by Andy Behrens
Izzy smiled. “When the going gets tough …”
“… the tough use slogans.”
Izzy balanced the trophy on her left foot for several seconds, concentrating, then flicked it in the air and caught it. “Anyway,” she finally said, “I’m very happy about you and Cromwell.”
She skipped upstairs, leaving Kevin to his couch, his exhausted dog, and their trophy.
He would have called Zach to solicit an opinion on participation in the MKC event, but he already knew what Zach would say: Team Cromwell must compete, can’t be stopped, rules the universe, has dominion over all dogs, et cetera.
Kevin could confidently say that he had Zach’s full support. And Izzy’s. They were definitely not the issue.
He tried to watch TV, but failed. Gaming, eating, and, as a last resort, reading all met with similar failure. Eventually, he went upstairs and tried sleep. That did not come easily, either. When it finally did, he dreamt that he was on the asphalt playground of his old elementary school, playing tag, totally unable to touch anyone. He was It, possibly forever. He chased Jody, his sister, Shasta, his father, various characters from cereal ads—Tony the Tiger, the Trix rabbit, Count Chocula—kids from his class, both Brad Ainsworths … and Kevin caught none of them, ever.
They claimed various objects as base, then stood and mocked him—stupid base, he thought. Worst part of tag. Count Chocula’s comments were particularly stinging: “Geev up, faht boy,” he said in that Transylvanian way of his. Elka’s voice spat instructions, though Kevin couldn’t see her. Cromwell barked, though he, too, was out of sight.
Kevin woke up sweat-drenched and breathless, his heart racing. He checked his surroundings, slowly recognizing that he was not actually trapped in a game of unwinnable tag. He was in his room. It was still completely dark outside. No moonlight, no sound.
Kevin eyed his clock: 3:59.
Then it flipped to 4:00.
Kevin looked down to the foot of his bed. Cromwell was staring back at him.
“You think our agility careers just peaked, boy?”
They stared at one another for a long moment, locked in some sort of nonverbal but not meaningless dialogue.
“No, me neither.”
And then Kevin swept the covers off the bed, adjusted his pajamas, yawned, and said, “Okay, Crom, let’s go.”
The dog hopped off the bed as though he were dismounting an apparatus. Then he led the way through the hall, down the stairs, and into the backyard in the pitch-black predawn. Kevin flipped on an outdoor floodlight, illuminating the yard.
Cromwell bounced up and down anxiously. He whined, and Kevin shushed him.
Then Kevin dragged several old toys from the garage, arranging them—along with patio furniture and a few lawn-care implements—into a suitable obstacle course for the dog. He and Cromwell ran the makeshift course repeatedly over the next ninety minutes, Kevin urging his dog along in a whisper. He extracted Cromwell from the tire swing at least half a dozen times.
Had he ever looked up toward his sister’s bedroom window, he might have seen her nose pressed against it while she watched her brother down below.
22
After returning to bed just after 5:30 a.m., Kevin slept soundly. When he blinked his eyes open again, the bedroom clock said 10:49.
He wiped the sleep from his eyes, yawned, stretched, jostled his dog awake, and both plodded out into the hallway and stumbled sleepily downstairs. Kevin stopped halfway down the steps when he heard the voices of Izzy and his dad below. Izzy was using her on-field voice. Normally those two just used sports references and told each other unfunny jokes. They didn’t argue, ever.
Until that morning.
Kevin sat on the stairs, listening, with Cromwell on his lap.
“One time!” said Izzy. “I just mean one lousy time—one lousy game that they can probably win anyway.”
“Iz, this is crazy,” said Howie. “And I wouldn’t expect it from you. I thought you were serious about the soccer.”
“I am serious!” she declared. “But how often do Kevin and Cromwell have something this important?”
“Now you’re making my point,” said Howie, slurping what Kevin suspected was milk from a cereal bowl. “For you, soccer is a long-term commitment, Iz. And when you commit to a thing like that—more importantly, when you commit to a team—you honor the commitment.” He paused. “You honor it every day. Not just when it’s convenient.”
“But …”
“That’s like a sacred commitment you have to the Under-Eleven All-Stars, kid. Sacred. A bond forged in blood and tears. Like with warriors. You’re comrades in battle, everyone doing their …”
Kevin heard his mom laugh.
“There’s been no bleeding, dear,” she said. “Or swords, or weapons of any kind. You’re laying it on a little thick.”
Thank you, Mom.
“It’s a metaphor,” said Howie. “And a very popular one. War and sports—I didn’t make this up. Izzy, these kids you’ll be facing at that tournament … well, they’re the best U-11’s from a six-state area. The most talented kids in the region. That’s a big deal. If you want to be the best, you gotta beat the best.”
Kevin smirked, recalling that his financier had said the same thing. Howie continued.
“And if you want to beat the best, you have to face ’em, kid. You never duck a challenge.”
“But wouldn’t the same thing apply to Kevin and Cromwell?” asked Izzy.
“A fair point,” said Maggie.
Yeah! thought Kevin, the stair creaking slightly beneath him. Tell it, ladies.
“No, actually,” said Howie. “It’s different with dogs, hon.”
Kevin’s shoulders dropped.
“How could it be different with dogs?” protested Izzy.
“Different species, Iz. More legs. Different rules. Like for instance, there’s no Ditka equivalent in the dog world. It’s just different.” He chewed a mouthful of cereal. Kevin could hear his spoon clanking against the bowl.
“How does Coach Ditka have any—?” began Izzy.
“And besides,” continued her dad, “no disrespect intended to Cromwell, but, well … c’mon. You’ve spent your whole life working toward …”
“I’m ten, Dad. My whole life is ten years long. Let’s not get carried away.”
Cromwell works hard, too, Dad.
“And you’ve spent most of those ten years working really hard at soccer. Every day, kicking in the backyard, at the park, in the basement. Nerf balls, rubber balls, regulation balls. Dribbling, kicking, shooting, passing … every day. Your mother and I have been there with you, too, kid.” He chewed a little more, then continued. “How long have Cromwell and Kevin spent with the dog training? A month?”
“But it’s in dog months,” said Izzy. “So they’re longer. One month for a human is like seven months for a dog, I think. We’re talking about a big chunk of Crom’s life here, Dad.”
Oh. That’s kinda dark. Kevin reflexively shielded Cromwell’s ears.
“Be that as it may,” said Howie, “for Kevin it’s still only been a month. That’s not the same kinda commitment you have. Not at all … not even close, in fact.”
Izzy didn’t respond.
Kevin slumped back against the stairs. How can I reason with that?
Cromwell wagged his tail, oblivious to the details of the conversation below.
“And I’ll tell you another thing,” said Howie, his voice rising slightly. “Kevin didn’t even tell his mother and me about these dog show classes.”
“It’s dog agility,” Maggie reminded him. “Not dog show. We’ve been corrected on this point before, and it really gets to Kevin. So please remember: agility.”
“Well, how would we know?” demanded Howie. “Kevin hid it from us all this time!”
“He tried to ask you,” said Izzy. “Remember, he wanted to take the classes; you said …”
“I said I wouldn’t pay for ’em, not until Kevin could convince me of the pr
actical benefits.” More muffled crunching sounds. “Or until he could convince me that he was serious about it. But did we hear another word?” Crunch, crunch. “No.” Crunch, crunch. “Not until little Bradley Ainsworth spilled his guts.”
“The little rat,” said Izzy.
“A rat he may be,” said Howie, “but Kevin should’ve told us everything.”
“But don’t you see how serious he is now?” asked Izzy.
Howie said nothing. He simply chewed.
“It just doesn’t seem fair,” Izzy continued. “Not fair at all. Kevin has gone to so many of my tournaments. And he gets bored out of his mind.”
Kevin nodded.
“Oh, they’re like little mini-vacations for us all,” said Maggie. “Don’t be silly.”
“I’d just like to be there for Kev and Cromwell, that’s all.”
“And that’s a lovely sentiment,” said Howie, rising and pushing in his chair noisily. “But I can’t let you quit on that team, Iz. Not that team, and not any team.” Howie jingled his keys. “We are not a family that quits, period. And besides—again, no disrespect to Cromwell here, because I respect what you’re doing—but you’ve got a chance to go all the way, kid. You’re gonna win that thing. Kev didn’t really seem too confident about his chances this Thursday.”
With that, Kevin’s eyes widened. He absently slipped down a step, thumping on the staircase. His family below seemed oblivious to the sound.
“Okay,” said his dad. “Gotta go. Big interview day today. Probably won’t be back till late.”
The back door opened and closed. Howie left the house whistling.
Kevin sat just below the middle step, his chin resting in his hands, his dog sitting behind him. Cromwell licked Kevin’s elbow.
Not that winning matters, Kevin thought. Not to Howie Pugh.
He sat up, nudged his dog, and quietly went back upstairs.
23
The Midwest Kennel Club Championship crept up on Kevin, like a stealthy ninja. Kevin and Cromwell had yet another not-entirely-successful day of training with Elka. They never managed to complete her course in anything less than 52 seconds—and that was before various infractions were factored into their time. Elka remained patient, though Kevin couldn’t figure out why or how. At home, all the little 0:00:49.600’s he’d doodled seemed to mock him.
Elka dropped by the Pugh home unannounced on Wednesday night.
“I would like to confirm that you have these parents that are often referred to, yet never seen,” she told Kevin at the door. He sighed, reluctantly allowing her inside.
Howie and Maggie Pugh were pleasant enough with Elka, though Kevin’s dad was always visibly suspicious of people who hadn’t heard of him.
“You know,” said Elka, “Kevin and Cromwell’s achievement is exceptional, given their very limited experience and training.”
“Which is, like, a month, right?” asked Howie.
“Yes, Mr. Pugh.”
“Because it seems like just yesterday that Cromwell was a piece of furniture.”
“He is now an elite athlete,” said Elka, scratching Cromwell’s head.
“Hmm,” said Howie. “What’s that make Kevin, then?”
“Whatever he chooses,” said Elka. “He has been tremendous.”
Kevin blushed, though he wasn’t feeling especially tremendous at the time.
Elka spent several minutes explaining the changes she felt Cromwell and Kevin had undergone over the summer—mostly physical for the dog, physical and perhaps mental for Kevin.
“The boy who came to me earlier this summer could never have successfully led such a marvelous dog as Cromwell. But Kevin has grown quite a lot.”
“Looks to me,” said Howie, “like he’s actually un-grown. He’s shed some weight.” Howie looked at his son. “You’ve lost your foundation, kid.”
“Mr. Pugh,” said Elka, “Kevin will need to be in the best possible condition for tomorrow’s championship—physically, mentally, emotionally. This is a very demanding event, sir.”
“I thought the dogs did the running,” said Maggie.
“The dog will go as far as Kevin takes him.”
Kevin went to bed on Wednesday feeling incapable of taking Cromwell anywhere. After a fitful night’s sleep, he awoke on Thursday to his obnoxious alarm. He blinked his eyes open and considered simply calling Elka, feigning illness. The MKCC was going to end poorly—that much he absolutely knew.
Then Kevin realized that Elka was already in the Pughs’ driveway, honking the horn of an ancient Volkswagen.
“Let’s go, Team Cromwell!” cried Zach from the passenger seat of Elka’s car.
Kevin buried his head in his pillow.
Cromwell sniffed at him, then licked him frantically until he got out of bed.
Kevin had actually attended only five events at the United Center. Three of those events were circuses, another was a Bulls game—more accurately, three-quarters of a Bulls game, before he threw up an Italian beef all over his dad’s pants—and the fifth was Monsters Inc. on Ice. Kevin had only truly enjoyed that last one. He had a weakness for ice-skating productions, though he didn’t dare reveal it to his family.
Elka drove Kevin, Zach, and Cromwell to the stadium long before the event was scheduled to start.
“This car smells like hamster,” Zach whispered to Kevin, a little too loudly.
“This car,” said Elka, “has weathered many things, Zachary.”
Cromwell hopped from lap to lap excitedly during the drive.
“Sorry your parents can’t see Team Cromwell today,” said Zach.
“Yeah, well … they’re with Team Izzy today. Not the first time, won’t be the last.”
Elka parked in a lot that was designated for participants, then entered the stadium through a gate at the northeast corner. A sign above it read MKCC MEDIA & COMPETITORS’ ENTRANCE.
“Media?” asked Kevin.
“I believe I told you that it was an event with some prestige,” answered Elka.
Once they were inside, the enormity of the place seemed to shrink them. Kevin felt surges of nervousness. Cromwell zigzagged as they walked down the wide corridors, barking and whining at seemingly every animal they passed—and many of the animals they passed were, in Elka’s words, “most irregular.”
There were dogs receiving massages from accredited specialists.
There was a team of dogs and handlers wearing faux-leather jackets and studded collars.
There were dogs in bejeweled carrying cases; dogs wearing capes, tiaras, leopard-skin outfits, bow ties, tiny mirrored sunglasses, Star Wars costumes—mostly shih-tzus dressed as Ewoks, but also one Chewbacca, one Yoda, and at least three Leias—military uniforms, business suits, bunny ears, Mohawks, and fairy wings; and several different breeds wearing fancy hats.
A particularly yappy corgi and its middle-aged male handler wore matching satin tops. The dog’s tight-fitting shirt had white lettering that read BAD 2 THE BONE. The man’s tight-fitting shirt had lettering that read BRAD 2 THE BONE. They made eye contact with no one.
“Dude, that could totally be Team Cromwell,” said Zach. “But maybe not so shiny. And not taupe, but …”
“But teal?” asked Kevin.
“Right. Team colors.”
Cromwell was clearly skittish.
There were hundreds of displays run by aggressive salespeople hawking products for dogs and dog lovers. Zach dutifully gathered business cards.
“Just in case Cromwell achieves the stardom I’ve foreseen … and you fear,” he told Kevin. “These jokers will crawl to us, begging for product endorsements.”
“Right. Cromwell Pugh, superstar celebrity pitch-dog.”
“Kids will want officially licensed gear from Team Cromwell,” continued Zach, taking out a video camera. “Lunch boxes, video games, energy drinks. We’re an agility powerhouse. As your business manager, I’m just performing due diligence.”
“No video today,” said Kevin.
“No … video … today,” repeated Kevin.
Cromwell strained at his leash and whined as he wove through the legs of passersby on the way to the check-in area.
“Dude, calm the talent,” said Zach, watching Cromwell flit around on his leash, constantly tangling and untangling himself. “The dog must chill.”
“The dog is freaked,” said Kevin. “The handler is freaked. We’re just generally—”
Zach stopped abruptly and pointed down the corridor—at a Doberman wearing a dog-sized Bears jersey with PUGH 56 on the back.
“Oh, man,” said Zach. “That is so …”
“… totally unexpected,” said Elka. “Your marketing efforts appear to have paid off, Zachary.”
Kevin laughed.
“That’s my dad’s jersey,” he said.
“Your father makes dog jerseys?” asked Elka.
More laughter.
“No, he’s just … well, he played football. People know him. He was a Bear.”
“And I was a stewardess,” said Elka. “But that was a long time ago.”
She made a disgusted face as they passed the dog in the Pugh jersey. Elka took the leash from Kevin, bent low, then scooped up Cromwell in her right arm. He licked her and sniffed; she lifted his ear and muttered unintelligible things into it. Then she addressed the boys.
“Let me teach you something about dogs,” she said, walking fast. “They were domesticated from wolves, probably in East Asia, and almost certainly 15,000 years ago.” Cromwell licked her again. “For the next 14,990 years, they were naked—totally naked. They wore nothing but their own fur. No holiday sweaters, no tracksuits, no hats.” She swept her left hand across the spectacle of costumed dogs. “And now look at them. People dressing them like little Kens and Barbies.” She eyed Zach. “Please do not put one of your little uniforms on Cromwell. He neither needs nor wants it, Zachary.”
Elka set Cromwell down on the slick floor, and he fell in stride with her.
“So Cromwell was a wolf?” asked Kevin, watching his small, roundish, droopy-eared dog trundle along.
“Thousands of years ago, Mr. Pugh. His forebears were wolves. Dogs were domesticated from them to protect us.”