by Andy Behrens
“Cromwell?” Kevin poked the dog’s belly. “Dogs aren’t supposed to respond to TV. I’ve read this.”
Cromwell, apparently, had not read this. Because he kept staring.
“Nah, there’s no way …,” said Kevin. He snapped his fingers at Cromwell. The dog didn’t flinch.
The Purina Challenge had gone to commercial. A collie appeared on-screen, moving in slow motion across a field of grass, its tongue flapping. It leapt over a fallen tree, then stopped abruptly at the side of a lanky woman in a babushka. The dog sat attentively. The woman nodded. She looked like a movie pirate, Kevin thought. Cromwell tilted his head slightly as a narrator spoke: “Whether you’re looking to train a champion or just trying to convince the family dog that shoes aren’t chew toys, Paw Patch can help. We’ve been training Chicago’s dogs for over …”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Kevin said, changing the channel.
Cromwell snapped his head toward his owner. It was the single fastest move the dog had ever attempted. Cromwell looked at Kevin for several seconds, then dipped his head, whined, and scraped the couch with his paws.
“Fine,” said Kevin.
He switched back to Animal Planet. Cromwell whipped his head toward the screen. The commercial had ended, and highlights of the terrier and her trainer snaking through the cones were being replayed. Cromwell barked enthusiastically.
“Crom, you’re freaking me out.” Kevin patted his lap lightly. “C’mere, boy. Let’s chill. We’ll go get your squeaky duck. And maybe one of those gross dehydrated beef treats.”
A strand of drool hung from Cromwell’s mouth for a moment, then cascaded onto a couch pillow.
Kevin shut off the TV, hoping to release Cromwell from the bizarre hold of the Purina Challenge. Instead, the dog flew from the couch, raced to the TV, then whined and growled. He stopped, sniffed the air, and barked. Then Cromwell looked back at Kevin.
“No, Cromwell,” Kevin explained. “Those dogs weren’t in the TV. They were just, like, on TV. Just pictures, Cromwell. Little pictures that move.”
Cromwell whined again.
“Tele-vi-sion,” said Kevin slowly. “There are these little dot-things called pixels.”
Cromwell wasn’t listening. He tore off, a brown blur skittering across the tile floor.
“Cromwell!” yelped Kevin in a half-disciplinary, half-confused tone. “Careful, Cromwell!”
THWAAP!
The dog struck a leather ottoman, shook himself off, then kept running. He slithered between a floor lamp and a chair, then clipped a table leg, overturning a stack of CDs. He leapt over a rug, landed nose-first on the tile, slid, and crashed into the mini-fridge. Cromwell scampered away just before a pyramid of small glasses, multiple boxes of bacon-and-cheddar-flavored crackers, and two Mike Ditka collectible plates tumbled to the floor like lemmings. Then the fridge itself tipped forward and fell. The sound was spectacular.
Kevin curled into a ball on the couch and braced himself.
Cromwell joined him, whimpering.
“KEVIN!!!”
His mom and dad had yelled in unison, which rarely happened. Normally Howie handled the yelling. Kevin heard their footsteps and lifted his face toward the basement stairs.
“It wasn’t me! It was totally Crom—” Kevin looked at the dog. Cromwell was panting. His tongue hung out. He looked winded yet enthused.
Cromwell woofed.
Howie stood at the foot of the stairs, his eyes sweeping across the tile. Broken glass and shards of pottery mixed with assorted flavors (mostly variations on a cheese theme) of snack chips. Cromwell hopped down to sniff the wreckage. Maggie, standing on the bottom step, peered over Howie’s shoulder. She rolled her eyes.
“The Ditka plates,” moaned Howie. “He was my old coach. Those were limited editions, Kev.”
“I had no idea, Dad.” Kevin paused. “I microwaved them a couple times, if that makes you feel better.”
Howie’s cheek twitched.
“Sorry,” Kevin said meekly. “Cromwell was just horsing around.”
Cromwell barked and licked the tile floor.
Maggie patted her husband’s back. “I’m sure Kevin didn’t mean to break anything. Maybe you should clean up the mess, Kevin,” she said as she headed back upstairs. “But get your sneakers on, and make sure Cromwell doesn’t step on any glass.”
Howie plodded upstairs, muttering, and closed the basement door.
Kevin hopped off the couch. Cromwell padded after him.
“Horsing around?” Maggie stared at her son. “You two don’t horse, Kev. You loaf. You’re chronic loafers.” She gently pushed Kevin’s sweaty bangs from his forehead.
“There are many sides to us, Mom. Cromwell is a complex animal.” Kevin wasn’t even sure he believed himself. “For example, did you know that he is inspired by televised dog agility competitions? Because I just learned that.”
They walked slowly upstairs together. Cromwell followed, almost sheepishly.
“What are you talking about?” asked Maggie, glancing out the window to where Izzy was practicing her pitch.
“I’m talkin’ about Cromwell and dogs on TV,” Kevin explained. “Some pooch on Animal Planet was running this crazy course and Crom just took off, like he was in the competition or something.”
“Kevin,” said Maggie, shaking her head. “Rough-housing in the basement with your dog is one thing, but trying to convince me that Cromwell watches television? Did he eat your homework, too?” She had already begun pecking at her BlackBerry by the time he reached the kitchen. “No more horsing around, please,” she called back with mock firmness.
“Tell that to my dog,” Kevin quietly muttered.
Cromwell stared up at Kevin.
“Crom, that was insane. You don’t move that much in a week.” The dog licked his hand. “I bet those Animal Planet dogs don’t decimate their owners’ basements.”
Kevin scanned the kitchen for a broom.
All those wasted bacon crackers, he thought wistfully. He snapped back into action at the sound of his father yelling from the family room.
“Kevin, if there are any large pieces of the Ditka plates left—big, glueable pieces—don’t throw those out, please.”
“Right,” said Kevin, smirking at the thought of his dad lovingly gluing together pieces of Mike Ditka.
He grabbed his high-tops from the shoe pile near the door and turned toward the basement steps. Cromwell stood in his way, tail wagging. And he had a leash in his mouth.
“Cromwell,” Kevin said softly, “what are you doing?”
Kevin and Cromwell looked at one another. Cromwell dropped the tattered blue leash on the floor.
“A walk?” stammered Kevin.
Izzy flung open the back door, hopped over Cromwell, and grabbed a greenish sports drink from atop the kitchen counter. The beverage looked like nuclear residue, Kevin thought. Izzy skipped off.
“Okay, something’s wrong.” Kevin bent down and began stroking the dog’s head.
Cromwell nudged the leash with a white paw.
Kevin pushed the decaying leash aside with his foot and walked downstairs. “I’ve still gotta clean up the aftermath of your last exercise experiment.”
Cromwell paced at the top of the steps while Kevin mopped and swept.
“My dog sleeps,” Kevin said quietly as he brushed cracker debris into a dustpan. “And eats. And sleeps and eats.” He dumped the last of the glass shards into a metal wastebasket. “He’s not a walker.”
Kevin tried to decide whether the dog had exercised more in the previous ten minutes than he had in his entire life.
“Woof!” Cromwell barked, nudging the leash with his black nose.
“Really?” Kevin asked. “Like, seriously?”
“Woof!” Cromwell answered.
Kevin climbed the stairs and picked up the ancient leash. Cromwell’s nails clacked excitedly on the wood floor.
“Just around the block,” he told the dog. “And let�
�s not make a habit of this.”
4
When Kevin rolled out of bed the following morning, Cromwell was waiting, the blue leash clamped in his mouth.
“Incredible,” said Kevin groggily, shaking his head at his energetic dog.
The ringing phone that had woken Kevin was still ringing. Apparently no one else was going to pick it up.
“Hello?” he mumbled into the phone, resting his hand on Cromwell’s soft head.
“Dude,” said his friend, Zach Broder. “Get online! Let’s play Madden. I kind of own the Patriots defense at this point, if I do say so myself.”
Cromwell inched the leash closer to Kevin’s feet with his nose.
“Can’t right now. I have to walk Cromwell,” Kevin replied.
There was silence on the other end of the line. And then an explosion of laughter.
“Okay, I’m gonna go,” Kevin said.
Zach was still laughing as Kevin hung up.
Kevin shuffled downstairs. Cromwell dragged the leash behind him and dropped it at Kevin’s feet. Kevin poured himself a bowl of cereal—a blend, actually. It was one-third Double Chocolate Puffs, one-third Cinnamon Frosted Crisps, and one-third Berry Marshmallow Monster Pops. The recipe had been developed over months of trial and error.
Cromwell made a low, restless rrrrrrr-ing sound. Kevin looked at him sideways. They’d trudged at least two miles yesterday around Lincoln Square, the Pughs’ North Side neighborhood. Exhausted, Kevin had finally called his mom to pick them up from Welles Park—a ninety-second ride from home. How could Cromwell be so eager to repeat that humiliation? But the dog was pawing at the sliding door.
“Okay,” Kevin finally said to Cromwell, setting down his empty bowl. “We’ll go out.”
They stepped into the yard just as Zach was heading up the driveway. Kevin’s best friend hopped off his bike, stumbled, then lurched forward as a tangle of controllers and cords flew from his unzipped backpack. Zach was always falling. He looked up at Kevin, who was being dragged forward by his dog.
“Graceful dismount,” said Kevin.
“Thanks,” said Zach. “I’m a raw talent. Um … what’s that on the end of the leash there?”
Cromwell was pulling Kevin toward the Pughs’ expansive backyard.
“It looks almost like Cromwell. Except it’s moving. Which Cromwell doesn’t do.” Zach walked alongside them. “What’s up, Cromwell? C-Money. C-Dog.”
Kevin unhooked the leash and let the dog streak off into the grass.
“He’s a freak.” Kevin shook his head.
Cromwell jumped over a garden gnome. Then the sprinkler. Then he tried to vault a bag of soccer balls, but two paws didn’t clear the top. He rolled over the bag; then the bag rolled over him; then Cromwell popped up and kept running.
“New dog food, dude?” Zach was mesmerized.
“Nope. You know those parent–slash–old people groups that say television will make your kids do insane things? Well, Cromwell saw some dog agility contest on TV, and now he’s totally lost it,” Kevin explained. “He thinks he’s in the Olympics or something.”
“Dog agility?” Zach asked suspiciously.
“It looks like putt-putt golf,” said Kevin, “but with a stopwatch and no ball. And, you know, dogs.”
Kevin leaned against the house as Cromwell ran in a wide loop. Zach stared at the dog. Cromwell stopped, looked toward Kevin, barked, then started running again.
“That little guy can move,” said Zach. “Never woulda guessed it.”
Cromwell’s left front paw became briefly entangled in a garden hose, but he shook it free. Then he took a few slow, tentative steps toward a tire swing that hung from a maple tree near the back fence. He woofed at the tire. Then he looked at Kevin.
“No, I don’t think so, Cromwell,” Kevin warned. “It’s, like, two feet off the ground. You’ll never make it through—”
The dog was off, sprinting as hard as he could, his soft belly nearly scraping the ground. Cromwell hurdled a small flagstone wall, brushing past Maggie’s perennials, then bounded toward the low-hanging tire.
“Go, Cromwell!” shouted Zach.
“No, Cromwell!” shouted Kevin.
The dog approached the swing, dipped his head, sprang upward off his paws, and flew—Cromwell Pugh, Earth’s laziest dog, literally flew through the air. Quite gracefully, really … until his head collided with the tire with a deep, rubbery thud.
The collision knocked Cromwell onto his back. The tire wobbled.
“Ouch,” said Kevin and Zach in unison, both cringing.
Kevin ran toward Cromwell. But before Kevin could help Cromwell back onto his paws, the dog had shaken off his failure and began galloping around the yard, his tongue hanging from the side of his mouth.
“Cromwell!” shouted Kevin. “Sit, boy!”
But there was no “sit” in Cromwell.
Instead, he picked up speed, cruising along the flower beds that ringed the yard, occasionally kicking up a little dirt.
“No, Cromwell!” said Kevin firmly, waving his arms. This couldn’t be happening.
Zach cheered wildly.
The look in Cromwell’s eyes was pure determination.
Kevin froze, stunned by the sight of his dog—his fat, lazy dog—running. And preparing to jump through the tire. Again. This time, Cromwell took off just a few inches closer to the tire. He ascended at a steeper angle, eyes wide, slobber trailing behind him. Kevin braced for the inevitable collision.
Cromwell flew. And flew. Higher …
His front paws stretched, his head up, his ears back …
He rose to the tire’s hole …
Until he peaked and his ample belly sank into the swing.
Cromwell hung there, limp and helpless, like a furry piñata. The swing rocked lightly. Cromwell’s front paws dangled from one side of the tire, and his rear paws from the other. He was suspended above the ground, immobilized. Cromwell’s tail wagged, and he was panting. He made a small whimpering sound.
Zach was whoo-hooing. He jogged to the swing, clapping as he moved across the grass.
“Okay, that”—he paused for dramatic effect—“was awesome.”
“I’m leaving him here in the tire. It’s the only safe place.” Kevin said, stroking Cromwell’s brown head.
Cromwell squirmed.
“Kev, I don’t know what exactly has possessed your dog, but you’ve gotta let him try that again.” Zach couldn’t seem to stop bouncing around.
“Again?!” said Kevin. “I need to tranquilize him. Tie him to heavy objects. He’s clearly not made for this.”
Cromwell reached forward with his front paws, first with the right, then with the left, as though he were paddling.
Zach began petting the dog’s rotund middle enthusiastically. “Such a good boy,” he said. “Yes you are; yes, you’re such a good boy; yes …”
This elicited more tail-wagging, and a series of satisfied barks.
“You totally have to get Cromwell in those contests, Kev.”
This was the most serious Kevin had ever seen Zach in the entire time they’d known each other.
“You can’t be ser—”
Kevin was interrupted by the back door slamming shut. He and Zach instinctively tried to shield Cromwell from view, spinning around to face whoever had exited the house.
“KEVIN!”
Howie stood on the back step, glaring.
“Hey, Dad. Didn’t hear you, um … over there. Outside.”
“Hey, Mr. P,” said Zach meekly.
Howie stared, then gestured toward the plump brown dog in the swing.
“You begged us to get you a dog, Kev. ‘I’ll take such good care of him,’ you said.” Howie used a girlish falsetto for his impression of a younger Kevin, which his son did not appreciate. “‘I’ll walk him, Dad. I’ll feed him, Dad. I’ll pick up the poop, Dad.’ I don’t remember you saying anything about torturing him.”
“First of all,” said Kevin, “I do
not talk like a lady Muppet. Secondly, I have done the walking and the feeding and the poop-picking-up. And thirdly …”
“We all know Cromwell doesn’t go for walks,” interrupted Howie.
“… And third,” continued Kevin, “we are not torturing Cromwell.” He paused. “Cromwell likes it, don’t you, boy?” Kevin scratched his dog behind the ear. But Cromwell had fallen asleep, his paws drooping from either side of the tire, drool clinging to the rubber.
“Just get the dog outta the swing, Kev,” said Howie. “And don’t put him in there again. It’s cruel.”
“He jumped!” protested Kevin.
Howie stared at his son. Cromwell had begun to snore.
“Move it, Kev.” Howie waved at them dismissively and stepped back inside the house.
Kevin and Zach pulled Cromwell from the swing, and Kevin hoisted the dog onto his shoulder. Cromwell grunted and snuffled loudly, but remained asleep. Kevin strained to hold him as they retreated down into the basement. He gingerly placed Cromwell on a recliner, next to a well-gnawed beef-flavored snack stick.
“Cromwell’s gonna sleep for three days,” said Kevin, wiping sweat from his face. “He’s never moved like that. Not even in fear.”
Zach removed a variety of gaming accessories from his backpack.
“You need to enter your dog in those contests,” Zach said. “Seriously. He could get product endorsements and stuff.”
“Zach,” said Kevin, picking up a game controller, “this is just a phase. And even if it isn’t a phase, there’s no way I’m running around the ring with Cromwell. Those dog handlers are freaks.” Kevin rolled his eyes.
“First of all, it’s not a phase. He’s got skills. A little practice—the right diet and training regimen—and he could be as good as any TV dog. And you …” Zach paused. “Well, okay. We might need to find someone else to run with the dog. Someone a little peppier. Peppy ain’t Kevin Pugh.”
Kevin half slugged Zach’s shoulder, sending his skinny friend toppling off the couch.
“What?!” Zach exclaimed. “There’s no shame in it. It’s not like jockeys own the horses. They’re just little dudes who ride horses. I’m sure it’s the same with agility contests. You’re not a dog jockey.”