The Fast and the Furriest

by Andy Behrens

  “Um, I mean … well, I like parties …”

  Howie squeezed Kevin’s shoulders tighter, then looked at the dog. Cromwell was fidgeting wildly, whirring like a kitchen gadget.

  “Your partner is definitely ready.”

  Kevin looked at the eager dog, the grinning family, and the unusually calm Elka, and he decided that he was ready, too.

  “Let’s do this thing,” he said firmly.

  “You are certain, Mr. Pugh?” asked Elka.

  But Kevin had already dropped the dog and begun to sprint toward the doors, Cromwell at his heels. Soon the entire family was running through the competitors’ entrance—thanks to the Bears-loving security guard—down a flight of stairs, and back into the chilly United Center corridors.

  Kevin focused on his dad’s words: “If you work hard in practice, then the games are nothin’.”

  Yeah, he thought. This is nothin’. The fun part.

  He looked down at his excited, wide-eyed dog. This was clearly fun for him. Cromwell barked and wove his way through the crowd of competitors, handlers, and members of the media, clearing a path for the family. Re-energized, Kevin streaked past other competitors, not bothering to make eye contact. He knew—or at least suspected—that they were smirking at the boy who’d nearly knocked himself unconscious on the seesaw. But he didn’t care.

  Kevin spied Zach in a corner, still clearly angry, stuffing a few belongings into his backpack. He’d already removed his Team Cromwell jersey.

  Kevin darted over to him, tapped him on the shoulder, and breathlessly said, “Game on.”

  “Wha—?” said a clearly befuddled Zach. “You’re in, you’re out. The game’s off, it’s on …”

  “No,” said Kevin urgently, “it’s so on.”

  Cromwell woofed, then pressed a paw on Zach’s foot, then barked again.

  The P.A. announcer called Kevin and his dog to the course.

  “Get that jersey back on,” said Kevin, whacking Zach’s backpack.

  26

  Elka gripped Kevin’s hand and smiled as the announcer called his name. The hum of the crowd was constant, and the lights were harsh. A ring of flickering advertisements littered the floor. The air smelled like stale popcorn and nacho cheese, with just a hint of dog poop. Kevin grinned confidently. Elka’s bracelets jangled.

  “Don’t you have anything to say to Cromwell?” Kevin asked. “In your secret dog-speak?”

  “Cromwell is perfectly prepared,” Elka answered, smiling wider. “And this has already been a most successful day for you, Mr. Pugh.”

  “Thanks.”

  Kevin and Cromwell hurried to the course, walking perfectly in step with one another. They were followed closely by Zach, who was back in his teal Team Cromwell jersey.

  “This is gonna be awesome, Kev,” said Zach. “Just promise me you won’t spaz—”

  “Dude,” said Kevin. “I did not come back for another of your motivational talks.”

  “Sorry. Right. I’ll, um …”

  “You’ll enjoy the performance of Team Cromwell, for better or worse.”

  The three of them brushed past Jody and Shasta, who were preparing to be interviewed by a WFRK reporter. The terrier yapped happily at Cromwell. But Cromwell did not turn around. He stared intently at the course ahead.

  “Oh, are you still here?” the black-haired girl asked, smirking. Kevin froze. “I thought I saw you leave,” she continued. “We all thought maybe you hurt yourself. You know, falling on your face. In front of everyone. The seesaw can be so cruel.” She grinned.

  Kevin smiled back, which seemed to unnerve her a bit.

  “If the worst thing that ever happens to me occurs on a seesaw,” he said, “then I’m probably doing okay.”

  The WFRK reporter jabbed a microphone into the girl’s face and began talking.

  “That’s right, Brad, I’m here with world-renowned MKC dog agility champion Shasta Gatkowski and her dog, Jody …”

  “The dog is named Jody and the chick is Shasta?” blurted Zach, just loud enough to be heard by WFRK viewers. “No way!”

  Zach laughed, drawing an angry look from a producer and a sharp glance from the reporter.

  Kevin stepped toward the starting line with Cromwell, and a Midwest Kennel Club representative greeted them. The stands had emptied somewhat—not that Kevin was thinking about any audience members other than the assembled Pughs and Zach and Elka.

  Cromwell stood rigid and steely-eyed at the starting line. Elka was right. He was ready.

  Kevin and his dog shared another determined look. Kevin nodded. Cromwell grumbled, low and purposefully. The buzz in the arena melted away to a soft, indistinct murmur.

  The kennel club representative stepped away from the starting line.

  “You may begin whenever you are …”

  “GO!” shouted Kevin.

  “… ready.”

  Cromwell’s explosion off the line drew a gasp from the crowd.

  Cromwell zipped up, down, over, and through, almost as though he weren’t bound by the laws of ordinary physics. The ramps, the hurdles, the tunnels, and the walls were all conquered as if they weren’t even there, weren’t obstacles at all.

  Kevin moved with precision and shocking quickness. Zach was hooting wildly, only four feet from the live WFRK interview. The reporter was powerless to stop him. Shasta was clearly disturbed, sputtering into the microphone, cringing whenever Zach yelled.

  Elka, Howie, Izzy, and Maggie inched toward the course.

  “That’s my boy!” bellowed Howie.

  “And our dog!” shouted Maggie.

  Cromwell nailed all the necessary points of contact on the seesaw. Only the hoop remained.

  Kevin sprinted hard, just ahead of his dog.

  “Wait … wait … wait …,” he said, just as he had before. BOOM!

  Cromwell soared like an arrow—a plush brown arrow with flapping ears and pointed tail.

  This time there was never any question as to whether he would nudge the bottom of the hoop—he cleared it with room to spare, nearly scraping the top.

  The crowd gasped again.

  Cromwell landed with perfect balance and raced without the slightest hesitation to the finish line, Kevin at his side.

  The judges stared at one another, stunned. The entire arena seemed to turn in unison toward the blinking clock:

  0:00:39.800.

  The judges looked at Kevin, nodding their approval, and the crowd erupted in cheers. Everyone knew there had been no imperfections.

  Cameras were flashing all around Kevin and Cromwell.

  Elka raced to the judges’ table and flung herself at Kevin, hoisting him up briefly—much to his surprise—and then setting him down. She picked up Cromwell, too, hugging him and spinning him around. The dog woofed happily.

  “And that is another new MKCC record!” declared the P.A. announcer, barely audible over the crowd noise.

  Kevin’s head swiveled. The scene felt faraway, as if someone else were at its center. People seemed to cheer in slow motion, and voices sounded muffled. The word RECORD blinked on the scoreboard. Kevin noticed that the WFRK reporter—a youngish woman with poofy hair and a thick layer of makeup—had abandoned Shasta and was charging through the crowd toward him.

  He was still stunned and out of breath when she arrived.

  “That’s right, Brad!” she began. “We have breaking news here at the agility show, believe it or not! I’m here with … um … what’s your name, young man?”

  The microphone was thrust in Kevin’s direction, and he examined it as though it were a glowing meteor, at first saying nothing.

  Elka entered the frame with Cromwell in her arms.

  “This amazing young man’s name is Kevin Pugh,” she said, beaming. “And this is his masterful dog, Cromwell, a creature of extraordinary character.”

  “W-we won?” asked Kevin, still panting.

  Cromwell licked his cheek.

  “You did, Mr. Pugh,” said Elk
a.

  “And in record time!” chirped the reporter.

  “Hey, are we on with Brad Ainsworth?” asked Kevin rather dreamily.

  “Yes, we are, Kevin. Anything you’d like to say to Brad while we’re on the ai—”

  “WHOOOOOOOOO!” screamed Kevin.

  “WHOOOOOOOOO!” screamed Zach, chest-bumping his friend, then raising the logo of his Team Cromwell jersey.

  “WHOOOOOOOOOO!”

  “As you can see, Brad,” the reporter said, attempting to gain control of the conversation, “there’s absolute pandemonium here at the United Cen—”

  Kevin grabbed the microphone.

  “Champ-ee-uhhhnnnn! WHOOOOOOOO! Take that, Ainsworth! And tell your boy that Kevin Pugh is comin’ for him!” Kevin gestured from his eyes to the camera, then back to his eyes. “You got me, Ainsworth?! You hear me, old man?! I’m talkin’ kickball, next summer! I will own you, Bradley Junior! WHOOOOOOO …”

  The reporter grabbed at the mic as Kevin and Zach hooted.

  “I won! I won!”

  Kevin wrestled for control of the microphone again, noting the panic in the eyes of the reporter.

  “Make me your wacky sports blooper now, Ainsworth!”

  The petrified reporter finally yanked the microphone back from Kevin’s hand. Izzy came pogoing through the live camera shot, searching out Cromwell. A grinning Howie Pugh stepped in front of Kevin and wrapped his arms around him, then squeezed.

  “I’m proud of you, kid,” he whispered.

  “Because I won!” screamed Kevin. “WHOOOOOOOO! I won!”

  He leapt onto his dad’s wide back, then climbed atop his shoulders and thrust both arms into the air.

  “Nah,” said Howie. “I’m proud of you because you tried, because you gave this thing your best effort and you …”

  “And I won! I can’t believe we won!”

  Howie grinned, sneaking into the WFRK camera’s frame as the reporter struggled to sign off.

  Izzy picked up Cromwell and continued hopping. Elka had a preposterously large trophy in her hands.

  Kevin stared at the field of handlers and their pampered dogs.

  “Is there no one to challenge me?!” he yelled.

  “I don’t think they normally talk a lotta smack at these things, Kev,” said Howie. “Maybe you should just …”

  “WHOOOOOOOOOO!” screamed Kevin, high over his father’s head.

  Howie grinned. Elka slid past him, patting his shoulder.

  “I’m so happy you were here today, Mr. Pugh.”

  “Me, too.” Howie smiled. “Me, too.”

  “WHOOOOOOOOOO!”

  “Ms. Brandt,” said Howie. “Do you think the boy is gonna keep entering these competitions?”

  She looked up at Kevin. He had taken the trophy from her and was swinging it above his head in a wide arc.

  “I would imagine so, yes,” said Elka. “He seems rather pleased with himself at the moment. I hope you will approve of Kevin and Cromwell’s continued involvement with dog agility train—”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Howie. “Couldn’t be happier. That’s not the thing at all.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “Well, if we’re going to stick with this stuff …”

  “WHOOOOOOOOOO!”

  “… at some point we’ll have to discuss …”

  “WHOOOOOOOOOO!”

  “… a few basic principles of sportsmanship.”

  Elka smiled.

  “I quite agree, Mr. Pugh …”

  “WHOOOOOOOOOO!”

  “… although I do not think …”

  “WHOOOOOOOOOO!”

  “… the lesson would sink in right now.”

  27

  Kevin leaned back confidently, fluffing a couch cushion with his left hand while leaving his right on the controller. He smirked and stared at the screen.

  Left arrow … down arrow … “X” button …

  Kevin’s smirk widened into a toothy grin.

  “This is just too …”

  His purple-clad receiver hauled in a pass along the left sideline, then high-stepped into the end zone.

  “… easy.”

  Kevin dropped the controller at his feet and stood up, his palms raised.

  “Seriously, that was way too easy. I’ve always been good, it’s true. But it’s possible that I’ve found a new plateau here today.”

  He stared down at the couch.

  “It’s 37–0,” said Kevin. “Do you seriously want to continue this farce?”

  “I-I don’t …”

  Howie Pugh stroked his mustache, his controller in his lap. He wore one of his old jerseys. Howie stared at the TV as if in disbelief.

  “You don’t have words for the utter mastery you’ve just beheld?” asked Kevin, edging closer to his father. “The timeless dominance? The full expression of my Madden genius?”

  “Well …” began Howie tentatively, “I mean, the Vikings were so bad that year.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Kevin. “My quarterback what’s-his-name is like a 76. That really is pretty bad, Dad.”

  “And the Bears were so good,” said Howie, shaking his head.

  “Yup, I know. That’s why I encouraged you to be Chicago.” Kevin rested a hand on his father’s shoulder. “If I were the Bears and you were the Vikings, it would be, like, 72–0 right now.”

  Howie stared up at his son with a mixture of confusion and stubbornness in his eyes.

  “I think maybe this controller is bust—”

  “Dad, we’ve switched controllers eight or nine bazillion times. The gadget is fine. It’s operator error.”

  “Okay, so how did you know I was going to … ?”

  “Come out of that cover-two? Yeah, that was sweet. If there’s one thing Howie Pugh can’t stand, it’s having his run defense gashed.” Kevin imitated a few head fakes; then he mimed a quarterback dropping back to pass. “And I knew I’d get you with the corner-post route. It’s my signature play. Don’t feel bad, though, because Zach can’t stop it, either.”

  Howie continued to stare at his son, but his expression changed to awestruck pride.

  “Yes, Dad, I am intimately familiar with the corner-post. I’m kind of deadly with the screen pass, too, as you’ve seen. And of course I’ve got the hitch-and-go for an easy six basically whenever I want it, and …”

  “All right, rematch. C’mon. I know the beloved Bears aren’t going to get shut out, not against the Vikings, of all tea—”

  Cromwell leapt onto the couch between them, his leash in his mouth. He woofed once and dropped his leash.

  “Gotta go, old man.”

  Kevin swatted Howie’s rounded midsection as he snatched the leash from atop the couch.

  “Kev, it’s raining out there. You can’t seriously be thinking about …”

  “Running?” Kevin looked at his father indignantly. Cromwell seemed to as well.

  Howie’s glance fell.

  “Dad, being a winner is not a part-time commitment,” Kevin lectured. “Do you think Shasta and Jody take the afternoon off when it rains? I think not.”

  “Shasta and Jody are probably sticking pins in little Kevin and Cromwell dolls,” said Howie. “And then setting them on fire.”

  Kevin attached the leash to Cromwell’s collar.

  “Well,” he said, “maybe little Kevin Pugh dolls. Not sure about Crom. I felt like maybe there wasn’t the same level of animosity between Jody and Cromwell.”

  “You felt a love connection, maybe?” asked Howie.

  Cromwell simply panted excitedly.

  Howie perked up. “We should get those two together, Kev. Imagine the puppies! They’d be unstoppable! They’d be masters of agili—”

  “Yeesh,” said Kevin, stretching in preparation for his run. “It wasn’t so long ago that you were mocking these dogs, Dad. Now you’re envisioning the next generation of agility champions.”

  “We could be a dynasty, Kev. Like the Bears of Halas, years ago.” />
  Kevin continued to stretch.

  “We can’t talk dynasty without getting a few more wins under our belt, Dad. You gotta take ’em one competition …”

  “… at a time. Yeah, I know. I get paid to dispense such wisdom.” Howie straightened, growing more animated as he spoke. “But let’s just say Cromwell strings together a few “W’s” in the major competitions. Then we need to think of the Pughs as an agility franchise.”

  “Like we’re a NASCAR family? The Earnhardts? Or the Pettys?”

  “Exactly! A multi-generational dynasty. That’s where the real money is. That’s how you get your name on lunch boxes and clothing lines.”

  “Well,” said Kevin, bending forward to touch his toes, “this generation needs to get win number three. And we won’t get win number three by letting a little rain stop us.”

  “But, Kev, it could seriously pour out there. The skies could open. How ’bout we just finish the second half of the game here?” Howie turned around slowly to face his son. “You know, the weather guy at WYCR says …”

  But Kevin was already halfway up the basement steps, Cromwell bounding ahead of him. They reached the top step in full stride, slipped between Maggie and Izzy, and then hit the kitchen door.

  Kevin and Cromwell raced down the sidewalk, eyes squinting against the rain. Cromwell’s tongue flapped wildly. He leapt a puddle.

  “We’ll need to finish that course in 38 seconds next time for sure!” shouted Kevin. He sped past a mail carrier, then jumped a hydrant. “Might even need to go 37, because Shasta was not a gracious second-place finisher.” Kevin leapt over a planting bed with Cromwell at his heels. “See, you’ve gotta really want this, Cromwell, if you’re going to defend that champ—”

  The dog glanced up, woofed, and locked eyes with Kevin as they ran.

  “Okay, so you don’t need the pep talks. Me, I sometimes do.”

  Cromwell barked, dipped his head, and broke into an all-out sprint. Kevin chased after him, grinning, his shoes squishing, the leash held loose in his hand.

  Acknowledgments

  The author wishes to extend his sincere gratitude to everyone at Alloy Entertainment, and he would like to specifically flatter/thank Sara Shandler, Katie Schwartz, and Josh Bank. Also, many thanks to Nancy Hinkel, Nora Pelizzari, Jan Dundon, Jennifer Boss, Ella Behrens, and All For Doggies Chicago.