Dogged Pursuit

by Robert Rodi

  Jeffrey nods and says, “So . . . that’s counterclockwise.”

  “Yes, but that’s irreleva—” A whistle blows; it’s time for the judge’s briefing. I hobble off the course and let Jeffrey join his fellow handlers. In fact this spurt of activity has taken its toll on me, and I have to go plop myself down in my chair for a while, remove the boot, and massage my ankle. I’m feeling better by the time competition begins, so I strap my leg back in and go off in search of Jeffrey.

  I find him at a small cafeteria table overlooking the ring, the course map spread out before him. He’s drawing little circles where he means to front cross, with arrows to indicate the direction, clockwise or counterclockwise.

  “You’re making this a lot harder than it needs to be,” I tell him.

  He looks up at me with threatening blankness and says, “Would you just give me a moment here, please?”

  Hooo-kay. I back off and head back down to the crating area, where I sit down among the others. After a while the conversation turns to television. “You know,” someone says, “I was watching my favorite show last night, What Not to Wear. You ever see that?” Several of us nod. “I just love it. Anyway, it occurred to me that everyone in this entire place—me included—could easily be on that show.” She pauses as Jeffrey arrives on the scene, then adds, “Well . . . not Jeff.” It’s true: alone on this vast sartorial crime scene, he’s perfectly fitted out in designer jeans, a peach polo shirt with plaid trim along the inside collar, and laceless sneakers. He’s A&F; everyone else is 4-H.

  As it happens, his run is quite respectable but not the stuff blue ribbons are made of. Everything goes well except the weaves; Dusty pops out after the third pole, and try though he might Jeffrey can’t get him back in correctly. He keeps gesturing and calling and following Dusty around, while Dusty goes in circles, not comprehending a thing. I actually feel sorry for him. He looks like he’s trying desperately to swat a giant fly.

  Eventually, he gives up on the weaves and calls Dusty to finish the run. That works better, but he looks crestfallen when he rejoins me. “You have to complete the weaves to qualify, right?” he asks, even though he knows the answer.

  “Afraid so,” I say. He scowls as his last hope of a double-Q weekend evaporates. “But listen, it was a very good run, everything else was spot on.”

  “I know, I know,” he says, and he squats down to give Dusty some congratulatory manhandling. “You did great, boy! And next time we’re gonna come in first!”

  Gotta give the man props for elasticity. He’s bounced back faster than I ever did. Any faster and he’d risk whiplash.

  But then, the ensuing hours make it clear that Jeffrey’s more suited to just about everything in these environs than I am. I’d worried about him growing restive during the hours of downtime, but it turns out he’s not one to take a little thing like having nothing to do get in the way of his fun. After the jumpers course is rebuilt for novice, Jeffrey volunteers to be a bar setter, which involves sitting on the course during the competition and running out to replace any bars that get knocked loose. I never thought of doing that. He looks very alert and engaged out there, and is Johnny-on-the-spot whenever one of the novice dogs blasts through the bar jumps like they were Tinkertoys. Later, when the novice class ends and he’s relieved of his duties, he comes back smiling and fresh faced and boasting of having learned a lot by watching the handlers and dogs up close. An hour or so later he reappears with a limp paper plate bearing a soggy sloppy joe; turns out all volunteers are treated to a free lunch. Which to Jeffrey appears quite a deal; he bites into the molten mass with gusto. Some of its aroma wafts my way and burns my eyes.

  The next time I see him, he’s clutching a chain of perforated red tickets; he’s spent thirty dollars entering the prize drawing. “What prize drawing?” I ask. He jerks his thumb toward the standard ring, and I limp on over to check it out. Sure enough, it’s there big as life: a table filled with dog-related prizes that are being raffled off, including an enormous pooper-scooper kit that comes with a rake and silver trash can affixed to a platform with wheels. People are oohing and aahing over it. I must have passed this display a dozen times this morning, as I went back and forth between standard and jumpers to watch my teammates run their dogs, and I never even noticed it.

  After a midafternoon snack—fresh fruit and savory biscuits, packed of course by Jeffrey—I announce that I’m feeling a little tired.

  “Take a nap,” says Jeffrey.

  I shake my head. “Impossible. I can’t sleep at trials. I’ve tried, believe me. Every time I close my eyes my hearing becomes, like, Kryptonian. I just can’t tune anything out.”

  He deftly produces his iPod, which is already set to some soothing New Agey compositions by Jean-Michel Jarre. I plug in the earbuds and lower my lids and the world disappears. Within minutes I’m pulled bodily into the arms of Morpheus. My last conscious thought is of Jeffrey, and how I may have to kill him and dispose of his body to restore my withering self-confidence.

  My self-esteem isn’t much bolstered when, after awakening from my snooze, I’m told—by Marilyn, by Dee, by Besty, by everybody—that “you’re not getting Dusty back.” Jeffrey’s energy, his keenness, his commitment (he’s already subscribed to Clean Run magazine, something I never quite got around to doing in six years), along with his charm, wit, and good looks, have all combined to push me definitively to the sidelines. He even wins the goddamn raffle, and is soon loading the giant pooper-scooper kit into his convertible.

  The only discordant note is his actual performance. He and Dusty haven’t quite meshed as a team, and there are no qualifying scores, much less blue ribbons. Even so, I can see him improving as he goes, mastering the learning curve even as it steepens before him. He’s intelligent, ambitious, and quite shockingly gung ho.

  As for me, I’m relegated to support staff. It’s my job to do things like take videos of his runs so that he can put them on You-Tube for the benefit of posterity.

  And in fact it’s in this capacity that something unexpected befalls me. It’s the last run of the weekend, late Sunday afternoon. Novice standard. Jeffrey’s last chance to qualify. I’m positioned outside the ring, video cam in hand, as he and Dusty head to the line. Because the ring is normally used as a soccer field, there’s a high Plexiglas shield around it, and I’m having trouble aiming the camcorder through the glare. When Jeffrey starts the run, I edge around the perimeter toward the center of the course where the light isn’t so intrusive.

  And that’s when it happens. Dusty comes out of a tunnel facing me and his eyes lock onto mine. It’s only a split-second thing, but in that instant our old rapport comes barreling back—that indelible, empathic bond built up over months and months of training and teamwork—and I can almost hear him thinking, “What are you doing out there? You’re supposed to be in here!”

  And then he starts trotting toward me.

  Behind him, Jeffrey howls, “Dusty! Dusty, come!” but Dusty ignores him utterly. He’s headed my way, smiling ear to ear.

  I realize this is a crisis, but for a moment I’m frozen. I have no idea how to react. Finally, desperately, I just drop to my knees and hide. I cower there, almost not daring to breathe, listening as Jeffrey’s shouts become more and more insistent. After a few seconds I peer up over the partition, just in time to see Dusty casually exiting the field, presumably to look for me, and leaving Jeffrey behind to stew in righteous frustration.

  There’s no point in hiding any longer, so I get to my feet and go to face the music, knowing the tune’s not going to be a pleasant one. All I can say in my defense is that I had no idea my presence would prove so fatally distracting.

  I find Jeffrey just outside the finish gate. He’s managed to catch up with Dusty and leash him and is now commiserating with Marilyn, who is absolutely furious on his behalf. As soon as I catch her eye I shake my head and poke my finger to my chest, to signal that, “Yes, it was my fault. I know. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima bloody
culpa.”

  It probably doesn’t help that Dusty happily leaps up on me when I reach him. I can’t help it, and so I capitulate, caressing his head. As bad as this all has been, and as angry as I’m sure Jeffrey is, it’s still kind of flattering. I’d been disappointed by the ease with which Jeffrey had replaced me as Dusty’s handler, and till now Dusty hadn’t shown even a glimmer of confusion or displeasure.

  Now that he has—in the most disgraceful way and at the most inopportune moment imaginable—my pride is salved. But it leaves me with a whole new dilemma. All weekend long I’ve complained about being sidelined. Now it seems even the sidelines are off limits.

  I have only two choices: to step back into the ring and resume complete control of Dusty, or to hand him over to Jeffrey for good.

  Realistically, it’ll be several weeks before I’m healed enough to do the former, and even if were just a matter of days, I don’t know if I’d have the heart. When I asked Jeffrey to fill in for me, I never dreamed I’d be launching him onto a lifelong pursuit.

  I started down this path looking for glory, and I think I just may find it. Albeit, not in any way I ever anticipated. Never mind: reflected glory is still glory.

  And maybe, just maybe, it’s the best possible kind.

  EPILOGUE

  Never Give Up

  After I retire myself from Dusty’s handling, something in me relaxes. I feel a kind of spiritual unclenching. It’s tremendously liberating to have no more agenda, to be free from the constant rounds of training and competing, to wake up on a Saturday morning with the weekend ahead of me, wide open and unstructured, just waiting to be lived moment by moment, to no longer have to drive to Plano or Spring Grove, or to Dogpatch or Hooterville or anyplace at all.

  And yet—as time passes I start to itch (and not on my ankle, which is now restored to reasonable soundness). It’s just that whenever Jeffrey returns home from a trial, brimming with stories (and an occasional ribbon), I can’t help feeling a twinge of envy. I find myself thinking back fondly on the days when I thought Dusty and I might go the distance. Be the best of the best. Be champions.

  And then one day I realize that dream isn’t necessarily lost to me. All I need is . . .

  I start surfing the rescue society Web sites—collies this time. Quite a few of the big, beautiful boys and girls they have up for adoption look very promising. Then I come upon the photo of a lean-looking sable who, even in repose, gives off a definite whiff of crazy. The text below the picture reads:

  Hi, my name is Harley and this is my second time through Collie Rescue. I was first given up because my original owner’s son had moved back home and had allergies. I was very spoiled and had been allowed to do anything I wanted. I was adopted out but proved a bit much for an inexperienced owner to handle, as Collie Rescue found out when I was returned. I have very high herding instincts and drive and will not be happy to be just a pet. I need a person who’s interested in a dog to have fun with in agility, obedience, fly ball, or herding—I need something to do; I need a job. I get along with other dogs and cats and ride well in a car. I am also crate trained and housebroken. I do need a fenced yard and should add that I am very vocal when I’m out in it! I’m looking for someone who has a lot of dog sense and a strong personality and can prove they can train a dog successfully. I will need to continue my obedience classes so whoever adopts me must be willing to register for these. I am very intelligent and ready to learn but need someone to help me. Only serious inquiries please. Thanks, Harley.

  There are more red flags here than in a May Day parade in Beijing. Even so, my writer’s mind starts taking the expected turn. Perhaps this Harley is a nascent agility genius who merely needs encouragement and a firm hand to draw out his talents. “No no,” I tell myself, “that way lies madness.” And I sit down to e-mail an enquiry about one of the gorgeous tricolors with chipper mugs and clear, bright eyes whose glowing testimonials contain no hint of latent psychosis.

  But it’s like my hands are on autopilot. My fingers move independently across the keyboard, composing, as I suppose I always knew they must:

  “Hello, I would like to adopt Harley . . .”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Deepest thanks to Haven Kimmel, whose dog sense is more acute than that of anyone else I know, and whose encouragement and generosity were invaluable to me during the writing of this book.

  Thanks to my agent, Christopher Schelling, who nudged me for two years to undertake this project; he is the wisest man I know, and possibly the prettiest.

  Thanks to my editor, Luke Dempsey, who had faith in this endeavor, and who taught me a thing or two about caustic wit.

  Thanks to Augusten Burroughs for his support and friendship, and for his superb example as a memoirist and essayist.

  Thanks to Scott Browning and the staff of Hall Farm Center for the Arts, whose residency program allowed me the time and space to write the initial chapters of this narrative.

  If anyone was essential to this story, it’s the singular Dee Corboy-Lulik, a visionary trainer and an inspirational coach; all her students adore her with equal fervor, I’m just the only one to write a book about it. So far.

  Thanks to the members of the All-Fours Agility team for teaching me the true meaning of community, chiefly Andi Skillman, Marilyn Paker, Cyndi Gibson, Debbie Sazma, Gus Pusateri, Carl and Kim Hibben, Kevin and Elysee Quealy, Deb Konrath, Alise Carrico, Jason Libasci, Diane Dillon, Sue Bowman, Betsy Easton, Eryn Paker, Cindy Aldridge, Sharon O’Connell, and Stacy Nigrelli.

  I must also pay tribute to the dogs who left us during the writing of this book: Deb’s beautiful Brittany, Sue’s irrepressible Spencer, and Andi’s sweet Whisper. They will all be missed.

  Thanks to Sally Alatallo for recommending agility to me in the first place.

  Thanks to Natalie Whalen and the Central Illinois Sheltie Rescue for all the good work they do, and especially for placing Dusty with me.

  Thanks to Annie Morse and Kevin Pierce for their Attic wit, inimitable hospitality, and priceless friendship.

  Eternal gratitude to Bunny Boyt and my other neighbors who are paragons of patience and forbearance.

  Enduring thanks and love to Jeffrey Smith for stepping in to save the day when it really needed saving—which is pretty much what he does for me every day.

  And finally, thanks to Carmen, Dusty, and Harley. Here words are insufficient, and they wouldn’t understand them anyway.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Robert Rodi is the owner of three dogs and the author of seven novels. He’s also written short stories, literary criticism, and works for the stage. He divides his time between Chicago, where he was born, and Siena, Italy. In dog years he is 350.