by Robert Rodi
Then my perspective shifts and the vehicles around me come into focus. They’re all vans, I notice (I’m the only moron here with a sports car), with crates loaded in the back and agility-themed bumper stickers and back windows bedecked with blue ribbons. No, I correct myself, this is extreme behavior. After all, I don’t have a June Christy bumper sticker. I don’t even listen to June Christy more than two or three times a year. It’s just a quirk of my personality that I gather information the way furniture collects lint. But these people—they’re hard-core. They’re here in the kind of cold you usually find only on the fringe of the solar system, pursuing this ridiculously irrelevant endeavor and loving it. And as much as I try to be one of them, I can’t. It was foolish ever to have thought I could; I was doomed to failure before I started. I’m too distracted by other ideas, other thoughts, other interests. I’m too fatally aware of context.
In a way, I envy these people. It must be nice to have such a thorough, down-to-the-bone knowledge of one big thing, instead of little smatterings of knowledge about everything. The latter may make me an amusing dinner guest, but I’ll never really belong anywhere like these people belong here.
I find myself recalling a recent All Fours session at which Dee surprised us with a video she’d put together: a thirty-minute, post-MACH tribute to Marilyn and River, composed of footage of them in competition going back years (with the requisite soundtrack; i.e., Queen’s “We Are the Champions” and the like).
My initial reaction was genuine surprise that Marilyn hasn’t always been as supremely elegant a performer as she is now. The footage of her earlier runs revealed a rougher-edged competitor, more prone to mistakes and miscues. It was both surprising and gratifying to see her make some of the goofs I myself commit on a regular basis. Also, in some of the more recent footage she was miked, so even though she looked on the surface to be breezing through a spotlessly clean run, you could hear the tremor in her commands, the nervousness and determination, the grit. I once read an essay on Fred Astaire that described the hours of grueling rehearsal behind his seemingly effortlessness dance routines. It seems this is true of Marilyn as well. The naked eye sees swiftness, sureness, ease; while, underneath, the furnace is stoked and blazing.
But then I felt another reaction come over me: one of surprising numbness. Seeing Marilyn’s entire agility history edited together this way—all those dozens of runs melding into each other like dreams—I feel the cumulative effect of witnessing many, many variations on a very restricted set of possibilities. Jump, weave, jump, tunnel, tire, frame; a change of scenery, then chute, jump, jump, dog walk, jump, weave. A new locale, then tunnel, tire, jump, jump, jump, frame, weave—and so on, without pause or respite.
Sitting here now, in this bleak terrain, beneath a chalky sky, I see nothing ahead of me but this kind of whirling sameness, increasing in speed and intensity, like water spiraling down a drain.
But this is silliness. I’m letting a little exhaustion and discomfort turn into something inappropriately melodramatic. Best just to put the whole business right out of my mind.
I turn off the engine, open the door, and a gust of polar wind slams into me like a truck. I go momentarily numb and consider how easy it would be to just shut the door again and drive back home.
But no, not now. Not now. We’ve got our standard run.
So I hook up Dusty, and go in to run it.
CHAPTER 21
Bloodied and Bowed
Sunday dawns. The second day of the trial. Even colder than the first. As soon as I throw back the covers, my will to live is atomized.
I force myself out of bed, but even so I wonder, “What’s the point?” We finished out yesterday with more refusals than a Catholic girls’ school on prom night. Dusty bailed on the teeter, balked at the tire, shirked the A-frame, ducked the jumps, fled the weave poles, snubbed the table, and dodged the dog walk. The only thing he did, and did consistently, was the tunnel. Maybe it was warmer in there.
He doesn’t want to go back, and I don’t either. But I remind myself of the champions in this world; they’re the people with the spirit to persist, who strive against defeat and dismay (and probably cold too, though they never seem to mention that) and end up achieving something magnificent. Maybe if we stick it out, that’ll be us too. Maybe this will be our day. Maybe this will be the turning point, the harbinger of future glory. Maybe I am Queen Marie of Romania.
As I dress myself, I consider the odds. Our best shot remains the FAST session that leads off the day. I can’t let myself get dispirited about Dusty blowing the send bonus yesterday; it was the first time he’d ever encountered one. In view of which, he did very well. He almost Q’d. Today maybe he actually will.
When we arrive at the trial, the first thing I learn is that the send bonus is jump-teeter. I heave a dejected sigh. Easy come, easy goddamn go.
As it turns out, the send bonus doesn’t even get the opportunity to trip us up. Dusty’s so distracted on the course that we’re whistled off after tackling just two obstacles. He won’t look at me, won’t listen to me, keeps running the perimeter of the ring and smiling at spectators, like a member of the royal family on walkabout. I actually have to pick him up and tote him off the course under my arm. We pass right by a big trash can, and, boy, am I tempted to stop and lighten my load.
We’ve got a long wait till our standard run, but I now know better than to try to warm up in the car; it’ll only make me feel that much colder when I return. Also, every time I reenter the facility, my glasses fog up, and it seems to take forever for them to clear. (I used a handkerchief to wipe them yesterday, but that only succeeded in smearing the fog around.)
So today I’ll just stay put and let my body accustom itself to the temperature inside this big sheet-metal box. Dusty will be fine in his crate; he’s got a dish of water and I’ve given him a biscuit on the odd chance he’ll actually want one. He ate nothing this morning, too busy sulking at the way I’d preemptively shut the door to his crate so he couldn’t stage another “hell no, I won’t go” move.
As for me, I’ve brought along a backlog of “Dining In” sections from the Wednesday New York Times—months’ worth that I’ve been meaning to get around to. This seems like the perfect time and place. I begin plowing through them, particularly delighted, as usual, by Mark Bittman’s column, “The Minimalist.” It’s a minor miracle the way he continually comes up with recipes comprising just a few scant ingredients that, with the alchemy of a little mixing or a little heat, transform into something sublime. I’m just salivating over his column on short ribs braised in coffee when a woman sidles up to me and begins to talk.
I’ve always found this a bit irritating—this assumption, which pretty much everyone in our postliterate society seems to make, that the act of reading is something we undertake only out of boredom and from which we are desperate to be rescued by any interruption whatsoever—but I’ve long since given up displaying any righteous indignation. No one ever picks up on it. Besides, I was just yesterday envying these people, bemoaning how I didn’t fit in with them, so I can scarcely get my nose out of joint when one of them actually decides to talk to me.
Plus, let’s face it, I’m just reading a recipe, not freakin’ Schopenhauer.
“I noticed you running your Sheltie,” says the woman—fiftysomething, very round; the shape Jeffrey and I call “globe” (pace E. F. Benson). “She seems very nervous around the judge.”
“Does he?” I reply, pointedly inserting the correct pronoun without further comment (something dog owners have to do a lot). “I suppose he is. He’s certainly always aware of the judge’s whereabouts.”
“Oh, you don’t have to tell me! I’ve got a Sheltie of my own, and she’s hyperaware of the judge. Also the timekeepers, the bar setter, the photographer . . . I don’t want to offend your politics, but we always say she’s a Republican: she sees terrorists everywhere.”
I laugh; it’s a funny line. We commiserate about the shyness of our dog
s a bit longer; then she drifts slowly away, like the moon.
I return to “The Minimalist,” but at just about this time someone starts serving up sloppy joes to the volunteers. And suddenly I am yanked rudely from the culinary paradise of Mark Bittman into a kind of greasy hell. What can I say, I grew up in an Italian household; food, to me, is sacred and its preparation the focal point of each day. For my people, cooking and eating are the twin rituals that give the rest of life its meaning. And the way these people here are dishing up this toxic sludge and slapping it onto some spongy substance passing as bread simply assails my senses.
I put up with this same aromatic onslaught when I competed here several months ago, but then the barn doors were open and plenty of fresh air was rolling in to dilute it. Also, I wasn’t then cringing in discomfort from the inability to feel the cheeks on which I was sitting, as is the case now. It all feeds the tendency to tetchiness.
The only thing for it is to get up and go outside till I can regain my equilibrium. Presuming I can manage to do that in conditions that can make small birds fall dead out of the sky. I go and fetch Dusty and hook him up—pausing only to notice that the water in his dish has frozen—and lead him out the door. I’ll look much more natural standing out there attached to a dog than I would all by myself, muttering darkly and stamping sensation back into my feet. Also, you never know, Dusty might actually like to move his bowels again one of these days. If only for the novelty value.
As we pass by a clutch of people, I hear a familiar voice saying, “not to offend your politics, but we always say she’s a Republican: she looks for terrorists everywhere.” I can’t exactly say why, but this utterly depresses me. It’s like nothing can even bother to stay fresh anymore.
When we get outside it’s nearly blinding, the midday sun reflecting mercilessly on the snow. Other people are out cavorting with their dogs, frolicking and galumphing and having a swell old time despite the temperature’s almost double-digit deficit. Dusty just looks at me through the steam of breath that shrouds his head like Vesuvius and arches one eyebrow, as if to say, “What’s wrong with you?”
It’s a question I should be asking myself. I’m feeling snarky, unsettled, misanthropic. I’m not even concentrating on the other competitors, which I usually do, on the principle that you can learn from other people’s mistakes. I’m in the middle of nowhere, making a very good show of being a dilettante, for the benefit of no one in particular.
Someone passes behind us and Dusty astonishes me by whirling around and nearly tearing off the ear of a giant bullmastiff. Fortunately, I’m able to rein him in at the critical moment, so he doesn’t even graze the larger dog’s fur; but the mastiff’s owner is, understandably, a bit put out. “C’mon, Cody,” he says. “Give the pip-squeak some space.”
“Sorry!” I call after him, and he waves dismissively as he reenters the barn. Then I turn to Dusty and say, “What the hell’s wrong with you?” Which, it occurs to me, is more or less the attitude he’s taken with me.
Suddenly it occurs to me: Snarky? Unsettled? Misanthropic? I’m describing Dusty! How many times do I have to learn this lesson? My dog’s pathologies are of my own making. He takes his cues from me, and my cues this weekend have been pretty unmistakable: We don’t want to be here. We don’t belong here. We’re angry at the world and we want to be left alone. God, I’ve gone and created a mini-me on four legs.
All right, then. Got to take a deep breath and shift gears radically. Set aside my discomfort, my pettiness, my navel-gazing, and focus on the task at hand. Got to butch it up. And all this—the cold, the smelly turf, the smellier food—these are the kind of problems champions thrive on overcoming. It’s about time we prove we are champions.
We head back inside, and my glasses immediately fog up. But not even this dims my iron resolve. “Come on, boy,” I tell Dusty as I lead him, half-blind, back to the ring. “Let’s rock and roll!”
Unfortunately, we end up string-quartetting. Dusty’s energy level is still way down, and while he takes a few jumps, he skirts enough of the others to make the whole endeavor largely meaningless. Still, I’ve only just reframed my attitude; possibly it’ll take a bit longer for him to get the new vibe.
In the meantime, I’ve got just enough time to wolf down my own lunch before our standard run. I’ve left a pancetta-and-buffalo-mozzarella panino in the car, and after returning Dusty to his chilly little crate, I head back outside to get it.
This time I decide to play it smart and just remove my glasses before exiting. If they’re in my pocket, they won’t get cold enough to fog up when I get back. I’m amazed by the brilliance of this idea, and it irks me I didn’t think of it yesterday.
Just as I’m reaching for the knob, the door swings open—and because I don’t have my glasses on I can’t see it in time to avoid it. The edge hits me square in the face. For a moment I hear the chirping of little birds, like the Three Stooges do when clobbered. “Oh, hey, I’m sorry,” someone says. “You all right, buddy?”
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I say as I blink, trying to make him out; but of course without my glasses all I see is a big blob of pink and gray.
“You sure about that?” He puts a hand on my shoulder to steady me. At least he’s a well-meaning blob of pink and gray.
“Uh-huh, no problem,” I murmur, and then I shimmy by him, embarrassed. I don’t like being seen at less than my best. It’s a guy thing.
I get to the car, scramble into the driver’s seat, fumble my glasses out of my jacket, and have a look at my face in the rearview mirror. Blood is gushing from my nose. Why didn’t my assailant tell me? I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt: it’s probably hard to see, what with my big black moustache. I look around for some tissues to stanch the flow. There are few ancient, used ones rolled up in the pocket of the door. They feel crispy and cold, like dead insects.
So here I am, sitting in a frigid car in the middle of a barren prairie with my life’s blood cascading from me in the most humiliating possible manner. And I have to run my dog in a matter of minutes. I tilt my head back, trying to stem the thick, red tide.
Eventually, it slows to a trickle—either that or the cold has just frozen it in place. Whatever, it’ll have to do.
I jump out of the car and head back into the barn, stopping in the restroom to daub the worst of the carnage from my facial hair (and to wipe my glasses, which have once more gone all milky). Then I go back to the ring, where the standard walk-through has already begun. I hurry on in and take my place in the throng, and as I’m walking with my arm outstretched, plotting my maneuvers, I can feel the moisture on my moustache start to freeze. It feels like I could reach up and just snap the whole thing off at the roots. Instant clean shave.
After the judge’s briefing, I go back to my chair, and as I sit down I notice some flecks of blood on my thighs. And then a few more. The sudden burst of energy has got me bleeding again. By the time I’ve got it back under control, it’s our turn to run. I’m muttering and cursing and people are starting to steer clear of me. I realize I must look absolutely crazy, the guy in two hats growling under his breath and bleeding all over himself.
I grab Dusty and get in the line, really not caring what happens anymore—not even thinking about it. I’m just taking this one moment at a time, putting one foot after the other. Whatever it takes so that I can go home and crawl under some dark, warm covers and go all fetal for the next geologic cycle or so.
And then we’re off. I’ve got to yank Dusty’s attention from the turf again; then after few obstacles we’re at the weave poles. And Dusty decides to adopt the interesting fiction that he has never seen anything like them before. He circles them, looking at them with his head slightly cocked, as if saying, “I’ll be damned, what do you make of these?” I have to work like hell to get him through them, one pole at a time. At one point I even catch myself sputtering, “Dusty, God damn it”—first time I’ve ever cursed him out in the ring, and I can only hope the judge hasn’
t heard it.
But then he picks up speed and finishes beautifully. And I mean beautifully. So much so that I think we may actually have qualified. A single Q would salvage this whole sorry experience. Even better, since there are only three dogs in my jump height, a Q would automatically place. It’s been a while since we brought home a ribbon.
I’m feeling almost giddy at the prospect of having snatched victory from the jaws of ignominy. As I wait for the scores to go up, my confidence grows, and I find myself rehearsing the story of the disastrous weekend and its unexpectedly brilliant finish, as though I’m already at a table of rapt dinner guests.
Twenty minutes later the scores are posted. I put on my glasses and run my finger down the listings till I get to the sixteens. I locate Dusty’s name—and after it a big NQ. What the hell? How is that possible?
Then I look at the time. Dusty and I clocked in at seventy-one seconds. Seventy-bloody-one. A freaking eternity. I should’ve just bought property next to the dog walk and settled down out there.
I storm out in a kind of blind rage. This entire weekend has been an unmitigated disaster, heaping indignity upon indignity, humiliation upon humiliation. The sooner I put it behind me, the better. I pack up the car, throw myself into the driver’s seat, shift into drive, and slam my foot on the accelerator.
The engine whines shrilly; the car doesn’t move.
What the bloody buggery bollocks is wrong now? I fling open the door and get out, go to the back end, and see that my rear wheels are planted on a large patch of ice. Of all the heinous, ill-timed annoyances.
I look around for anyone nearby who might give me a push; alas, there’s not a soul to be seen. Before I endure the embarrassment of going back into the barn to beg the aid of one of the few stragglers, I decide to try kicking some dirt under the wheels, to give them some traction.
The ground is hard and the dirt frozen in place, and all I end up doing is hurting my foot. I lean against the trunk to massage my sore toes, and before I realize what’s happening, the pressure of my hand sends the car inching forward, leaving me to fall backward on my bum.