Dogged Pursuit

by Robert Rodi

  Jeffrey, obviously concerned lest this calamity be lost to history, records the whole thing on his digital camera. “Want to see the replay?” he asks when I rejoin him.

  “I’d rather go blind,” I reply.

  Much to my chagrin, Jeffrey’s parked in the lot, meaning we’ll have to brave the blasted shuttle again.

  “We don’t need to take it,” he says. “We can walk.” Despite my battle with the car, my trek through the snow, and my embarrassing run, he’s serious. Fine. It’s a nice night; a little fresh air won’t hurt.

  We leave by way of several flights of escalator (you can imagine Dusty’s reaction to an actual moving piece of machinery. Needless to say, I carry him) and exit onto the street, where the air is indeed very sweet and soothing and the roar of traffic about half what it was this afternoon. Dusty trots contentedly behind us as we make our way around the corner. Timidly, Jeffrey broaches the elephant in the room: “I’m sorry your day was such a disaster. You probably regret going back, huh?”

  “You’d think so,” I say. Yet strangely, as I reflect on the whole calamitous weekend, what shines through most clearly are the people. Dee’s irrepressible spirit, the glow on Deb’s face when she Q’d with Brittany, even the smile on Jason’s baby girl, who showed up today and who was clearly over the moon at being surrounded by so many fluffy pals. “Actually, I kind of enjoyed it. It was a good day. A really good day.” And suddenly I realize that my last calamitous day—the one that drove me to quit agility altogether—occurred at a trial I attended alone, without any of my colleagues.

  While I consider the significance of this, Jeffrey and I lapse into a short silence, walking along absorbed in our own thoughts. When we finally look up and survey our surroundings, we realize we’ve somehow ended up along a stretch of underground loading docks, surrounded by still, dark trucks the size of single-family houses. There’s not another human being anywhere in sight.

  Jeffrey looks over his shoulder. “We might’ve taken a wrong turn,” he says with admirable aplomb.

  “Ya think?” I add, rather unhelpfully.

  “Should we try to retrace our steps?”

  I look behind us: loading docks, as far as the eye can see. “I don’t know. Maybe we’d be better off finding some stairs back up to ground level.”

  And so we tramp on, Dusty valiantly bringing up the rear, for what seems to be a very long time; all conversation has now died, quashed by the weight of our growing apprehension. It’s getting dimmer and dimmer down here, the only illumination coming from oily orange lamps over the top of each loading ramp. Our shadows dance wildly around us. I try to whistle to keep our spirits up, but the only tune I can think of is the theme from Touch of Evil, which seems inauspicious.

  At one point we come across a big chain-link fence, padlocked and topped with razor wire. Looking through it, we can see the parking lot, tantalizingly close. “If we could just get by,” Jeffrey says, giving the gate a good rattle.

  I bend down to examine its lower edge. “There’s a gap,” I say. “We can probably squeeze underneath. We’re both thin.” But Jeffrey has worn his best cowboy boots, jeans, and jacket, and I know better than to ask him even to consider the idea of scrabbling in the dirt under a length of snarly fence. Because of course cowboys aren’t ever meant to get dirty.

  So we continue. After what feels like ages, we find the flight of stairs we’ve been hoping for and collectively let out a big sigh; it seems we’ve both been holding our breath. We scamper up to ground level again and find ourselves behind one of the main buildings—a forbidding wall of concrete. We’re almost thrown back into despondency, but a nearby fire door that’s been propped open provides the light at the end of our tunnel. “We’re in, we’re in!” I cry, and Jeffrey quickly joins me as I yank it wide open.

  Light spills out, and music.

  And suddenly there are people looking out at us.

  A lot of people.

  Natty black men in suits and bow ties, and women in brown scarves and ankle-length skirts.

  “Through here,” Jeffrey says, and he starts to enter.

  “Wait, for God’s sake,” I say, grabbing his arm. “We can’t go in there—it’s a Nation of Islam convention!”

  He shrugs. “So?”

  “So, Muslims hate dogs! They think they’re unclean. And frankly,” I add, gesturing at Dusty, whose feet are now black with grime, “in this case they’ve got a point.”

  “Oh, he’s little. They won’t even see him.”

  And so he strides on in—my Jeffrey, possibly the whitest man in the universe, all done up in his Marlboro Man gear, confidently making his way among the ranks of the Farrakhan faithful, and within seconds I’m following him, trailing an actual live creature into their religious gathering. But what else can I do? It’s our only way to freedom.

  “Should I ask where the bar is?” Jeffrey asks over his shoulder.

  Oh, yeah, he’s a real smart-ass.

  But a moment later he’s found the mezzanine, so he gets a pass.

  CHAPTER 27

  Punc’d

  In the wake of our across-the-board wipeout at IKC, it seems clear that aromatherapy and the essential oils with which I’ve been treating Dusty haven’t been sufficient to calm, focus, embolden, or energize him. And to be frank, I’m starting to gag on the scent of lavender. But we’ve got another trial coming up, and I’ve been wondering what I can possibly do differently. I’ve already broken the bank on oils and psychics, so I decide to take a more direct approach and enlist the help of a local pet acupuncturist. Andi recommended a veterinarian who cofounded an outfit on the North Side of Chicago devoted to pet rehabilitation and hydrotherapy. “Anything that works,” I remind myself. During a brief telephone consultation, I fill her in on Dusty’s performance-related issues and we make an appointment.

  I turn to Dusty, who’s curled up on the couch, and say, “Hey, boy! How’d you like to get stabbed repeatedly and systematically by a complete stranger in a lab coat?” His ears twitch as he appears to consider it. I’ll take that as a yes.

  A few days later, we find ourselves checking in at the center’s reception desk. The space is wide open with big, sparkling aluminum pipes running across the ceiling, and the whole place feels more like a Manhattan art gallery or an LA recording studio than a doctor’s office. And it’s in Lincoln Park, where real estate is worth more than the GNP of some small countries. And it’s for pets. I find myself wondering how on earth they pay their rent. I suppose I’ll have a clue once I see what they charge for the privilege of turning my dog into a voodoo doll.

  We’re led down a very long corridor; Dusty trots behind me on high alert. Everything in this place is so burnished and crisp that I can’t help noticing how grubby my boy looks by comparison. In this particular environment, he looks like something they might sweep up in a dustpan.

  We come upon a large, open therapy room, one entire side comprising a bank of windows. It’s bright and cheerful, and despite the profusion of equipment—treadmills, medicine balls, trampolines, and so on—it gives an impression of aristocratic spareness. In one corner a Siberian husky is being massaged by a thin girl in flip-flops. He’s lying on his side and is so completely at his ease that he casts just one ice blue glance our way as we pass, then dreamily shuts his eyes again. Meanwhile, what I presume is an arthritic black Lab is dog-paddling in a small pool, held partially aloft by a fetching yellow life jacket. Alongside him, a chipper young physical therapist guides a Newfoundland through a device that’s kind of like a horizontal ladder, a doggie version of football’s high-knees drills.

  Dr. Cale, a gentle, curly haired presence whose smile puts us immediately at ease (well, me, anyway; Dusty is reserving judgment) joins us in the consultation room. She does exactly the right thing by ignoring him completely, thereby granting him the time and space to creep forward, check her out, and grant her his tentative approval. Though when she does finally cast a quick glance at him, he immediately recoils. />
  “Dusty doesn’t have any health issues,” I tell her. “We’re here because he’s got some behavioral glitches that I haven’t been able to work through. He’s an athlete, see,” and here I feel a little charge. I love saying this about him. “He competes in canine agility, and he’s very fast and very smart, but he doesn’t have tremendous confidence. He’s easily rattled by crowds, by noises, by the pressure, anything really. He stresses out and sort of shuts down on me. And the paradox is, at home, on his own turf, he has just the opposite problem: he’s too ‘on,’ too aggressive—I have to rein him in to keep him from going on the attack. It’s like he feels he’s got to police the whole neighborhood himself. What I’m looking for is some way of balancing him out a little—take some of the aggression he exhibits at home, that take-charge drive that he has, and get him to feel it in the agility ring. And in turn take some of the reticence and caution he feels there, and bring it into play in his regular daily life.” Dr. Cale looks at me with widened eyes, and I realize that I’ve just slapped her with a whole lot to chew on. Oh God, I’m a helicopter parent. But I can’t seem to stop. “Acupuncture,” I tell her. “I was hoping a little acupuncture might even him out. Anyway, we’ve got an agility trial the day after tomorrow and I thought it couldn’t hurt.”

  She nods, arches an eyebrow, and makes a few notes on her chart, then says, “Well, I think you’ve got the right idea. But I have to tell you, acupuncture isn’t something that works immediately. There may be some initial benefit for a few hours, or even a day, after the initial session, but you only obtain substantive, permanent results through ongoing treatment.”

  I’m crestfallen. Because, first, why does everything have to be so freakin’ complicated? And also because I ought to know by now that everything is so freakin’ complicated. I feel a little stupid, marching into this professional facility and asking for a quick fix to my dog’s very character—like taking my car to a body shop and asking for a new coat of paint—blue, please, and do I have time to grab lunch while you’re at it? Clearly, my conversation with Andi didn’t sufficiently teach me that Dusty is Dusty, limited by both his Sheltieness and his own disposition. A quick fix can’t change who he is.

  “We can treat Dusty today, if you like,” she says. “I just want to manage your expectations. After a single session you’re unlikely to see much in the way of verifiable improvement. But if you think this is something you’d like to pursue, certainly we can start right away.”

  I lift Dusty onto the metal examining table. He seems to shrink, shedding mass in defiance of every known law of physics. It’s my turn to shrink when Dr. Cale produces several tiny needles with purple plastic grips. They’re the equivalent of the pins you’d use to attach notices to corkboard, and for a moment I envision flyers tacked to Dusty’s rump: “ ’87 Buick Skylark, Great Condition, Best Offer.” My mind is really running amok here. I’m clearly more nervous than my dog is.

  The first needles go in. Dr. Cale is aligning them with what she calls Dusty’s meridian lines. She sticks one on each hip; his shank does a little involuntary flinch at the first one, but after that he’s fine. A good thing, because the way he’s positioned he’d only have to flick his head up to tear my throat out. I massage his cheeks and tell him what a good boy he’s being, and he presses his head against my chest, as though trying to seek refuge in my rib cage.

  The next needles go into his forelegs; then one at the base of his skull; and after that I lose track. There are about nine in all. He looks like something from a Clive Barker horror film: Hound of Hellraiser.

  “How long?” I ask, still stroking him.

  “Ten minutes,” she replies, and I hold Dusty’s ruff, keeping him still, keeping him calm; he doesn’t move, doesn’t at all resist, so that I can’t help thinking, “It’s working already,” despite what Dr. Cale just told me.

  The top of his head is still pressed into my sternum, and I can feel his warmth seeping into me. I’ll have a red mark here, no doubt, when I take my shirt off. But I like the feeling. Physical closeness of this kind isn’t something I often experience with him. And it isn’t just the novelty of holding my dog this way, it’s also what it implies, which is trust. He’s at ease, taking comfort in my proximity, finding security in my arms. The exchange is almost palpable; so much so that I begin to feel flush, dizzy. It’s as though I’m the one undergoing treatment here. Dr. Cale’s voice grows faint, and my vision goes all white and cottony. I’m not entirely sure what’s happening.

  I lift Dusty’s chin so that his eyes meet mine. “Hey, buddy,” I say softly, “is this some mystic woo-woo, or what?”

  He stares at me a moment longer—I feel myself swirling into his eyes, like water down a bathtub drain—and realize I’m on the brink of something embarrassing, like my knees giving out or wetting myself.

  Then suddenly he shakes and little purple needles go flying off in all directions, like a porcupine shedding quills. “Whoa!” I shout, half laughing, but I can already feel the air around me cool. The weird symbiotic spell has been broken, its momentary hold snapped clean.

  Truth be told, I’m no longer certain we need to come back. Agility builds a strong rapport between handler and dog, but till now I had no idea how strong. I realize that my recent excursions into “alternative pet care” have made me far less skeptical of people like Andi communicating with their animals, and I can better understand how Carl and Kim are able to live at such close quarters with their Porties without running stark mad. It’s about finding a connection with your pet—in whatever form works for both of you.

  And Dusty and I have found what works for us. Believe me, it’s not sharing 750 square feet—we’re independent spirits, and I can’t see us relishing too much intimacy. I respect his space, he respects mine; we show affection, not by cuddling and hugging, but by standing shoulder to shoulder in competition (well, shoulder to shin).

  The treatment today confirmed that I am keenly keyed into this little critter; it strikes me as though our physical contact during the acupuncture managed to tap into not only Dusty’s meridian lines but my own. Frankly, it was a tad too Vulcan mind meld for comfort—I’m not looking literally to be one with Dusty—no need to wind up scratching my ear with my foot or yapping out car windows.

  Then again, maybe that wouldn’t be too awful. If we did establish that kind of weird symbiotic relationship, I could just run the goddamn teeter myself.

  CHAPTER 28

  Not So FAST

  We arrive at the Crystal Lake Regional Sports Center, the site of our very first trial, now so many months past. That was a warm day, almost torpid. I remember sweating as I toted my chair and crate into the complex. Today the whole landscape is covered with snow, and as I pull up the drive the ice cracks beneath my wheels.

  And that’s not the only thing that’s changed. Back then Dusty entered these doors as a complete tyro. Now he’s a seasoned competitor with a title to his name—Dusty NAJ. I’ve been on a real roller coaster lately, bouts of frustration alternating with bursts of enthusiasm—hell, I’ve even quit and come back again—but standing here now I can’t help putting it all into perspective. We haven’t come as far as I’d planned. In fact I’m embarrassed I ever thought I’d be on my way to the upper echelons of the sport by this point. But given Dusty’s manifold peculiarities, it’s vastly to my—to our—credit that we’ve come even as far as we have. And if we aren’t exactly champions, at least I now realize what a champion is—and it isn’t always the handler or the dog that scores the highest or wins the most ribbons.

  All this is beginning to sound oddly valedictory, so I shake it out of my head. I’m in no way giving up. I still intend to see how far we can go, and I’m not convinced a novice jumpers title is anywhere near our upper limit. It’s just a matter of focus, firmness, consistency, and hard work. IKC was very distracting; our reentry to competition should not have been in that three-ring circus. This event is much smaller, quieter, tamer. Funny, the first time we entere
d these doors, the din had seemed insupportable, even maddening. Now it’s almost soothing: white noise, like the purr of a humidifier. Also Dusty’s no longer the twitching, cringing creature he was back then. After competing in every kind of brutal condition—not to mention being subjected to aromatherapy, acupuncture, and even dog whispering—he’s more thoroughly prepped than he’s ever been. He’s still just a scrawny little twist of pipe cleaner, but he’s picked up a truckload of experience. If the way to victory isn’t clear now, I don’t know when it will be.

  I’ve arrived early so I’ve got some time to wander. Some All Fours colleagues direct me to the Liver Lady, a small-scale entrepreneur with a table in the tiny vendors’ corner. She’s a bustling little woman in an apron, who’s selling a variety of dog treats she cooked in her very own oven. There are samples set out on plates, and each has the kind of aroma that forces me to ask, “These are for dogs, right?” She assures me they are—also that they are very, very fresh, made with the freshest ingredients, so when I get home I better put them right in the refrigerator or she won’t answer for what happens to them.

  I settle on a bag of whitefish-and-potato biscuits, pay her five bucks, and move on. When I’m just far enough to be out of sight, I can’t help myself: I open the bag and sample one. It’s very savory, not as seasoned as I’d like, but I could easily fix that at home. I begin to wonder how many of these are actually going to end up being consumed by their target market. In my house it’s going to be touch and go.

  At our open jumpers walk-through, the competitors meet with our judge—one Sue Freigen, a trim, curly blond.

  “I’ve just been on the East Coast,” she says, “where there’s been a nasty trend under way of handlers downing their dogs when they make a mistake, and then walking them off the course. This is intended to be punitive, and in my opinion it’s harmful to the rapport between the handler and the dog. I don’t want to see that kind of thing spread here. Keep in mind that your dogs don’t have to do this for you. They don’t have to be here. Some of them love it, sure, but all of them are doing it to please you. So stay happy, stay upbeat, and keep your dog happy too. Just remember: it doesn’t matter if he gets a first-place ribbon or if he has two lines of marks on his scribe sheet—whatever happens, you’re going home with the world’s best dog.”