The judge calls Honeybun to the field as she continues to strain after Lucky Lookalike. Oh lovely. All hope of her attention on Asherel is gone, and now she is in danger of leaving the field as soon as the leash comes off.
Asherel commands Honeybun to sit and stay as she removes the leash. I cringe as Honeybun turns to look at the Lucky-like dog, but she remains seated.
"OK Honeybun!" summons Asherel, "Go jump!"
If I were not standing there watching, I would not have believed what happens next. Honeybun rockets forward and soars over the first three jumps. As she enters the pinwheel, she gallops without pause over all four. Coming out of the pinwheel, she has a brief moment of confusion and looks to Asherel who is already re-cuing her. She barrels to the correct jump, tail streaming behind her in the funny backward curve. As she tears over the next jump, one ear up and one ear sideways, I am holding my breath. She is jumping cleanly so far, and she has never gone so fast. I might be watching a miracle! Asherel twirls through her handling maneuvers and points expertly at the next jump. Honeybun's attention and focus never wavers. The faux-Lucky dog is clearly forgotten or perhaps she is showing off for him. Jump thirteen is left in her wake and she turns for the final two jumps. Asherel is smiling.
"Go Honey, go!" she trumpets as the little dog clears the final line of two jumps.
I erupt, along with the crowd in a cascade of applause. She has not touched a single jump, and she was fast. Is it possible she qualified? Will she get a Q after her name, the first I hope of many letters of redemption?
We shower her with mounds of treats, and some rib bones we have saved from dinner last night as we return to our chairs. Never had we envisioned this sudden and complete transformation. Now we sit tensely, both of us pretending we are not watching the barn where they will post the scores. The club owner walks by and holds her fist up to Asherel, "Great run!" she calls.
Several others come by and tell Asherel what a magnificent run that had been. She is still catching her breath, and her pink cheeks shine brightly like jewels. Many of our new friends come by to congratulate her on a fine run, knowing this is our first trial.
Finally we see them tack the score sheet to the barn wall.
"Come on," I say, "I will show you how to read all those numbers."
The adults milling around the score sheet smile at Asherel as she approaches, and part to let her near. A nice lady, Susan, who sat near us over the three days tells Asherel to find Honeybun's name.
"Where do I look?" she asks. Susan helps her find the name.
"See, here is her time....30.91. The qualifying course time is 31 seconds, so she made time. And no deductions for down bars, so she had 0 deductions. Here is her place."
Asherel peers closely at the number, circled in red.
"Honeybun won," she says softly, with a quivering giggle.
"And this Q here," I say smiling hugely, "Means she qualified."
Asherel gathers Honeybun in her arms, and lifts her up to see her score. Honeybun sniffs, but is unimpressed as it is clearly not edible. We trot over to the ribbon table to collect a blue ribbon, a purple qualifying rosette ribbon, and a special beef jerky treat for all qualifying dogs. At last, thinks Honeybun, an award I can really sink my teeth into!
The indomitable Asherel smiles the whole drive home, and I am bathed in the aura of her unquenchable love of all creatures and the long standing dream realized that she refused to relinquish. I call my parents as we drive, and rave about the little dog and my triumphant daughter. While recounting the weekend heroics, a smell begins to slowly percolate through the car. Asherel glances at me, her brow furrowed. The stench intensifies until we are enveloped in deadly noxious fumes. Asherel and I look back at Honeybun, innocently gazing out the window. We punch open the windows gasping for the fresh air that comes tumbling in. Honeybun has secured yet another triumph. She has finally expressed those troublesome anal glands on her own.
“Look Mom,” says Asherel, when we can breathe again, “She is happy!”
“How can you tell?” I ask.
“Look at her. She’s smiling!”
I scrutinize her in the rear view mirror, and I see what Asherel sees. She is smiling.
I email Malta that evening, as we all sit contentedly, blissfully at home.
Honeybun is fast asleep in my closet, one of her favorite spots. She disappeared there when we arrived home, and has not emerged since. Becoming a champion is apparently exhausting.
Malta writes back, “Aren't you glad I yelled at you in that email long ago? Who would ever have thought a last chance dog would win first place?"
I knew that Malta, more than anyone, would understand the significance of that win. It is not just a ribbon to Malta, any less than it is to us. It is a crown of redemption, placed upon the silky head of a dog left to die. It is all the more sweet that she's been led to her throne by people like us, such bewildered ignoramuses Malta is forced to work her transformations through. If we could do it, really, anyone could. God and a dog just would not let me fail, no matter how hard I tried. If He calls, you, it is best to Heel.
"You should write this all down," Malta tells me, "It might inspire someone else who is ready to give up."
And so I have.
Dear Lord,
To Him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to His power that is at work within us, to Him be the glory in the church and in Christ Jesus, throughout all generations forever and ever.
Thank you.
Amen
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Cover photo: Veronica Kelso
I'm Listening With a Broken Ear Page 29