The Fast and the Furriest

by Andy Behrens

  Kevin’s dad emerged from his office just as grim as he was when he entered. He called for an immediate BFR—his term, referring to a “Big Family Round-table”—as soon as Maggie and Izzy returned from soccer practice.

  “Dad,” said Kevin, “I just wanna …”

  Howie waved a finger.

  “Not now, Kev.” His mustache quivered.

  Kevin shuddered. He squirmed. He could have cried, but instead he went numb and cold until the BFR that afternoon. It was extraordinarily painful for Kevin—and, clearly, for Howie and Maggie.

  “Kevin, dear,” said his mom, shifting herself in a kitchen chair. “If you didn’t want to play football, why say yes to camp?”

  Because you asked me in front of live girls, he thought.

  “Because Dad basically made me go,” he said bitterly.

  “Made you go!” said Howie, rising. Maggie urged him to sit. He reluctantly obeyed. “Kev, I just presented you with an opportunity …”

  “To what?! To make a total fool of myself? To do something I’ve never—not once—expressed the slightest bit of interest in? Ever?”

  “As I recall, you came to me to discuss camp options,” said Howie.

  “No I didn’t!” said Kevin, his voice raised nearly to a shriek. “I came to you with a very specific request.”

  Howie’s face scrunched into a knot, then un-scrunched.

  “You don’t even remember?” Kevin pressed. “You know those classes you wouldn’t pay for, Dad?”

  “You mean the flute?” said Howie indignantly. “Is that what this is about? Kevin, we talked about this, it’s just not a man’s instrument. Your woodwinds are for the ladies, your brass horns and your tubas are for the men—”

  “No!” shouted Kevin. “And that was, like, four years ago! I was in third grade!” He shook his head. “And I could have been a good flute player, too.”

  “Flautist,” said Izzy. “They’re called flautists, Kev.” She put a fresh piece of gum in her mouth.

  “Not the point!” declared Kevin. “I was talking about the classes for me and Cromwell, Dad.”

  Howie raised his eyebrows.

  “Oh, right. You mean the ones where I was supposed to pay for the dog to do something that he can do in the backyard, for free.”

  “Yes,” said Kevin firmly. “We were having a conversation about me taking classes with Cromwell, and it somehow ended with me in football camp. Without Cromwell. And with Brad.”

  They all sat quietly for a moment. Then Kevin’s mom spoke.

  “And these classes with Cromwell … these are the dog shows your father mentioned?”

  “They’re not dog shows,” Kevin sighed. “And yes, I’ve been taking classes. That’s why I’ve been jogging. That’s where I go three days a week. All summer. No one notices. No one asks.”

  “So you’re taking the doggie classes,” said Howie. “How much am I into them for, Kev? Two hundred dollars? Three hun—?”

  “You aren’t ‘into them’ for anything, Dad!”

  “Oh, you and Cromwell got a scholarship?” said Howie.

  Izzy snorted.

  “No,” said Kevin. “But I have alternative financing.” He sighed. “Zach pays. Cromwell and I train.”

  Howie looked bewildered.

  “I’m not refunding Zachary one cent …,” he eventually said, before Maggie interrupted.

  “So, Kevin,” she said, leaning across the table. “You’re taking these dog training classes with Cromwell?”

  Cromwell grumbled as he circled Kevin’s legs.

  “The ones that you and Dad wouldn’t pay for, yes.”

  “Well,” began Howie, “I don’t think I said we wouldn’t pay for ’em. I think I said that we …”

  “… would pay for a class that involved ‘actual human sports.’” Kevin stared at his dad. “I believe those were your words.”

  Kevin bent low to pet his dog. Cromwell closed his eyes and made a contented, high-pitched sound.

  “Kev,” said Howie, “I’m sorry you had to turn to dog shows because you don’t feel like we were, you know … interested in whatever else you were doing, but …”

  “I did not turn to anything, Dad,” spat Kevin. “People ‘turn’ to crime, they do not ‘turn’ to dog shows!” Kevin slid his chair back, exasperated. “And anyway, they’re not dog shows. It’s agility training. A-G-I-L-I-T-Y. Like the sort of thing you need in what you would call ‘real sports.’”

  “So,” said Howie, “you agree that it’s not a real sport. It’s like a foofy …”

  “No, Dad,” Kevin sighed. “I don’t agree.”

  Howie opened his mouth, but Kevin cut him off. “Do not tell me your ball theory again,” he said sternly. “We’ve been over it, Dad. I understand your position. Soccer is greater than dog agility. Nothing is greater than football. Dog agility is equal to knitting. Or ice dancing. Or ballroom dancing. Believe me, I get it.”

  Howie said nothing at first, then offered, “Well, ice dancing might be a little extreme, Kev. It’s not like that.” He sat quietly for just a second. “Unless the dogs wear costumes.” Howie thought for a moment, then sat up taller. “These people don’t have you wearing costumes, right, Kev? Tell me they don’t.”

  Kevin glared at his father.

  “Yup, Dad. Frilly costumes. And wigs—fabulous wigs. Makeup, too. And tasteful shoes, with big buckles. It’s like a big makeover party every time we …”

  “Kevin!” said his mother abruptly. “You’ll give your father a coronary. Enough with the joking.”

  She settled back into her chair, patting Howie lightly on the arm. His eyes had narrowed and his back had stiffened.

  “Honey,” said Maggie, “we’re very happy that you and Cromwell are enjoying these classes. We think it’s great for you to have such a … well, an active hobby.”

  Silence.

  “Isn’t it great, dear?” Maggie said to Howie, tapping him.

  And then tapping him harder.

  “Yeah, sure, Kev. It really is. Very happy to hear about the hobby. With Cromwell.”

  Kevin looked at them for a long moment, knowing that his dad regarded agility classes as some sort of illness, one that could be beaten with the appropriate treatment. Which probably involved weightlifting in some way.

  “We’re good at it, you know,” said Kevin. “Dog agility. We win stuff.”

  He placed their trophy on the table as evidence—he’d retrieved it from his bedroom earlier, in preparation for the BFR.

  “Heh!” laughed Howie. “It’s a bone.”

  “So cute,” said Maggie.

  Kevin then explained the exhaustive training that preceded the winning of the cute bone. He raved about Elka, he described the encounter with Jody and Shasta, and he did his best to sell his parents on the significance of the Midwest Kennel Club event.

  “It’s at the United Center, Dad. Because it’s a sport.”

  Howie stared.

  “I thingitz … (pop) … totuhwee impwessive … (crack) … what you an’ Cwomwell’re doin’,” said Izzy through her gum.

  “That’s not in dispute,” said Howie, his eyes still on the small bronze bone. “No argument here.” He stared at Kevin. “It just might be nice if maybe you and the dog would have put your, um … newfound energy into …”

  “Blocking? Tackling? Passing? Punting?”

  Kevin smirked.

  “No,” said Howie. “I mean, not necessarily football. It could be any number of pursuits.” He paused, then his eyes locked on Kevin’s. “And you know how I feel about punters, Kev. The kicking positions aren’t for Pughs. That’s not to say they aren’t important in their own way—”

  “What your father would like to say,” said Maggie, “is that we’re very happy for you and Cromwell.”

  She smiled.

  “But, Kev,” said Howie, “you should not have lied to us.” Maggie nodded. “And I think you should be grounded.”

  “What?!” said Kevin, shoving
himself away from the kitchen table. “You’ve never grounded me!”

  “Well, it never seemed like punishment before,” said his dad. “You used to spend all your time in the house anyway. Maybe we coulda grounded you from the basement, but …”

  “So let me get this straight,” said Kevin. “When you thought I’d been expelled from camp for intentionally breaking another kid’s face—breaking his face!—I wasn’t grounded. But now that it turns out it was an accident—and now that I’m good at something that isn’t on the approved list of Pugh activities—I’m punished.”

  He stared at his parents.

  “Well, is that right? So you’re telling me I can’t go to the United Center on Thursday?”

  “Yoo can’d punish Cwomwell!” said Izzy, chewing.

  “Yeah!” said Kevin. “You’d be punishing the dog!”

  “Kevin,” said Howie. “You should not have lied to us, period.” His nostrils flared and his mustache seemed to fan out. “And for that, you need to …”

  “… you need to begin serving your punishment after the dog event this week, dear,” said Kevin’s mom.

  Howie spun his head toward Maggie, but she stared him down.

  “Your father is right about the lying, of course. There’s no place for it in this family, Kevin.” She gave her son an unsympathetic look. “We’re simply deferring your punishment.”

  Kevin said nothing. They all sat quietly for a few moments. Cromwell barked, and began licking every leg within reach of his tongue.

  “Good f’woo, Cwomwell,” said Izzy, scratching the dog’s nose. Then she removed the gum. “We should all go on Thursday.”

  “You’ve got the Under-Eleven Traveling All-Stars Tournament!” said Howie. “And you’re not missin’ it. You’ve made a commitment to that team.”

  “I’m still going with Cromwell,” said Kevin defiantly.

  “Who’s gonna take you?” asked Howie.

  “Maybe Elka. Maybe Zach’s parents. Maybe anyone who realizes it’s a big deal.”

  Howie and Maggie exchanged a look.

  Izzy vaulted over the back of her chair and plopped down nimbly on the ground, between Cromwell and her dad. She hugged the dog tightly. Cromwell licked her ear.

  “Wish I could be there, Crom,” said Izzy, rubbing the dog’s fur. “I’m proud of you, boy.”

  More licking from the dog.

  “Are we done?” grumbled Kevin.

  Soon he’d retreated to the basement with his dog, his trophy, and the phone. He dialed Zach’s cell phone and reached his voice mail.

  “This is Z. Leave a message, just for me.”

  BEEP.

  “You uploaded video?” said Kevin, still incredulous. “You even put the trophy online? Visible to everyone? Really? Smooth move, Zach.”

  CLICK.

  21

  The weekend passed. Kevin and Cromwell’s Sunday run was notably worse than their Saturday effort. Monday’s class at Paw Patch was mostly horrible. No obstacle was safe from Kevin’s clumsy feet or from his dog’s thrashing tail. Zach met them after class, begging for forgiveness.

  “I was just really proud of Team Cromwell, Kev, I swear! No one was supposed to see anything. Honestly, I didn’t even know that Zachattack.blogpile.com had readers.”

  “Well, apparently it does, Webmaster,” said Kevin. “But whatever. You’re the least of my problems.”

  They watched Cromwell lunge at the tire swing in the Pughs’ backyard. On his best attempts, he scraped rubber and barely squeezed through. On his worst efforts, he nearly knocked himself silly. He was fast, true, but as for his technique regarding obstacles … well, it was not exactly refined. And now that Kevin’s parents knew about Paw Patch, they were punishing him. Kevin had moved beyond doubt, and was in despair.

  On Monday night, he took his familiar seat on the basement couch. No TV, no games. He just sat there. Cromwell was curled in his usual spot. Only a few days earlier, Kevin had been ecstatic and brimming with pride, just like his dog. Now he was crestfallen and the dog was asleep. Their bone-shaped trophy sat between them.

  “Crom,” he said to his sleeping dog, “I get that we’re not supposed to need recognition. I do. We’re doing the agility thing for us. Because it’s fun—at least theoretically. And I understand why I should be able to derive satisfaction from my own—excuse me—from our accomplishments. I totally get that, too.”

  He sighed.

  “It would just be nice to have someone else—like, say, Mom and Dad—watching us derive satisfaction from our accomplishments. Or at least want to watch us. Or at least not ground us for them.”

  Cromwell grumbled in his sleep.

  Kevin sat in silence awhile longer. Eventually, Izzy bounded down the stairs noisily. She dribbled a soccer ball toward Kevin, faked a right-footed kick, and then spun and jabbed the ball past the couch, between two chairs.

  “Goooooooaaaallll!” she said in a voice just loud enough to wake the dog.

  “Pretty cool about you and Cromwell, Kev,” she said, flinging herself onto the couch. Cromwell lifted his head up and licked her, then plopped back down. “Aren’t you stoked?”

  “I guess,” sighed Kevin unstokedly.

  “You guess? It’s not like you two are always bringing home trophies.”

  She lifted the bone-shaped object and studied it.

  “Whatever,” said Kevin. “It’s shiny. Whoo.”

  “And Cromwell won it!” said Izzy. She nuzzled the dog’s head. “Yes you did, boy, yes you did …”

  “He was pretty awesome.” Kevin leaned back.

  “You both had to be pretty good, it sounds like.”

  “I guess.”

  “You guess a lot, eh?”

  They sat quietly for a moment.

  “I really do wish I could go on Thursday,” Izzy said.

  “It’s okay.” Kevin shrugged. “It’s not like I can go to your soccer thing, either.”

  “Yeah, but you’ve been to, like, a billion of my soccer games.”

  “In some pretty awful places,” he reminded her.

  Izzy grinned.

  “Remember that one last winter in …”

  “… Champaign?” Izzy said. “Yeah, that was miserable.”

  “No, I was thinking of the one in …”

  “… Ann Arbor? Where the slide at the hotel pool broke? With me on it?”

  “Yup, that’s the one.”

  “Yeah, that stunk, too.”

  Kevin ran his finger down a thick reddish line within the plaid of the couch.

  “We won that tournament, though,” said his sister.

  “You always win, Izzy.”

  “Nuh-uh,” she said, popping off the couch and doing a handstand. “We lost at Grant Park that one time.”

  “You were six.”

  “So?”

  “So you were playing against nine-year-olds.”

  “Whatever.”

  “And they were boys.”

  She came out of the handstand and hopped back on the couch, then swung her feet atop Kevin’s legs.

  “Bet you and Cromwell win that thing.”

  Kevin laughed, somewhat bitterly.

  “What’s the joke?” asked Izzy.

  “First of all, it’s kind of a fluke that we’ve even qualified. Cromwell and I never had a run that was half as good as that one—no, not even a quarter as good. It was insane.”

  “Dad says that when you do something once, you own it. You have the skill. No one can take it away.”

  “So?” asked Kevin.

  “So as good as you and Cromwell were … well, that’s how good you are. And that’s how good you can be again. Whenever. You’ve just got to …”

  “Believe? Practice? Visualize? Hustle?” Kevin shook his head. “Right. I’ve heard the speeches, Iz.” Kevin broke into a fair impression of his dad’s thick Chicago accent: “‘Repetition, kid. Visualization. Dat’s da key.’”

  She giggled. “It’s true.”


  “I don’t even know if we should go on Thursday,” Kevin said.

  Izzy’s mouth fell open and she leapt up from the couch.

  “Kevin! You can’t quit! What about Cromwell?” She stroked the dog’s fur. “You have to do it!”

  “Well, you’re the only one sayin’ that in this house. Do you honestly think Mom and Dad give a hoot about the Midwest Whatever-It-Is dog agility championships?” He stared at his sister. “They don’t, Iz. They’ve hardly said a word since the BFR.”

  “Dad’s just got football and radio and stuff. It’s Bears training camp time. And we had that soccer thing on the schedule—not that there isn’t always soccer on the schedule.” She curled herself up and cannonballed back onto the couch. “And I think they’re really just total soccer geeks at this point.”

  “Mom and Dad are total soccer geeks because you win, Izzy. You win all the time. You win tournaments, you win MVP awards, you win big giant trophies, not silly little bone-shaped things.” Kevin shook his head. “Dad gets to bask in the reflected light of your winner-ness—and he loves it. That’s why they’re soccer geeks. You win, Iz.”

  “I think they’re just soccer geeks because I try.”

  “Face it, Izzy. You’re a winner. I’m really not. I won once, by accident.”

  “I’m not just some automatic winner, Kevin. I practice, I …”

  “You win. You’re a winner. There are eight hundred awards upstairs to prove it.”

  “You can’t win your eight-hundredth award unless you’ve won your first.” She held up the trophy and smiled. “And you can’t win your first if you don’t try.”

  “Trying is hard, Iz.”

  “Success is in the trying, not the triumph.”

  Kevin stared at her. “Seriously, do you ever run out of Dad’s lame clichés?”