The Fast and the Furriest

by Andy Behrens

  “Sorry about your nose, man.”

  Silence.

  “And your tooth.”

  Continued silence.

  “Brad?”

  “It’th fine, Pugh. Hurtth a little, but I’m fine. You’re not that tough.”

  “That’s great, Brad. Again, very sorry.”

  “Thure thing, Pugh. Thay hi to your thithter, Ithy.”

  CLICK.

  Kevin could forgive the sister comment that time, given the unfortunate state of Brad’s face. After a lecture from Kevin’s parents about learning to channel his emotions, the official period of punishment had ended.

  Kevin retreated to the basement with Cromwell. He sat on the sofa, content. The dog curled into a ball of brown fur on Kevin’s lap.

  “Crom, my schedule has suddenly opened up.”

  The phone rang. Kevin saw Zach’s number on the caller ID.

  “Hey, Za—”

  “DUDE!” yelled Zach, forcing Kevin to remove the receiver from his ear. “Is it true!? You broke Ainsworth!?”

  “Well, it wasn’t qui—”

  “Because I heard you obliterated him!”

  “Kind of, yeah,” said Kevin. “It was ugly. But it wasn’t intentional—there’s no way I could ever catch that little guy on purpose. The silver lining here is that I’m kicked out of camp. I’m being punished—no football!”

  “You must be heartbroken,” said Zach.

  “Indeed.”

  “But you’re not grounded?”

  “Nope, not grounded.” Kevin smirked. “In fact, I think my dad was kinda impressed. Which is kind of psycho, but there it is.”

  “So this means …”

  “Paw Patch gets the green light,” said Kevin. “If you’re still willing to sponsor us.”

  “Kev, I’m here for you. I’ve actually got a few different designs for the ‘Team Cromwell’ logo that I’d like to discuss. There’s an apparel line that I’ve been sketching. And partnership opportunities with sports drinks. I’ve thought of an ad campaign that would be a great fit for a car manufa—”

  “Okay,” laughed Kevin. “Good to know we have your support.”

  “Oh, you’ve got it.” Zach paused. “But you can’t quit on me and Cromwell once we start this, Kevin. This cannot be like Boy Scouts. I got stuck in that little blue-suited cult for a whole year. Remember, when we sign up for agility classes, you’ll be working …”

  “… I’ll be working for Team Cromwell,” Kevin said.

  The dog grumbled in his sleep. Kevin scratched him lightly behind the ears.

  “We’re not running these agility classes by your parents, I assume?” asked Zach.

  “Oh, no. Not yet, anyway. They might smell a setup. And I’m not sure I can sell them on the idea that you’re paying for it.”

  Kevin couldn’t wait for Wednesday morning, when they would return triumphantly to Elka’s class. He considered e-mailing her that night, but the whole reply-to-dog aspect of her communication bothered him—or intimidated him, maybe. Coaches like Zalenski and Glussman didn’t seem too frightening to Kevin. He’d encountered whistle-blowing hustle-mongers before. But he’d never been around anyone quite like Elka Brandt. She seemed slightly mystical.

  It was two more nights of uneasy sleep for Kevin, but this had more to do with eagerness than dread. On Wednesday, he, Zach, and Cromwell arrived together at Paw Patch early, well before class, just to guarantee a solid second impression. They again used the bike stroller for the dog, which Cromwell seemed to enjoy. With football camp behind him, a serious weight had been lifted from Kevin’s shoulders. Somehow, when they entered Elka’s giant, AstroTurf-covered training facility, she didn’t seem even remotely surprised to see them.

  “Um … Ms. Brandt?” said Kevin tentatively.

  Elka was arranging obstacles. Her back was turned to the door.

  “Ms. Brandt, um … Cromwell and I would like to enroll in your class. If that’s okay with you.”

  She placed a windmill on the ground, then stepped back to examine it. She said nothing.

  “Dude, I don’t think she can hear so well,” Zach whispered to Kevin.

  “Only my dogs and their handlers in the room, Zachary!” declared Elka, rattling the boys.

  “B-but I’m the manager,” Zach stammered.

  “In this room, you are the annoyance.” She turned to face him. “In my office, you wait. Go. Flee. Shoo, shoo.”

  She made a sweeping motion with her left hand.

  “So can we still enroll, Ms. Brandt?” asked Kevin.

  “Mr. Pugh,” began Elka, “you may indeed. But you are woefully behind, I’m afraid. You’re quite fortunate that your dog has a proper attitude.”

  She smiled at Cromwell. He sat attentively.

  “Zachary, really, you may now leave.”

  “But I’d just like to …”

  “Leave, Zachary.”

  Kevin motioned toward the door with his eyes. Zach left, but not without a clear display of reluctance.

  “I’m financing this operation,” he mumbled.

  Elka shut the door behind him, then faced Kevin.

  “Why, may I ask, are you here, Mr. Pugh?” She looked at Kevin skeptically. “Do you wish to be here?”

  “Yes,” he said as firmly as he could, nodding his head. Then he added, “People seem to ask me that question a lot. I must give off a vibe.”

  “Indeed you do,” said Elka. She stared at him, then Cromwell, then back at Kevin. “We have a great deal of work to do, Mr. Pugh.”

  He nodded again.

  “And I do mean we—Cromwell, me, and you. If you’re going to train with him, you must train with his passion.”

  Cromwell barked, then whined anxiously, then pawed at the turf.

  “As you can see,” said Elka, “he is rather eager.”

  13

  While Cromwell was certainly eager, he was also not, in the strictest sense, good at jumping over things. Or avoiding contact with them. These were not ideal traits for an agility champion. Two weeks earlier, during their first visit to Paw Patch, those shortcomings were made painfully clear. This Wednesday, in their debut as paying students, it was just more of the same. Certain obstacles were toppled, while others were broken. Cromwell left a path of destruction wherever he went. They were no better in Friday’s class, either. They badly damaged a windmill, and slightly damaged a Shetland sheepdog and a shih-poo.

  Yet Elka seemed unbothered.

  Cromwell could not have been happier.

  Dog agility frustrated Kevin in ways that football camp did not—at Paw Patch, he actively wanted to succeed. At Scherzer, he’d just wanted to make it till noon, then leave.

  As Elka’s class filed out of the training room after their Friday session, Kevin asked if he and Cromwell could run through the agility course just once more.

  She swept her hand out before her.

  “The course is yours, Mr. Pugh.”

  Kevin had printed out a set of agility rules published online by some kennel club. He kept a folded copy in his pocket for easy retrieval and consultation. Kevin had committed the basics to memory, and he tried to visualize the words as he positioned a bouncing Cromwell at the course’s starting line.

  “Okay, Crom, let’s try this one more time. When I say …”

  Cromwell shot forward, a brown ball of furious movement.

  “… ‘go,’” sighed Kevin, chasing after him.

  The A-frame ramp shall have an overall length of 9 feet and a width not exceeding 4 feet. The A-frame will have an angle of 104 degrees. Dogs must ascend the ramp, cross, and descend.

  Cromwell jumped past the contact zone, rolled off the ramp, and scrambled to remount the obstacle. His paws churned wildly as he neared the apex of the A-frame. When he hit the top, he fell into an uncontrollable slide and twirled off the downslope, landing with a heavy fwump.

  Hurdles shall be supported by 2 poles, not to exceed 48 inches in height. The jump height will be 22 inches,
and the horizontal poles shall be 1¼ inches in diameter. All hurdles must be performed in sequence.

  The dog lowered his head and sprang off his front paws, easily clearing the hurdle … except for his tail. It nicked the bar, sending it clattering to the AstroTurf. Cromwell spun around, sniffed the pole, and then sprinted off.

  The pipe tunnel, typically a nylon cylinder supported by wire, will be 24 inches in diameter and shall be 10 to 20 feet in length. Exiting the entrance and/or entering the exit are considered penalties. Jumping over the tunnel is forbidden.

  Cromwell flew into the yellow tube, and the apparatus immediately began to roll to its right. The dog scampered through, but not before the tunnel had shifted well off course, causing the dog to exit directly into a different set of hurdles. Cromwell scattered several plastic poles across the ground, frightening the dog.

  “C’mon, boy!” yelled Kevin.

  The dog’s tongue flew to the side as he dashed ahead.

  There shall be a minimum of 10 and a maximum of 12 weave poles, each 3 feet high and 1 inch in diameter. They will be spaced 18 inches apart. Dogs must enter from the right side of the first pole, then alternate poles down the entire line.

  Cromwell entered the poles from the left, skipped several, and flattened three.

  The table will be 16 inches in height, and have a surface that is 3 feet by 3 feet. Dogs must come to a position of rest for 5 seconds atop the table.

  Cromwell chugged toward the table, heaved himself up, and then somersaulted across, landing on his rear.

  “Crom, buddy, you’ve gotta sit up there on th—”

  But Cromwell had popped up, wild-eyed, and sprinted off.

  The seesaw will be 12 feet in length and 1 foot wide. The contact zone will be 3 feet in length. The maximum height of the seesaw is not to exceed 27 inches. The plank must contact the ground before the dog dismounts the …

  A startlingly loud high-pitched whistle pierced the air—it was really much louder and more shrill than anything Coach Glussman could have managed.

  Just as Cromwell was coiling into a ball and preparing to leap onto the seesaw, he froze … and skidded underneath the apparatus.

  Kevin froze, too, then looked down at his dog.

  “Mr. Pugh,” said Elka in a cold voice. “Would you and Cromwell please come to me, just for a moment?”

  “Oh …,” Kevin managed, terrified. “S-sure.”

  Elka was standing on the low platform from which she preferred to address dogs and their handlers. Cromwell was panting contentedly beneath the seesaw.

  “Sorry about the, um … the mess here with the poles and such,” said Kevin. “I’ll clean everything up, Ms. Brandt. Really. I’ll put everything back the way …”

  “Nonsense, Mr. Pugh. That is not a concern. These things are meant to be jostled. A neatly arranged course feels unused. It’s sad. I prefer the clutter.”

  “Well,” began Kevin, “I’m sorry about that little, um … well, the issue with Mrs. Schumacher’s shih-poo today. Cromwell doesn’t seem to judge the hoops so well—it’s the wobbling, I think. We have this tire swing at home. There have been other incidents. And Tinkles is such a small dog that when Cromwell gets going, he just seems to real—”

  “Mr. Pugh,” said Elka, a look of exaggerated confusion on her face. “Why do you assume that I have gotten your attention so that I might reprimand you? We do all of our reprimanding during class.”

  “Well, it’s just, um … that was quite a serious impact for Tinkles. I have some experience with those situations. And that was some noise she made. Not really a typical dog noise. More like a dolphin.”

  “The Schumacher shih-poo is fine, Mr. Pugh. She has proven her agility merit—and today she has demonstrated her resilience.”

  Elka stepped off the platform and bent low to pet Cromwell, giving Kevin an excellent glimpse of the swirled, multicolored pattern on her babushka.

  Each day, a different babushka. She must buy them in packs of eight, like underwear, Kevin thought. It occurred to him that her age was almost impossible to know—Elka could have been as old as his parents, or possibly his grandparents. The combination of the headscarf, the accent, the unusual fitness … Kevin really had no idea. She intimidated him quite a lot.

  Some of this intimidation was because of her uncommon connection with dogs.

  Elka scratched Cromwell behind the ear, then knelt beside him and cupped his head in her hands. She whispered something into his right ear—something that was apparently intensely private—and Cromwell made a sound that was part excited panting, part laughter. It was not a noise that anyone else had ever coaxed from him, including Kevin.

  Elka then stood up abruptly. She was almost precisely Kevin’s height.

  “I swear,” blurted Kevin, “Cromwell is working so hard. If we’re not cut out for dog agility, then maybe …”

  “Mr. Pugh!” she said again, sounding aghast. “Cromwell’s effort is glorious. It’s magnificent. To say that Cromwell ‘works’ is not sufficient.” She knelt again, patting his head lightly. “I meant to compliment him.”

  “Oh,” said Kevin. “Well, that’s very nice of …”

  “I am surprised to hear you question your place here, Mr. Pugh. Because your dog is most certainly cut out for this.”

  Kevin had no response to that, to the idea that his fat dog—who until a few weeks ago had actually been inert and unathletic—was now, according to an expert, built to do something sporty.

  Elka stood up again and continued.

  “I have observed, however, that the slightest misstep—such as the unfortunate shih-poo episode, for example—causes you, Mr. Pugh, to wilt.”

  “Wilt?” asked Kevin.

  “Like a cut flower, Mr. Pugh.”

  Kevin’s shoulders slumped, his feet turned inward, his hands retreated into his pockets. It’s possible that’s what Elka meant by wilting.

  “It is important that you match your dog’s effort.”

  “I tried to …”

  “We’ve discussed the importance of this.”

  “It’s just that we’ve only had, like, three lessons, and we’ve already broken pretty much every obstacle. And half the dogs.”

  “He doesn’t see them,” said Elka. “The obstacles. Cromwell does not see them.”

  “Well, that explains why he can’t get out of their way.”

  “No, Mr. Pugh. I meant that Cromwell does not see this course—or his world—as a series of obstacles.” She poked Kevin’s arm, and not lightly. “He is not so easily deterred, your spectacular dog. Cromwell sees opportunity, not these little obstructions. If he cannot jump them, he will simply bounce off them and go.” She made a scurrying motion with her hand.

  Elka stared at Kevin with a look that he took for skepticism. “But you, Mr. Pugh … you can be stopped.” She abruptly strode toward her door, pinching Kevin’s upper arm between her thin fingers and dragging him along.

  “I have things to show you,” she said. Elka produced a hypnotic kind of jangling sound when she walked, like a human wind chime, a result of the interaction of various bracelets and necklaces and keys and probably, Kevin imagined, small metallic weapons. Useful for disciplining undercommitted students.

  Cromwell trailed them happily. He leapt a small plastic hurdle.

  Elka flung open her office door. Papers that had been stacked nearby whooshed out, multicolored Paw Patch fliers mostly, but also pages of handwritten loose-leaf notes. It was a room packed with stuff, and the stuff was only barely contained. Stuff teetered from shelves; it spilled off tables; it sat in impossible piles on the floor, and at impossible angles. And there were pictures. Elka jabbed a finger toward the far wall, which was entirely covered in dog photographs.

  “You look at these, please,” she said.

  Kevin stepped over and between the various messes to reach the photos. Many had begun to curl and yellow with age. There was one of a very attentive-looking schnauzer standing beside a large trophy. A
banner that was too long to fit in the image read 1989 OAK FOREST KENNEL CLUB CHAMP. There was a photo of a large-tongued sheepdog with its left front paw extended, Elka shaking it (she seemed to be much younger in the picture, though Kevin wasn’t sure). There was an odd-looking dog, perhaps a Labradoodle, wearing three medals around its neck.

  “These dogs,” said Elka, “they have won things over the years—some of them have won many things.”

  “It’s very impressi—”

  “It’s nothing, and certainly not impressive. Winning is incidental. The achievement is in the learning.”

  Kevin looked closely at the wall of photos. He noticed a large picture of a familiar-looking young girl and terrier. It was autographed “Shasta & Jody, XOXO.”

  “Hey, we’ve seen these two on TV,” said Kevin. “They inspired Cromwell’s love for dog agility. Did you train ’em?”

  “No, Mr. Pugh, but I have witnessed their rise to greatness. They’re local, you know. Cromwell has excellent taste.”

  “Hmm,” Kevin said, eyeing the pair in the photo. Shasta and Jody wore matching bows.

  “You know,” said Elka, “Cromwell has more enthusiasm than any dog on my wall. Probably more than any ten dogs.”

  Because he’s totally insane, thought Kevin.

  “You will need to equal this enthusiasm, Mr. Pugh. Not so easy for you, I think.” She somehow stepped across the messes between her and her desk, then sat atop it. “You two will participate in the Paw Patch Invitational here in two weeks, yes?”

  “Against other dogs?” blurted Kevin. “And, um … their owners? In, like, an actual contest?”

  “Mr. Pugh, you compete against the course, never the other dogs. But yes, there will be other dogs—and their owners—competing, too. This event will qualify one dog for the Midwest Kennel Club Championship, which is really quite prestigious. It’s held here in Chicago, at one of the sporting arenas.”

  “Soldier Field?” asked Kevin.

  “No,” said Elka.

  “The United Center?”

  “Ah, that’s the one.” Elka nodded.