvořák’s Symphony no. 7 in D Minor by the BBC Philharmonic, Vassily Sinaisky conducting. Although it’s not the seventh itself that catches my fancy—it’s too familiar, and in my view a bit too full of itself—but an extra piece on the program, The Water Goblin, to which I happily listen three times in succession. It’s like a series of leitmotifs for agility; there are phrases that’d be perfect for the A-frame, the weave poles, even the table. If I were enough of a tech head to make movies of Dusty’s runs on my laptop, this is definitely the soundtrack I’d use.

  At last we arrive at the trial site: the WAG Building (WAG being the rather forced acronym of the Wisconsin-Illinois Agility Group), located in a glum little industrial park. This is by far the smallest agility facility I’ve yet seen. There’s but a single ring, taking up perhaps three-quarters of the available interior. This means that when each class ends, the entire course will have to be taken down and rebuilt, vastly adding to the trial’s running time. In my naïveté, I’d thought today’s event would make for a quick morning because it’s limited to novice competitors. Now I’m getting the
first inklings that I might be here well into the afternoon.

  The cramped crating area is piled high, dogs stacked on top of dogs, and hovering around the crates are throngs of people trying to sit or stand or lean. There must be two hundred people here, cramming themselves into corners and spilling onto every available surface. There’s no room for me to set up, forcing me to leave Dusty in a public crate for the day. After taking a few disdainful sniffs, the way an aristocrat might look down his nose at the accommodations at a Motel 6, he drops onto his elbows and sighs.

  Now that Dusty’s settled, I venture out to find my All Fours colleagues. Miraculously, I spot a few familiar faces on the crowded perimeter of the ring: Cyndi, Andi, Marilyn. I take a moment to appreciate the grouping of these particular women as a kind of triptych of feminine variety. There’s Marilyn: raven-haired and imperturbable, she’s nearly radioactive with force of will. There’s Andi: cool and serene beneath a cloud of wavy blond hair—the kind women go to professional hairdressers to get, though you can tell hers is natural by the way she appears almost annoyed by it, continually pushing aside a flaxen flap from her forehead. (Tell her she’s pretty, she’ll scoff; tell her her dog is pretty, she’ll melt.) And then there’s Cyndi: bubbly and brunette, her arms in constant motion as she waves, points, gesticulates, and seems to embrace the entire room; her hair is tightly curled and bounces when she talks, and she talks quite a bit. When she spots me, her eyes light up like I’m the exact person in the universe she most longed to see, though I get the impression she’s genuinely that way with everybody.

  The chairs are all filled—in fact Cyndi’s seated cross-legged on the floor—but I refuse to be shunted to the sidelines again. These are my people now, aren’t they? Well, aren’t they? I decide to make my way over, if only to say hello. Unfortunately, in this kind of fall-of-Saigon setting even such a simple operation requires a plan of attack and navy SEAL execution. Making my way between the railing and the wall, I spend several minutes climbing over people’s feet (and treading on a few of them), before I realize I’m not even halfway to my goal. I consider initiating a mission abort.