by Robert Rodi
All of this takes place in a hall the size of an airplane hangar, so that Dusty and I get turned around and have to retrace our steps more than once in our quest for the agility rings. Dusty’s stress level visibly rises as my own frustration mounts, so that at one point I pull him over to a comparatively isolated spot between two concrete posts and give him a hit of two herbal remedies Rachel Tisza recommended. One is supposed to boost confidence and self-esteem, the other instill courage and focus. I’d intended to use them just before our runs, but clearly he needs them right now. I look left, then right, making sure the coast is clear, then take a couple of hits myself. I’m feeling a bit sheepish after taking so much time off, worried about whether team All Fours will immediately welcome me back into its midst.
Finally, we stumble across agility, which is tucked into an alcove off the main hall. The adjacent crating space is relatively small, but the All Fours crew has, as usual, arrived early and staked its claim. There’s room enough here for everybody—and almost everybody will be here at some point over the weekend. This year marks a return to IKC for the All Fours crew after a boycott due to a variety of objections ranging from the inferiority of the flooring to obstructions on the courses. This year isn’t without its offenses, however—the organizers seem to have neglected to designate a crating area; competitors were left to just pick a spot at random—which explains why we’re all butted up against the standard poodle grooming station. The constant roar of blow-dryers is nerve-shredding but does provide some comic relief—a canine edition of America’s Next Top Model. The shaving and snip-ping and sculpting are fast, furious, and constant, despite which the finished dogs look remarkably like a kindergarten art project involving cotton balls, drinking straws, and paste. And the bits of white fur flying everywhere give me a belated yuletide feeling.
Fortunately, all the grumbling and the chaos allow me to slip into the All Fours midst unnoticed—and thus unchided for my long absence. Despite the general kvetching about the facility, there’s a certain buoyancy in the air. It must be because of the social factor; nearly everyone’s come out for the event: Andi, Jason, Gus and Deb, and on down the roll call. Dee is here too, but only as a fleeting presence; she’s not running Kaleigh in agility, choosing instead to enter Kaleigh’s offspring Payton in conformation. It’s strange to see Dee in lipstick and wearing her styling smock. She looks like a different woman—a TV-movie version of herself. The trademark ponytail is still in place, however, and the way she’s bustling about this morning you’d better stay out of its way. If she turns swiftly on her heel, it could crack like a whip and take your eye out.
I’ve brought along my own trademark: fresh cinnamon rolls from the famous Ann Sather restaurant on Chicago’s North Side. I don’t know how it happened that this particular delicacy has become expected of me at these big events; I only know I don’t dare show up without it—especially today, since the gooey goodness might be just the thing to help me seduce my way back into the All Fours ranks.
As it happens, I’ve been so focused on the rolls that I’ve neglected to bring something much more fundamental: running shoes. I’m here in my big black winter boots, with nothing to change into. That means I’ll have to go clomping around the ring like L’il Abner.
My standard and jumpers runs are literally back-to-back, my walk-throughs for both taking place simultaneously. I end up racing back and forth between the rings, like a sitcom character who’s wining and dining two different dates in two adjacent restaurants.
Of course all this rushing around and nervous energy is fatal for the actual runs. Dusty takes one look at me and visibly cringes; I must be radioactive with anxiety. In our standard run, he gives all the obstacles so wide a berth that you might suspect them of being electrified. In jumpers he manages a fair number of jumps—I’ll give him that. Some of them are even the right ones.
The two successive flops leave me crestfallen, but my competitive spirit is restored watching Jason run his Airedale, Pebbles, in the standard ring. Pebbles is usually an energetic competitor, but despite Jason’s exhortations she’s distracted today, dragging her heels, sniffing around the floor.
I suddenly realize what’s about to happen and mutter “uh-oh.” A moment later Pebbles drops into a squat and Jason throws his hands in the air in exasperation. I feel bad for him but am somewhat relieved that my run won’t be the day’s most disastrous.
I hurry off to give Dusty the news. I zip open his crate and peer in at him. He blinks up at me as though I’ve interrupted him midsnooze. “Hey, boy,” I say, “guess what? Pebbles just beshat the standard course.” He doesn’t seem quite as amused as I’d hoped, and I realize he’s had a rough morning—beginning with parking in the remote lot and having to take a shuttle bus here to the building. It was his first experience with public transportation, and he was aghast at all the people, dogs, and equipment jammed in on all sides of him. He even consented to sit in my lap, a sign of real distress. Making matters worse, two women in the seat in front of us kept reaching back to pet him, despite my repeated requests that they refrain from touching my dog. Apparently, the roar of the engine garbled my speech, and when I said, “He’s very shy; he doesn’t like people,” they heard, “Please drape your meaty fingers all over my pet.”
From the shuttle he was hurled directly into back-to-back standard and jumpers runs with a gasping, manic handler. It’s no wonder he’s shut down. So much for my commitment to considering Dusty’s needs first, to making agility positive and constructive for him. It’d take more than a whiff of herbal courage to counteract the kind of stress I put him through this morning. Unfortunately, I don’t have ready access to Xanax.
My sole attempt at removing him from his crate is a bust. Just as he sticks his head out and tentatively surveys the scene, one of the poodles decides it doesn’t actually like being made up like a fifteen-dollar dessert and begins loudly protesting. Dusty draws back like Punxsutawney Phil from a volley of flashbulbs.
He’s only slightly less unnerved when the FAST class finally rolls around at the very end of the day. I take him to the practice jump just outside the ring and lead him over it a dozen times. He’s distracted and unresponsive at first, but by the time we finish he’s gliding over it like an antelope. I have a good feeling about this run. I’ve sketched out a course that highlights Dusty’s strengths and avoids his weaknesses (read: the teeter), and takes into consideration that he’s significantly slower that some of his opponents. I’m keeping it real, thinking about what Dusty can do (and do happily), rather than focusing on the ribbon I’m dying to win.
Dee’s approval of my charted course (she even high-fives me!) leaves me brimming with confidence as I approach the line. It’s been a very long day, and there’s part of me that’s bone weary. But I won’t give into it till we’re on the other side of this run. Dusty looks relaxed and ready—we’re all set up for magic to happen.
But when the run starts, he won’t come anywhere near me. I can’t understand what the problem is. Then I start to feel the fatigue in my legs and realize: the boots. I make a sweeping gesture and call out, “Dusty, chute!” meanwhile stomp, stomp, stomping toward the obstacle in question. Dusty quickly decides his best option lies in the opposite direction and skitters off to another obstacle. Understandable, I suppose. If I had limbs like breadsticks I doubt very much I’d want to get in the way of a pair of steel-toed monstrosities with soles thick enough to break my spine in one salsa move.
We finish the course only in the sense that we clear the finish jump. Everything else about the run has been a noisy, messy failure. Looking over my shoulder, I can see two separate places on the course where my boots piled up the cheap flooring behind me. I’ve only just returned to competition, and I’m already making an enemy of the handler who’s going to have to run the course after me.
This is all particularly embarrassing because a number of All Fours people have stayed all this time to watch me run. They’ve stood on the sidelines as virtuall
y the entire hall emptied out, waiting patiently to see Dusty and me dissolve into quivering bits of hair and teeth. They’re all very nice about it, and each of them finds something encouraging to say about the run, though the only unarguably nice thing about it is that it’s over and we can all go home.
I leash Dusty, don my coat, and head outside just as a shuttle pulls away for the parking lot. Well, never mind, I’ll be first in line for the next one.
Except, there is no line. People don’t file in behind me; they swarm up to where I’m standing till we’re about seven abreast. This is very annoying. More arrivals keep crowding in from behind till we have a certifiable throng here, all awaiting the next bus.
Eventually, the shuttle wheels into view and putters up to where we’re standing. And what do you know, it stops right in front of me. “First bit of luck I’ve had all day,” I think, and when the door opens with a hiss, I step up into the empty vehicle—and Dusty starts pulling back. He remembers this contraption from this morning, and there’s no way he’s getting back on it voluntarily. “Come on, boy,” I say, tugging him as the crowd closes in behind us.
But he won’t budge. And the harder I tug, the more determinedly he resists, till all of a sudden I find myself dangling an empty collar at the end of the leash, and people are crying, “Loose dog! Loose dog!”
I dismount the step and try to fight my way through the horde of people pushing to get on the shuttle. It’s like climbing uphill against an avalanche. Meantime the shouts of “Loose dog!” are coming from farther and farther up the ramp.
Finally, I succeed in bursting through the wall of humanity, just in time to see Dusty skittering toward the door leading back into the building. “Dusty, no!” I declaim with the paralyzing intonations of the Old Testament God, and he accordingly stops in place as though I’ve turned him into a pillar of salt. I clamber over to him, reattach his collar, then pluck him up like a melon and hold him tight in my arms. I don’t care if he hates it.
I turn around in time to see the shuttle door close and the shuttle itself lumber away, laden with passengers. There are now about two dozen other people awaiting the next one, and I’m behind all of them. The sky is darkening and so is my mood. I feel unspeakable, and so don’t speak.
Dusty of course doesn’t either. Even if he could, he wouldn’t dare.
CHAPTER 26
Rescue Me
My decision to return to agility suddenly seems hasty and sentimental. I’m so frustrated that I actually debate whether to go back for the second day of competition. But in the morning everything seems slightly more hopeful, as it often does.
When I return to McCormick Place, I drive past the remote lot and instead park in the garage attached to the building. It’s more expensive, but you can walk from your car directly into the IKC hall. No more hazarding the dreaded shuttle. Also no more need for boots. I can wear my running shoes in the car, eliminating any chance that I’ll forget to bring them.
It’s a good thing I’ve avoided traumatizing Dusty with the shuttle because our morning is just as jam-packed as yesterday. Once again our first two runs of the day occur almost simultaneously, but I decide to breeze through jumpers and save my energy and focus for the standard run. We have yet to qualify in standard, and I’m eager to make that breakthrough.
As it turns out, the run is like a Bizarro World version of every other standard run we’ve ever done. Dusty refuses every obstacle except the teeter, which he tosses off like he does it every day and twice before breakfast. Everything else—no go. He won’t do the A-frame, won’t attempt the dogwalk, refuses even to sit on the table. He stands atop it staring at me while I go crimson shouting, “Sit! Sit!” and hunch ever lower, thrusting my palm downward. The expression on his face is one of expectant bemusement, like this is all the setup to a burlesque-style pratfall and why don’t I just get to it already? Eventually, we’re whistled off the course, which is about the most embarrassing thing that can happen out there that doesn’t involve bodily fluids.
Quite a few of my colleagues have watched all this unfold, and I’m too mortified now to accompany them back to the crating area, so I just give them a wave as I stride past.
“Where are you going?” Andi asks.
“Sheltie rescue booth,” I reply, gesturing toward Dusty. “I need to return this.”
In the hours I have to kill before my FAST run I decide, in true neurotic fashion, that by now some exhibitors may have left the show, enabling me to move my car closer to the elevator. I check on Dusty, who’s contentedly snuggled in his crate—“Be right back, boy,” I tell him—then I leave the hall and head back to the garage.
As it happens, there are indeed a few open spaces nearer the elevator. I puff up with pride at my cleverness. Never mind that the thirty seconds I’ll save at the end of the day are more than canceled out by the ten minutes this mission will cost me. Who’s keeping track?
I get in the car, start the ignition, back out of my space, and head toward the elevator bank. I’ve gone about twenty feet when something under the hood goes whunk and the whole car shakes like it’s sneezed. There’s a horrible, acrid smell, and my dashboard lights up in red.
I’m reasonably certain none of this augurs well, so I pull into the nearest open stall, turn off the engine, and consult my owner’s manual. A bit of index scanning and page flipping lead me to the conclusion that the drive belt has snapped.
All right. These things happen. I’m a grown man, I can handle it. I get out of the car and head down to the garage office to arrange a tow. Turns out they don’t offer this service themselves but very helpfully provide the numbers of nearby companies who do.
Alas, it seems the garage’s eight-foot ceiling rules out the aid of every single tow truck in metropolitan Chicago. When I get to the point at which I’m actually verbally abusing one of the operators—“You mean to tell me you’ve never been asked to tow a car from a parking garage before? This is the first time ever in your history? Buddy, you are a freakin’ liar”—that I realize I am perhaps setting up a major karma backlash and should maybe just hang up, take a deep breath, and reassess the situation.
All the towing companies have told me that I have to get the car out of the garage before they can help me. The owner’s manual, however, emphatically says not to operate the car with the drive belt broken. But it should only take about ninety seconds of downhill coasting to get the car onto the street. It seems like my only available option.
I go back to the car, start it up again, and pull out of the parking stall. I promptly discover that in the intervening half hour the steering has frozen. I can only manage to turn the wheel with truly Herculean effort. Part of me is glad to know that all those years at the gym, building my upper-body strength, are finally paying off, but mostly I’m just really, really annoyed.
I maneuver the car down the exit ramps; it’s like steering the Queen Mary through gravel. I need both hands and tremendous focus, and I find it helps to unleash a steady stream of the most offensive expletives in the lexicon. Terms I didn’t even know I knew.
It takes a good six minutes, but finally the exit is before me and I cautiously roll out onto the street. As if anything could be easy in this debacle, I immediately realize that I can’t just leave my car on the busy thoroughfare; cars are whipping by at forty, fifty miles per hour, and there is no parking lane. Everything is traffic, traffic, traffic. I have to keep driving till I find someplace I can safely stow my lemon.
This takes an agonizingly long time, and leads me farther and farther away from the convention center into increasingly dicey neighborhoods. Eventually, I find a handicapped space on a small industrial side street. Well, my car is handicapped, no?
It takes several minutes to pull into it, because by this point the steering wheel might as well be set in cement. When I finally have it in place and remove my hands, my arms feel like overcooked pappardelle noodles.
I call the last towing service I spoke with and arrange for them
to come collect the car and take it to a service center. When I tell them I can’t wait with the vehicle, they ask me to leave the doors unlocked and the keys on the mat, which I don’t mind doing. Theft would be welcome at this point.
After glancing at my watch, I turn and scurry back to the trial; my FAST run is quickly approaching and my parking greediness has eaten up much more time than I thought. As I trot the several blocks to the exhibition hall, I’m mindful to sidestep patches of ice and snow, because of course today I’m cleverly wearing running shoes to tromp around outdoors while yesterday I sported snow boots for indoor athletics.
Winded, I plunk into my chair and wait for everyone to ask, “Where have you been?” But of course no one does, because why would they assume I’ve been anywhere? It’s a sad moment when you’ve been tossed out in the world to deal with a dramatic personal crisis, over which you eventually and with difficulty triumph, only to return and discover no one’s even noticed you were gone.
Now stranded, I call Jeffrey to come and rescue me. He shows up just before my FAST run and proceeds to charm all my colleagues. Dusty even allows him to hold him in his lap. I sense the makings of an insurrection. Fortunately, this is averted by the run itself—though perhaps “fortunately” isn’t the word. I might rather have had Jeffrey’s easy amiability push me off into the shadows than to be the focus of attention when so much is going wrong. Dusty, perhaps lulled by Jeffrey’s special-guest-star aura, treats the course like a cakewalk. He has all the urgency of a summer breeze. And at the send bonus he totally falls apart. I know he’s nearsighted, and I know it’s five feet away—but it’s a tunnel, for God’s sake. Usually, he can’t resist a tunnel opening. I shouldn’t be able to hold him back from a tunnel opening. But today he avoids it like it’s one of al Qaeda’s cavern redoubts.