Black Ribbon (19 page)

I was on the verge of stepping toward him to ask when Eva Spitteler, who wore a boldly lettered Waggin’ Tail T-shirt, suddenly stomped up to me to demand whether something unspecified wasn’t a violation of the health code. Before I could ask what she meant, she announced that Rangeley probably didn’t have a health code, anyway. “Jesus,” she hollered, “the original Podunk, U.S.A. Wouldn’t you’ve thought Max could do better than this shithole?”

I prayed that the flat waters of Haley’s Pond would miraculously rise in rage and gather themselves into a tidal wave that would wash Eva Spitteler from their shores. Alternatively, the mallards could be struck by a sudden Hitchcockian frenzy and leap out of the pond and onto Eva and peck her to death.
Miracles failing to materialize, however, I wished that the ducks would at least quack raucously enough to drown out Eva’s horrible voice.
Max couldn’t have done better than this
, I wanted to say,
because Rangeley is as good as it gets; there is no better.
All I actually uttered was an inadequate mumble to the effect that I’d always liked Rangeley.

Instead of licking her ice-cream cone, Eva took an aggressive bite that left big tooth marks. The ice cream was peppermint stick, I think, or maybe strawberry or the same cherry that Rowdy had just enjoyed; at any rate, it was something pink with reddish striations. Her bite mark resembled an illustration of what a shark’s teeth can do to human flesh.

If I’d been the brave and loyal person that my dogs imagine me to be, I’d have jumped onto one of the picnic tables and belted out an oratorically elaborate, rhetorically embellished tribute to the Town of Rangeley. Failing that, I’d have gone from bench to bench, picnic table to picnic table, to apologize for Eva Spitteler’s rudeness and to explain that she wasn’t really a dog person at all, but an embarrassment to every one of us, as unwelcome in our midst as she was in theirs. But I’m a coward. Also, I’m slow-witted.

Rowdy, however, is brave and quick. As I was trying to think of a way to make an immediate escape, he glanced from Eva to me. His rib cage began to contract, the telltale smile appeared on his face, and in a heroic act of self-sacrifice, he swiftly deposited the Fido Special on Eva’s sandal-shod feet.

DOG OBEDIENCE drill team belongs to the happy class of cultural entities that demarcate the boundaries of the serious by deliberately crossing far, far beyond them. To apply ordinary standards of decorum, restraint, or simple good taste to these usefully ludicrous activities and objects is thus to strip them of their essential function. As the plots of grand opera mock the despair of high tragedy, as the confectionary bride and groom atop a wedding cake deride the solemnity of marriage, as Halloween costumes laugh at death itself, so does marching around with dogs to the strains of John Phillip Sousa ridicule the partnership between us and our animals and thereby define the holiness of the bond.

Now that I’ve stifled the hoots of Cambridge with that richly Cantabrigian rationalization, let me explain that at Waggin’ Tail, drill team took place in the middle of the big field behind the main lodge, in fact, between the lodge and obedience tent, and was taught by a jolly-looking, round-faced woman named Janet, who started the activity promptly at three-thirty by lining us up according to the sizes of our
dogs. Stepping back now and then to see how we looked, Janet efficiently arranged us in a long, straight line of thirty-five or so dog-handler pairs, with the toy breeds in the center, a Great Dane bitch at one end, a Newfoundland the other, large breeds next to them, then medium, then small. So meticulous was Janet in assuring that dog height steadily ascended from the center of the line to the ends that I felt almost apologetic about the ups and downs of human heads, as if all of us should have anticipated the aesthetic demands of drill team by selecting dogs according to our own proportions, giant dogs for lofty people, toys for the tiny.

Even if the rest of us had chosen our breeds with a good drill-team topline in mind, Phyllis Abbott would’ve thrown it off, but in all other respects, she was an asset, and so was little Nigel. Edwina, who’d had the unhappy encounter with the scent articles, was a good-looking bitch and an excellent obedience dog, but Nigel was flashier than Edwina, a sturdy, sparkling fellow with a naturally fabulous, beautifully nurtured coat in a shade of red remarkably like that of Phyllis’s hair. Yes! The ovogallinaceous puzzler in cynogynic form: Which came first, the dog or the tint? In either case, the well-matched, soigné pair were a credit to obedience, exactly the kinds of ambassadors we need to dispel our image as the Order of Slobs of The Fancy.

Also, once Janet began directing us, it became evident that Mrs. Abbott knew what she was doing. We started without music. On signal, Mrs. Abbott heeled Nigel forward. Head high, shoulders back, she had a dancer’s carriage. When she’d taken about four steps, the teams to her left and right moved forward; and then four paces later, the next two teams, and so on until we were spread out in V-formation, like Canada geese. Reaching the end of the field, our leaders, Phyllis and Nigel, made an about-turn, came to a halt, and waited until, two by two, the other teams executed the same maneuver and thus re-formed a straight line. After that, with Phyllis leading,
we again distributed ourselves across the field and performed what in my mind became a rather bewildering series of halts, turns, and forwards, at the conclusion of which we somehow found ourselves back in what had now become a ragged line that eventually straightened out and attempted to rotate itself. Pivoting in place, Phyllis and Nigel acted as a pin that held our center firm, but I’m afraid that those of us at the outer edges created such a straggly effect that, viewed from above, our supposedly precise line must have looked like the melting hands of a Dali clock. I tried my best to do everything at once, but everything proved more than I could manage. I’d take big, fast steps to move us even with the man and the Great Dane bitch at our left, and having positioned us in line with them, I’d discover that we’d forged far ahead of the woman and the big mix-breed to our right. Simultaneously listening to Janet’s booming instructions and slowing down to put us even with that team, I’d glance to the far end of the line to discover that our supposedly opposite numbers, Michael and Jacob, weren’t actually opposite us at all. Adjusting my pace to make us match Michael and Jacob, I’d lose track of Rowdy, and while bringing him back to heel position, I’d take my eye off the Great Dane, and when I looked toward her again, she’d somehow have ended up way, way behind us. So I’d slow down, thus throwing off the team to our right. And thus it went until, after a great deal of backing up and stepping forward, we ended up exactly where we’d begun, the handlers a little dizzy and out of breath, but so ferociously proud of our performance that we burst into cheers, released our dogs, rubbed their chests, and thus sent them into the leaping, yelping equivalent of our own self-applause.

The second time, we did almost as badly as we’d done the first and congratulated ourselves just as wildly. Thereafter, we became, if not precise, at least a little less sloppy than we’d been. Lost in play, I lost track of time and was amazed when Janet announced the end of drill team by telling us what a
great group we were. Tomorrow, Janet promised, we’d add music.

In the past hour, shaded by the darkening clouds and cooled by a sudden steady breeze from the lake, the field had changed seasons from late summer to early autumn. Barearmed, I needed the sweatshirt I’d left with Rowdy’s canvas travel bag; and especially with flyball due to begin almost immediately in the same field, Rowdy needed a drink and a little walk. As I crossed the grass toward the area by the blacktop where most of us had piled our gear and where a crowd had gathered to wait for flyball, I caught up with Phyllis Abbott, who exclaimed, “Now that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Fun with your dog!” She repeated, as if reminding herself, “That’s what it’s all about.”

“It sure is,” I agreed. When we reached the pile of our belongings, I pulled on a dark green sweatshirt that showed a picture of an adorable malamute of four or five weeks. Above his head was a query addressed to breeders about whether they knew where their puppies were; below, an admonition to support rescue.

“Oh, I
like
that!” Mrs. Abbott said.

Only a few years earlier, I’d sometimes had to explain to disappointed members of the general public that Malamute Rescue does not mean training the breed to sniff out earthquake victims; our dogs have been rescued, and any heroic acts they may subsequently perform are strictly incidental. Far from confusing our dogs with the Search and Rescue variety, a few members of the fancy had seen them as the likely perpetrators of disaster scenes: slavering beasts, their mad eyes fixed on the jugulars of young children. Then all of a sudden, the dog fancy discovered the breed rescue movement and abruptly declared us politically correct. The AKC’s stamp of approval hadn’t yet paid any vet bills, but cachet was a start. Maybe cash would follow. I wondered whether Phyllis Abbott had ever taken a Pomeranian from a shelter or trained a wildacting
stray to become a civilized pet. When she and Don Abbott were with their AKC friends, did she raise the issue of puppy mills? Or did her support of rescue consist of saying nice things about other people’s sweatshirts?

Quite a few people were letting their dogs drink out of a communal water bucket, but I filled Rowdy’s own little travel bowl from his own water bottle. When he’d slurped up three or four bowlfuls, I replaced his training collar and leash with his retractable lead, which, I might add, I had examined minutely without discovering any signs of tampering. After taking Rowdy to the edge of the woods for what dogdom persists in calling a bathroom trip, I led him to the big crowd that had gathered for flyball, a sport I’d watched before, but one that neither Rowdy nor I had ever tried. Janet, our drill team instructor, and two other women had set up three flyball boxes, each about the size of a big milk box. Lines of handlers and dogs were already queuing up. The line on the far left was obviously where Rowdy and I didn’t belong. Rowdy could easily have cleared the series of low jumps in front of the professional-looking flyball box, but unlike the bouncing, yelping off-lead dogs in that line, he wouldn’t have known what to do once he got to the contraption. Should you be as inexperienced as Rowdy was, let me explain that when the dog whacks the front of the box—or in the primitive versions of the apparatus, a pedal at the front—the contraption releases a tennis ball that the dog is supposed to catch. An advanced dog dashes over the jumps, hits the box with his paw, catches the ball, and goes back over the jumps. In flyball tournaments, teams of dogs compete in what are, in effect, relay races. Competitive flyball is simple and fast, beautiful to watch, the basketball of canine sports.

Mainly because Eva Spitteler and Bingo were last in line at the middle flyball box, I led Rowdy to the line at the right. Directly ahead of us were Phyllis Abbott and her male Pomeranian, Nigel; and in front of them, Joy and Lucky. For once,
the little quasi-Cairn was standing on his own four feet. Looking bare-chested without the dog clutched to her breast, Joy was engaged in animated conversation with Phyllis Abbott.

I caught the end of something Joy was saying: “…  from a pet shop. I didn’t know any better at the time, and he
is—”

“Every dog comes from somewhere!” Phyllis interrupted, “and that doesn’t mean you love him any less.” She paused. “Does it?”

“Of course not!” Joy replied. “It’s just that—”

“They don’t all have to be show dogs,” Phyllis pronounced. “And Lucky has a very sweet face.” For that moment, so did Phyllis.

Warmed by Phyllis’s praise, Joy made what sounded like a confidence. “And he, uh, he just passed his Canine Good Citizen test.”

Considerate obedience judge that she was, Phyllis projected her voice: “Congratulations! That’s very special. I hope you’re proud of yourself and proud of your dog.” What bothered me, I suppose, was a brittle note that made me wonder whether Phyllis’s kindness to Joy represented a triumph over some hidden sense of her own fragility.

“Well, all the dogs passed,” Joy admitted. “They did the second time.” Her pink face reddened. “The first time, they all … But then Maxine decided there was something wrong.” Regaining her composure, she speeded up. “And so Maxine decided that it wasn’t very fair, even though that’s what the rules said, strictly speaking, but Maxine decided that’s not what the rules really
meant
, because they meant, because what they meant was, uh, a dog you would like to own, really, a dog that
is
a good citizen. And so we all got to do anything we’d failed all over again! And that time, Lucky passed!”

Phyllis Abbott looked as astonished as I felt. The guidelines for the CGC Program are very flexible. The AKC does not,
however, even begin to condone the practice of passing all dogs by giving them extra chances at exercises they’ve failed.

“Really,” Joy added, “it
was
fair, because all of them really
are
good dogs.”