Dogged Pursuit

by Robert Rodi

  That said, the incident has upset her, particularly because the Aussie’s negligent owner didn’t even bother to apologize. She is now in a white rage. I’ve never seen her like this. She seems to be giving off static electricity. I’m afraid to get too close to her lest my digital watch go haywire.

  I turn to Dusty and whisper, “See what you made me miss?”

  As Dusty and I head off for our standard walk-through, I hear angry twitters from the All Fours tent—they plan on taking the attack, and the Aussie owner’s poor behavior, to “the committee.” I push aside sudden Big Brother fantasies of a cabal of iron-fisted autocrats who rule the agility circuit like Satlin’s politburo (might we show up tomorrow and find all trace of the Aussie’s owner’s identity erased from existence?) and turn my attention to the course.

  It looks tricky: sixteen obstacles arranged in a swooping, rabbit-ear configuration—but at least the teeter doesn’t crop up till halfway into the run. If I can build up some momentum, maybe Dusty will actually just go ahead and barrel right over it.

  No such luck. He follows refusal with refusal, to the point that I have to wonder what he thinks we’re doing out here anyway, just having a nice stroll among all this pretty equipment? After he turns his nose up at the teeter, I decide to hell with the course, let’s just go for speed—see how soon I can get him over the finish line.

  Not very fast, as it happens. Even ignoring the last few obstacles and making a beeline for the gate, he never picks up his pace. It’s one of my ongoing frustrations with him; he’s a very, very fast dog—I know this from having watched him tear across our backyard, spraying clots of earth behind him—but he never shows it in the ring. He’s yet to make the switch from trot to gallop, and I’m determined to get him there. All our friends and supporters are here, rooting for us and lending us their energy and spark. This is our weekend. I have to believe it.

  The intensity at the All Fours area has ebbed a bit when we return, but the Aussie attack remains the chief subject of discussion. I don’t have much to add, because I didn’t see the event, and frankly the whole idea of a committee unnerves me a bit, and I prefer to remain well under its radar. As I pack up and say good night, the others insist I join them for dinner in a few hours. From feeling a bit extraneous—having after all missed the attack, which appears to be today’s unifying event—I’m taken aback that I’ve been asked to come along. But I’m grateful to be included (even though they’re only going to Applebee’s) and immediately accept. Funny, despite all the hours I’ve now put in with these people, I still feel a little awkward and self-conscious around them. And while I may consider them friends, I’m happy to have this new evidence that they feel the same.

  Dinner is a convivial affair. I order beef, which is usually a safe bet in such places—there’s only so much harm you can inflict on a steak, and even then there are bottled sauces to mask the damage. In addition I have three (or is it four?) glasses of zinfandel, and the warmth of the wine magically melts away all the day’s insecurities. At one point I seem to be aware of talking too much, yet can’t seem to stop.

  During my ride back to the hotel with Gus and Deb, my tongue has been loosened to the point at which I might say anything, but Deb, God bless her, never gives me the chance. Her ongoing narrative also serves the valuable function of counteracting the zinfandel and keeping me awake till we pull up to the front entrance of the hotel where, despite the frigid cold, several other guests are out walking their dogs. The arctic air hits me like a slap in the face; I’d like nothing better than to curl up under some nice warm blanket till morning, but such is the joy of being a dog owner—Dusty needs a pee break.

  As we head down in the elevator, I become aware that he’s looking at me oddly; I realize I’m talking aloud to him, something I almost never do. At least not about baggage-claim turnstiles, which seems to be the subject I’ve landed on, God only knows why.

  I zip up tightly, attempting to lock out the latest onslaught of eyeball-freezing air, and take Dusty around to the back of the building, figuring he’ll be likelier to do his business with fewer strangers looking on. And indeed it’s suitably isolated here; also quite dark. Then something happens very fast and there’s somebody lying on the sidewalk, moaning. A moment later I realize it’s me. I’ve slipped on the ice and knocked the wind right out of myself. I lie there for few seconds in dazed disbelief, then locate my glasses, which are resting in the snow about a yard to my left. As soon as I don them, I can see Dusty staring down at me with growing concern. I try to rise, but I’ve badly twisted my ankle.

  “Help me up,” I order him, and as soon as I say it I realize how ridiculous it is. He has all the heft of a stick insect. The only thing he can raise is my expectations.

  I consider unhooking him so he at least can return to safety while I lie here and let a frigid death claim me. But then I realize, antisocial as he is, he’d only run farther away from the hotel and thus perish too, so it’s up to me to save us both. With a heroic (and rather noisy) effort I get to my feet, or rather to my foot, since I can’t put any weight on the injured one without hideous agony.

  As I grimace in pain, it occurs to me that this is the same foot with which I kicked the savage rottweiler several weeks ago. There’s poetic justice for you. I wish I had a rottweiler now; I could ride it back to the lobby. Instead I’m reduced to hopping, which is such a good idea when you’re drunk and on a field of ice and you’ve already fallen once. Just a really excellent idea. I could get a MacArthur genius grant for this idea.

  “Do you need some help?” the concierge asks as I boing, boing past her desk.

  “Under control,” I tell her just seconds before falling in a heap at the elevator banks. I pick myself up with slow determination, mindful of her eyes on me, and when the elevator opens, I manage to shamble into the cabin with some small measure of self-respect. Dusty, who’s now justifiably concerned about any close proximity to my unsteady 190-pound bulk, doesn’t want to follow, but I pull him forcibly in after me.

  We make it into the room—I even contrive to brush my teeth—and then I bounce over to the bed and topple into it. I’m too tired to put Dusty in his crate. “Keep an eye on things, as long as you’re up,” I mutter to him as I douse the light. “If anyone calls, just get their number.”

  And then I’m out.

  CHAPTER 18

  A Rum Business

  When I awaken the next morning, my ankle is still throbbing and so is my head. Fortunately, my clothes are right on the floor where I left them last night, so I can just pour myself right back into them.

  I’ve got a long day ahead of me so I’d better eat something. Unfortunately, the idea of food is suddenly repulsive. The only thing I can stand is one of those grim little breakfast bars that come wrapped in foil. I always keep a few in my overnight bag just in case of an emergency—and by emergency I mean one of those situations you hear about on the news where a car goes over a railing and lands in such a way as to trap the driver for days so that he has to survive by eating his own foot or something. I’ve vowed that this will never happen to me. Accordingly, I travel with enough packaged goods to keep me alive, if not happy, for several weeks. I never really thought to consume any of it voluntarily, and munching on the bland, sticky breakfast bar now, I wonder if I wouldn’t be better off feasting on my instep.

  The day at Uihlein Soccer Park goes more smoothly than the one before. The saga of the Aussie attack is on hold, as the matter has gone to the mysterious “committee.” Meanwhile Dee’s attention is happily diverted by winning a MACH; i.e., a Master Agility Championship. (A MACH requires 750 points and twenty excellent-class double Qs, which means qualifying in both standard and jumpers on the same day. It gets tougher after that; the requirements double—1,500 points and forty double Qs—for your second MACH; triple for your third; and so on.) This is like Olympic gold for agility trainers and comes with a special baton (it looks like a decorated weave pole) that you wave in the air as you make a vi
ctory lap around the ring with your dog, while the crowd gives you a standing ovation. It’s Dee’s second MACH this year, and I think her ninth overall. But she’s much more excited by the fact that Marilyn has aced both her runs today—meaning, she explains to me as if to a child (clearly she knows me well), “If she does the same tomorrow, she earns her first MACH.”

  On a slightly less exalted note, Dusty’s runs are at least faster today, which slightly makes up for the sharp discomfort I endure by running him on a twisted ankle. Marilyn points out afterward that his tail was even wagging the whole time. I chalk it up to increased familiarity with the facility. The shock of the place has worn off. Maybe by tomorrow he’ll be ready to Q—something I’d really like. Really, really like. Not that I’m letting myself get too emotionally whipped up for it, but I would in fact consider it empirical proof of the existence of God.

  After the day’s runs, the All Fours gang heads out to dine at yet another destination offering the delicacies associated with suburban sprawl—the Cheesecake Factory. Gus and Deb have officially adopted me, insisting on once again driving me to dinner (unsurprising given my inebriated state at the end of our meal last night). The suburbs are utterly mystifying to me; every stretch of road looks exactly the same. Gus assures us he recalls the route from last year—then proceeds to take us along a series of dimly lit side streets and commercial drives that seem to spiral off into nowhere. After a while I begin to doubt the wisdom of having placed myself in his hands, while Deb steps in to question more vocally every single turn he makes.

  And then all of a sudden, like a beacon, there it is splayed out before us: the Cheesecake Factory, jutting grandly from some Habitrail-like shopping mall. I heave a sigh; we’ve reached civilization! Or at least a reasonable approximation thereof. I make a mental note: always trust Gus.

  Turns out we’re the first of our group to arrive, and since the hostess won’t seat us until our entire party is here, we stand aside and gab as we wait for the others. Our chatter dries up after twenty minutes, at which time we realize we’re still alone. “Where the hell is everybody?” Gus asks. He asks again three minutes later. And then three minutes after that.

  After last night I promised myself not to rely on alcohol to get through any social insecurity, but since the embers of my hangover are beginning to flare up again, I decide to allow myself just a little hair of the dog. “Anybody care for a drink?” I ask. Turns out neither Gus nor Deb imbibe. I don’t let that put me off. I go to the bar and order a mojito. I like a good mojito. This one is fine, if a little sugary. It goes down a bit quickly though. So what the hell, I order another.

  Eventually our colleagues straggle in, all with the same look of relief at having finally located the place. Looking over the endless menu, I realize the Cheesecake Factory is one of those something-for-everybody joints that offer dishes from every imaginable cuisine. I swallow my compulsion to quip about a restaurant that purports to prepare Chinese chicken salad and spaghetti carbonara with equal measures of expertise. In an effort to play it safe, I order another steak (after securing a bottle of A1) and congratulate myself on my forbearance in not announcing my sacrifice to all and sundry. After all, drawing attention to myself as a gourmand in the wilds of suburban Wisconsin probably won’t win me any points. And more important, I’m here for the camaraderie, not the food.

  Noticing that Dee and Marilyn are still missing, I order another mojito to help pass the time. I vow it will be the last. Inhibitions dissolved, I find my hand straying into Gus and Deb’s nachos. Soon my fingers are greasy, my mustache flecked with avocado, and I’m laughing at things that aren’t really funny. I’ve sailed into dangerous waters.

  Dee and Marilyn eventually arrive, having first mistakenly gone to an entirely different Cheesecake Factory on the opposite side of town. What this says about exurban America is something Tocqueville might have foreseen. I resist the urge for another mojito to help me contemplate it.

  Awed and impressed by my willpower, I allow myself a cele bratory glass of wine with my steak. It’s not a mojito, so technically I’m not breaking my vow. What I am breaking, however, is the cardinal rule of middle age, which is “Do not mix.” Had I not done this, had I just stuck with rum, I would’ve been all right. But oh no. I had to go and live on the edge, didn’t I?

  From here on it all becomes a blur. I don’t remember getting back to the hotel, don’t remember walking Dusty, don’t remember going to bed.

  I will never, however, forget the wake-up call the next morning—the soulless drone of the electronic voice: “It is now. Seven. Thirty. Good morning.” I feel as if some fascist lodged in my skull were using my brainpan as a gong. I try to sit up, but the room goes all Tilt-A-Whirl and I have to lie back down again. I slowly turn my head—it feels like it’s going to fall off and roll across the floor—and there’s Dusty perched on the other bed, looking at me with, I swear, one eyebrow cocked. It may not be a judgmental look, but if not, it’s a withholding-judgment look.

  “Judge not, lest ye be judged,” I croak. Then I realize he soon will be judged, and unlike me he won’t have the excuse of excessive alcohol to bolster any failure. “So you’d better step up to the plate,” I add, wagging a finger wanly at him. “Or we’ll both be going home with egg on our face.”

  The thought of eggs makes me alternately hungry and nauseated, and I head hastily to the bathroom not knowing which imperative will win out.

  CHAPTER 19

  One for the Team

  The cold rips through me like a rusty saw, while the sun reflects off the snow with cruel brilliance. Everything is too sharp, too intrusive, too intense. My hangover worsens with each step toward the car. I imagine the earth suddenly opening at my feet and swallowing me whole. The thought is comforting.

  I moan audibly as I drive to Uihlein Park, hunched over the steering wheel like an octogenarian in spinal crisis. My head is absolutely banging. “I am never, ever touching alcohol again as long as I live,” I say aloud. I make this same vow several times a year. I’m awfully good with resolution, not so much with the follow-through.

  The roar within the facility is very nearly deafening. Like four hundred Bulgarian women’s choirs singing all at once. With their dogs. It’s as if someone is driving a meat cleaver into my skull, prying it out and sinking it back in again. The small talk at the All Fours crating area feels like firecrackers being lobbed at my head. It’s going to be a looooong day.

  My jumpers walk-through comes as a welcome respite from the chatter. Though really it’s more of a wander-through. I drift semi-consciously, like a spirit in the Greek underworld. Only it’s not the waters of the Lethe I’ve sipped, it’s too goddamn much Havana Club.

  After the judge’s briefing, I get a can of Coke from a vending machine and drink it down like mother’s milk. I know it’s a drug. My massage therapist is horrified by caffeine in any incarnation. In his opinion, I might as well just ingest plutonium. But he’s not here to apply his thumbs to my spine and set me right, and this can of syrupy wide-awake is. I make no apologies. Also, it’s hard to worry about the toxicity of a can of cola after the small fermented ocean I sucked up last night.

  As if to flaunt his own physical prowess in comparison to my own disabling feebleness, Dusty gives a good run. He stays with me, goes where I tell him to go, keeps a steady pace, doesn’t let the judge’s proximity spook him, and if not for one too many refusals, we’d actually have had a Q. He’s done well; I’m proud of him. He seems to know it, and all but prances off the course like a Clydesdale.

  I myself totter and stumble after him, a complete wreck. Just this slight burst of physical activity has dramatically worsened the symptoms of my hangover. Also, my ankle’s flaring up again. I’d almost forgotten about it till now, the way you no longer notice a hangnail when you’re being impaled on a pike.

  I’d like nothing more than to slump down in my chair and put my mind on hold, but I’m fatally distracted by low, excited voices from just a few steps
away. A few of the All Fours women are huddled together, furiously whispering. From what I overhear, it seems while I was busy with my run Marilyn racked up another Q in jumpers—which means, with her next run she could earn a MACH. This is admittedly exciting, and I’m guessing from everyone’s furtive behavior that no one wants to jinx it (kind of the way pro baseball players won’t utter a word while one of their teammates is pitching a no-hitter).

  The nervous anticipation starts to get under my skin and my head throbs anew. It’s no good staying here—I’ll have to go to my car to get any rest. With the heat amped up, I fall into a deep slumber. When I awaken almost half an hour later there’s drool running down my chin. There’s not a dog in the place who’s not more sophisticated than I am. I’m also in full view of anyone who walks by my windshield. I can’t help wondering how many people have glanced in at me and then moved along slowly shaking their heads.

  After a stop at the All Fours snack table (where I wolf down almost an entire bag of pretzels and can’t remember anything ever tasting so good—a point I vocalize repeatedly so that people begin to smile nervously, in a “dude, they’re just pretzels” kind of way), I head out for my novice standard run.

  And what do you know, it’s entirely respectable. The teeter remains our perennial stumbling block, but everything else is as nicely executed as I could ask for. It seems I was right, increasing familiarity with this place has eased Dusty’s anxiety and boosted his performance. We don’t Q, but it seems churlish to complain, as we’ve not only enjoyed ourselves but strengthened our rapport.