Dogged Pursuit

by Robert Rodi

  Back at the crating area, I keep Dusty out with me. Two days ago this would have been a penance for him, not a reward. He’s visibly more relaxed than he’s ever been before. At one point he inches over to the crate where Cyndi’s boxers are sleeping and gives it a few curious sniffs. Cyndi, who’s seated right there telling a story, unconsciously lets her arm drop and the tips of her fingers graze Dusty’s back. She’s actually stroking him. He’s actually letting her. I look around to see if anyone else is picking up on this Kodak moment, but no, it’s just me.

  A few moments later, Dusty turns and trots back to me, perfectly contented. I feel like having a party. This is a breakthrough! I realize it’s possible he’s picked up on my own increased ease and self-confidence among these people. After spending forty-eight hours straight with them, I really feel at home with everyone here. I almost wish we were coming back tomorrow, but alas I’ve got a family obligation.

  There’s no time to dwell on it, as Dee is in our midst now, ushering us to get to our feet—it’s time for Marilyn’s standard run. You can almost hear the collective intake of breath; everyone knows a MACH is at stake here.

  Marilyn is on the line with River. Both look cool, poised, and confident. Marilyn puts River in a sit-stay and then takes a huge lead out. Seriously, she just keeps walking. For a moment I wonder whether she’s actually heading out to get a burger or something. Finally, she turns and calls River over the first jump. River takes it with a shrug—almost like it’s beneath her notice. From there Marilyn calls her through the tire, and then up the dog walk. Even on the mezzanine I can hear the clatter of River’s nails as she gallops across the planks.

  After another pair of jumps, they veer off to the left toward the A-frame, which River ascends like she’s got pistons in her back end. Marilyn waits for her on the downside, to make sure she doesn’t fly off too soon. After River touches down she looks up at Marilyn, as if to say, “How’s that?” It’s just a heartbeat, but it’s endearing, a sign of a team that’s really wired in to each another. Then they’re off and running again, clearing two more jumps.

  So far the course doesn’t seem so fiendish. In fact Marilyn’s had River on her right the entire time, not even needing to front cross. But now comes a harrowing moment, as they face two successive jumps almost parallel to each other, requiring the dog to sketch the most slender S. Marilyn not only keeps River on her right, but astonishingly leads her over these jumps from several steps ahead. My jaw drops: what kind of crazy-ass telepathy have they got going on down there?

  Then a sharp left to the teeter—and by sharp I mean you-could-shear-a-leg-off sharp—and Marilyn finally front crosses to get River on her left. It’s so smoothly executed I almost don’t see it—they’re just suddenly reversed. Like teleportation or a trick with mirrors.

  Another jump and then onto the table. River’s having a good time now, throwing herself around like a rag doll. On the table she gives a good shake, as if to remind herself that this is serious business, and then lies down at Marilyn’s command.

  Not a muscle is moved during the judge’s countdown. Five and four and three and two and go. River shoots up like a bottle rocket and Marilyn guides her into a tunnel curled under the dog walk. Another front cross and right into the chute; wow, that tunnel-chute combo has to be disorienting. Yet when River bursts forth, she’s got a smile on her face and Marilyn is already waiting for her at the next jump.

  Another front cross—they’re coming too fast for me to track now—and another jump. Suddenly, the weave poles seem to spring up out of nowhere. Instead of colliding into them, River threads her way through like a lock of hair through a comb. Another front cross, another whiplash turn, another jump—wait, where are they? I have to grasp the railing to keep my balance—and suddenly the crowd is cheering, shrieking, flapping its arms as if to signal a passing plane.

  Marilyn and River are off on their victory lap, without even waiting to be awarded the official MACH wand. River takes the weave poles again, almost as though she’s showing off: “You really thought that was tough? Watch, I’ll do it again.”

  There’s a mass exodus back to the crating area, where Dee is ready with cards and gifts and cake, and Marilyn and River are feted like, well, champions. But to me the surprising element is that every member of the All Fours team seems as invested in this victory as Marilyn herself. Actually, Marilyn appears a bit more reserved about it than the rest. It’s clearly a catharsis, something each of us can share—the high point of our weekend. Even more surprising, I feel a part of this victory too. That’s how communities work, I guess. I’m learning; I’m learning.

  The group’s solidarity is further displayed in what will turn out, for me, to be an even more satisfying moment. Diane, who’s been fighting an uphill battle with Annie for three days straight, finally finishes a course with her, in decent form and time. We’re all there watching, once again holding our breath, and the look on Diane’s face when she crosses the finish line—a kind of mixture of exhilaration and sweet relief—is something I’ll carry with me a long time. We’re all there to howl with approval. There are different kinds of triumph; today I’ve seen two.

  It’s getting dark now and I’ve got to hit the road. But it’s hard to walk out on a party in progress, and that’s exactly what’s going on back at the crating area. As I pack up Dusty’s crate, I’m entreated to stay just a few hours longer. “We’re going out for Mexican,” Dee says enthusiastically. “Dollar-ninety-nine margaritas!”

  Something inside me shudders and quakes, and my thirty-year détente with regurgitation almost comes to an ignoble end. I don’t want to admit that in my current state alcohol is probably the single greatest disincentive on the planet, so instead I say, “I wish I could, but I’ve got a ninety-minute drive ahead of me, and I don’t want to put it off.”

  “You can always leave first thing tomorrow,” says Betsy.

  “Actually, I can’t. I’ve already checked out of my hotel.”

  My regrets are regretfully accepted. I take my leave. And the celebration goes on without me. I feel heavy with real regret; cheap margaritas aside, this was a party I’d have liked to be part of. As we zip through the crisp cold night, it feels like my family obligation is calling me away from, well, a family obligation.

  CHAPTER 20

  Polarized

  There’s something about extreme temperatures that freezes up my facility for language. All I can think, as I mute the alarm and throw back the covers, is, “Cold. Cold. Damn, damn, damn, it’s cold.” I’m suddenly about as articulate as the Incredible Hulk. And as sweet tempered.

  I dress in a hurry. I should probably shower; I didn’t shower yesterday, and certainly the idea of standing under jets of hot water is an attractive one. Not so, however, the idea of stepping back out into an icy bathroom, dripping wet, steam wafting off me in sheets as all the heat jumps ship. So I’ll pass on the personal hygiene, thanks. Besides, I’m going to a big barn filled with dogs. No matter how rank I am, no one’s going to notice.

  Fried eggs for breakfast. I put some of the egg white on Dusty’s food—this is the secret, I’ve discovered, to getting him to eat before a trial. Got to surprise him with novelty. Sort of like having an eternal two-year-old. I turn around to present the bowl to him, and he’s not there.

  Ah.

  Damn.

  He’s anticipated what’s coming—a long drive and a day of noise and confusion—and he’s retreated into his crate.

  Now, I have a long-standing rule about crates. They’re my dogs’ “safe space.” This is particularly useful when they arrive at the house for the first time. While they’re in their crates, no one will bother them. It eases their insecurities during the period when they’re adjusting to the new routine, absorbing the new smells, and learning the new environment. In fact my dogs find such comfort in their crates that I leave them up and open even after they’re fully acclimated to the life of the house. They enjoy periodically retreating there to relax or
nap.

  But now Dusty’s gone and taken refuge in his, like a thief taking sanctuary in a church. And he will not come out. I command him, I plead, I bribe—I even grab our pet parakeet, whose feathery goodness he has long wanted to sample, and dangle the terrified bird by the crate door, hoping Dusty won’t be able to resist taking a lunge.

  But no. He’s on to me. He won’t budge for the budgerigar. He looks at me with eyes that suddenly seem so very unreadable, so animal, so other.

  “Look, buddy,” I say. “I don’t particularly want to go myself. It’s three below zero and, yeah, I’d rather stay in bed. I’d rather stay there till freakin’ April. But we have responsibilities here. We have obligations. Come on now. Come. Dusty, come.”

  Uh-uh. He presses even farther against the back grid and sort of folds himself flat, like origami.

  And that’s when I do it. Overcome by fatigue and cold and, well, cold, I reach into the crate, grab his collar, and haul him out.

  Is it my imagination, or does his face register stunned betrayal? Or is it just my own shock I’ve projected onto his? I can’t believe what I just did. I’ve broken a sacred trust. This can never be undone.

  So now in addition to the bone-biting cold, I’ve got guilt clinging to me like a clammy sheet. Oh, this weekend is starting out beautifully. To what depths will I descend from here? Maybe I’ll have struck him by the end of the day or have left him by the side of the road with no cab fare.

  I try to put it out of my mind as we head out onto the deck. It’s so cold that the planks creak like gunshots as we cross them. God, I despise this kind of weather. Why on earth did I book a trial for the end of January, anyway? What the hell was I thinking?

  I know exactly what I was thinking. I’d been talking to Dee about the pros and cons of various facilities, and the Rush ’N’ Around Agility Center in Manhattan came up. Not one of her favorites, as it happens: she doesn’t like the turf (I never bothered looking at it myself, but I don’t tell her that). I mentioned that I’d run Dusty there a few months earlier and Q’d, and she said, “Oh, if I Q’d there I’d be back every week.”

  So I went home and dutifully booked the next available trial there, forgetting that it’s basically a big, open pole barn. I just forged right ahead and got on the roster, without considering how hard it must be to heat a place like that. Now I’m paying the price for my damn-the-torpedoes approach to ribbon hunting.

  It’s so cold my car’s engine sasses back to me for a few nasty moments, arguing against my desire to ignite it. But eventually it gives in—with a final, rather graceless shudder—and I immediately dial the heat up to sixty-eight degrees. The sooner this cabin goes tropical, the better.

  I’m far too uncomfortable to work up the focus required for orchestral or even chamber music, so I put on something lighter: June Christy’s Something Cool, from way back in 1955. It’s one of the very first concept albums, a suite of jazz songs designed to evoke a languid, torpid summer day. As I drive through the frigid dark of predawn Chicago, I try to imagine myself in the place the music wants to take me: a stinging sun overhead, sweat on my brow, my shirt sticking to my back, the heat of the sidewalk seeping up through my shoes. It’s hard work, but I’m motivated, and by the time we reach Manhattan—a few unlovely eruptions on the otherwise barren landscape—I’m actually driving comfortably with my gloves off.

  But now I’ve got to put them back on and head into the facility. To my surprise, there aren’t more then two dozen cars here. I’d expected a hundred. True, the trial is novice and open only, but it’s also offering FAST and I thought that might draw a crowd. Could the brain-splitting cold have kept some competitors home? Why didn’t I think of that?

  As I feared, it’s only slightly warmer inside, so I keep my hat and gloves on. In fact I’m wearing two hats. I must look like the village idiot.

  There’s a hush over the place. Even the dogs aren’t making more than a few token whines and growls. The vibe is very much post-apocalyptic. It wouldn’t surprise me to see people start a fire and roast one of the larger hounds. Or one of the smaller handlers.

  I see a few familiar faces, among them Vicky Bruning with her Sheltie, Dakota, and a handsome Belgian Tervuren as well. I nod and exchange a few words with her, admire her dogs (they really are beauties), but I’m really not feeling social. Hell, I’m not feeling respiratory. I set up Dusty’s crate and deposit him inside, then open my collapsible chair and collapse into it.

  The reason we’re here so early is to try our hand at FAST. Due to increased demand, Dee recently held a special FAST seminar in place of our usual Thursday class. It turns out that FAST has nothing to do with speed. Instead it’s an acronym for “fifteen and send time.” The basic idea is that each obstacle has a point value from one to ten (which is denoted by the cone sitting next to it), and each handler is free to run the course in whatever way he or she thinks will best accrue them. You need a certain number of points to qualify; in novice, it’s fifty.

  Sounds easy. But there’s one major wrinkle: at some point during your run, you have to do what’s called the “send bonus.” This comprises either a single obstacle or a combination of two or three. The good news is that you get twenty additional points for completing it. The bad news is that you have to guide your dog through it from a distance of four or five feet (hence the term send). The even worse news is, if you don’t finish the send bonus, you don’t qualify. And you get only one shot; you can’t retry it.

  This is our first attempt at FAST, and I’m not expecting great things. Dusty’s not very good at distance work. I can’t really successfully send him to anything except the exit. All the same, FAST intrigues me because I can tailor a run that avoids the obstacles he has the most difficulty with. So in theory it allows me to play to our strengths and increases our chances of qualifying.

  Of course, it’s about twenty-eight degrees on the course, and as I walk it, trying to plot my strategy, I find myself less interested in qualifying than in regaining feeling in my lower extremities. But I figure what the hell, I’m here, I’ll butch it up. “Butch it up” is one of those wonderfully self-motivating phrases. Just saying it aloud somehow buoys you. Suddenly I feel lean. I feel limber. I feel ready to rumble.

  Dusty, however, is sluggish and distracted. I can understand: he’s much, much smaller than I am, and in this cold his blood must have the consistency of a Slurpee. But as I said, we’re here, we’ll butch it up. I try the phrase on him, but mentally he’s back in the crate I so rudely yanked him out of this morning. The way his shoulders are hunched bespeaks his wariness and distrust of me. I might as well be wearing a big rubber Freddy Krueger mask.

  All the same, our run goes well. There’s a dodgy bit at the beginning where Dusty seems too fascinated by the turf, which, I now see, is a kind of shredded rubber mulch. (It’s as unappealing as it sounds, I assure you. It looks disturbingly like larvae and I can only imagine how it smells to canine nostrils. I can understand why Dee considers it a liability.) But I manage to snap him out of it, and then he shakes off his sulkiness and becomes very nearly spry. Even better, when I direct him to the send bonus—which is a tunnel-tire combination—he actually goes for it. He dives admirably into the tunnel and shoots out the other side like a spitball, and I’m already writing my “brags” e-mail in my head when he unaccountably and infuriatingly ducks under the tire instead of going through it.

  That’s it—that’s my game ender right there. I finish the run, trying to sound as cheerful as possible, but without the send bonus, it all means nothing. We’ve NQ’d. A seventy-minute drive in antarctic conditions to get here at daybreak, and it’s all been for sweet Fanny Adams.

  Well, there’s always tomorrow.

  In the little time before our standard run, I take Dusty back to the car and sit there, hoping to warm up. Unfortunately, on a day like this the little heating unit really isn’t up to the task of beating back Mother Nature’s icy grip. The dashboard shoots a stream of warm air at me,
but it’s laced with the frigid seepage from the car’s many seams; they may be watertight, but this cold is more insidious than any mere liquid. It oozes through gaps at the molecular level. Dusty curls up in the backseat, tucking his snout beneath his tail, looking much like a stole.

  Something Cool has jingled back to life with the engine, so I drop back against the headrest and concentrate on listening to it over the roar of the air vents. I’ve loved this album since my college days. It was the first collaboration between Christy and Pete Rugolo, the arranger-conductor of all her finest albums, which followed fast and furious after this one: The Misty Miss Christy in 1956, Fair and Warmer and Gone for the Day in 1957, The Song Is June! and This Is June Christy! in 1958, Those Kenton Days in 1959, and Off Beat in 1960—culminating in a complete rerecording, this time in stereo, of Something Cool in 1960.

  This CD release, in fact, features both the mono and stereo versions on one disc. I amuse myself by playing each 1955 cut followed by its 1960 analogue. Subtle differences in tempo, phrasing, and orchestration suddenly appear much more profound.

  It occurs to me that this is possibly extreme behavior. It occurs to me, as well, that there are probably very few people living who know as much about the June Christy discography as I do. Even fewer who could, extemporaneously, argue the merits of her various conductors. (Rugolo is tops, of course, but then what of Stan Kenton, in whose band she achieved stardom? Or her husband, Bob Cooper, who conducted the devastating Ballads for Night People?)

  Looking out the window, across the vast expanse of fallow fields under a sky of gunmetal gray, I wonder if anyone within fifty miles of this place even knows who June Christy is. I wonder, too, whether the strains of any of the songs on this disc have ever sounded in these parts, and if so, how long ago.