With all the action going on, two o’clock arrives faster than a good butt sniff. Luke, my mom, and I take Streak to the contest area, a big field now covered in three inches of snow. Streak is going crazy. It’s not just the big crowd and the forty or so other dogs milling around. This is the first time he’s ever been in snow and he loves it. He jumps up and down and shoves his nose in it and flicks it up in the air. If I didn’t have him on a leash, he’d be roaring around like a snowmobile.
I keep an eye out for Brad Mullen, but I don’t see him anywhere. As Luke and I step up to the registration table, though, I smell a familiar gaseous odor.
“Glad you could make it, Calf Crap.”
I turn to see Brad and Shep breathing down my neck. I thought I’d gotten over my fear of this guy, but the rock in my throat corrects me.
“Where are your goons?” I ask, trying to sound as brave as possible. “Didn’t their mommies let them come?”
Brad’s eyes flash and his fists clench, but he doesn’t dare do anything in this crowd.
“Name?” a man behind the table asks.
I turn away from Brad. “Guy Martinez.”
“Dog’s name?”
“Streak.”
The man checks a list and then asks, “You here for the qualifying round?”
“Yes sir.”
“Okay, we’ll be starting in a few minutes.”
The man motions to a pile of white Frisbees. “These are the official discs. You can use any one you want, but I suggest you take a couple and get used to them before the contest. Have fun out there.”
“Thanks,” I say.
As Luke and I turn away, Brad Mullen whispers, “Take good care of my dog for me.” At first I’m confused, thinking he means Shep. Then I realize he’s talking about Streak. Luke pulls me away.
“Come on. Let’s practice with these Frisbees.”
Brad snickers and steps up to the table to register.
Luke and I go find my mom. She’s brought our camera and I make sure she’s in a good position to catch the action. Then I tell her we’re going to go practice before the contest starts.
“Good luck, all of you. Remember, it doesn’t matter if you win or not. Just have a good time.”
As we’re walking away, Luke says, “I guess you didn’t tell her about the bet?”
I shake my head. “Are you crazy? I didn’t want to get her upset. I’m upset enough for both of us.”
We reach an empty part of the field. I try to get into Frisbee mode, but I can still feel myself fuming.
Luke must feel it too. “Don’t think about Brad,” he tells me. “Just remember to relax and throw like we’ve been practicing.” He unclips Streak from his leash and he goes blasting through the snow.
“Here, Streak!” I say, waving the Frisbee around. After a couple of snowy nose-shoves, Streak trots back to me. I cock my arm and throw. The Frisbee is lighter than the ones we’ve been practicing with, which makes it easier to toss, but harder to control. It zips out of my hand, but then does a quick right turn and plunges into the snow before Streak can reach it.
“I don’t like these Frisbees,” I tell Luke.
Luke is holding one of the discs in his left hand, and tugging on his earlobe with his right. “Aw…I see what you mean. I’ll bet these are the same kind they had in the city championships—”
“Which means Brad and Shep have been practicing with the right Frisbees and we’ve been practicing with the wrong ones.”
“Shoot. You’re right.” Luke sounds concerned for a split-second, but his natural optimism bursts through. “That’s okay, though. You’re better at throwing than Brad, and Streak’s better at catching than Shep. You’ll be able to make the adjustment. Just remember, don’t get greedy and try to reach the 40-yard line. Aim for the 30 and you’ll do great.”
I toss the Frisbee again, but not as hard. It’s tricky getting the disc to fly flat without diving off to one side, but after a few throws, both Streak and I are getting the hang of it. I’m still not totally comfortable, but after one more throw, the whistle blows.
It’s now or never.
Chapter Seventeen
Streak and I make it through the qualifying round with a few points to spare, scoring an 11.5. I’m not happy with my performance, but by the end I’m getting the feel of the new Frisbees.
“I hope I do better in the real contest,” I tell Luke afterward.
“You will. All that matters now is that we’re in.”
The organizers assign the owner-dog teams at random and we’re given one of the last slots in the competition. Number 32. As the competition starts, the weather is worrying me as much as the new Frisbees.
By the time the first owner-dog pair steps up to the throwing line, the snow is falling in curtains. I’ve never seen anything like it except in movies, and I’m pretty amazed by the whole thing. There’s no doubt that it’s going to make the competition even more challenging. Usually there are white lines marking the 10-, 20-, 30-, and 40-yard distances, but the snow’s obliterated those. Today, all we’ve got to go on are big orange cones along the sidelines.
The snow doesn’t seem to bother anyone else. It’s just another Montana day for most people and everyone cheerfully gabs and plays with their dogs as the contest gets underway.
The first dog up scores an impressive 13.5 points. The second dog gets 10 and the third, 15.5.
“Aw…this isn’t like the other contests,” Luke says.
“No,” I agree. “These dogs are better.”
Having slot 32 gives Luke, Streak, and me a lot of time to sit around being nervous. I glance through the crowd and spot Brad and Shep pacing back and forth. They ended up with slot 33, right behind us, and Brad looks like he’s as anxious to get going as we are. I also see Catherine and our eyes meet. She gives me a little wave and I return it.
“What do you think about Catherine?” I ask Luke.
His every neuron is focused on the dogs. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know,” I say, regretting that I asked. “Just what do you think about her?”
“You mean does she like you?”
The flush of heat melts the snowflakes on my face. “No. I mean…”
What do I mean?
“I think you should talk to her more,” Luke says, and returns his attention to the dogs.
I sigh and do the same. Dog #16 scores 15 points. Dog #22 scores a dismal 4. Dog #27 scores 12. So far the high score of the day is 17 points by a dog named Windmill. Windmill is a medium-height dog about the size of Streak. Also like Streak, she has a docked tail, but her coloring is white with big splotches of brown. As Windmill runs, her legs seem to flail in all directions. But geez, can she catch a Frisbee!
“She’s a springer spaniel,” Luke tells me. “They’re usually hunting dogs, but they’re really strong and pretty fast. I never thought of them catching Frisbees, but I guess it makes sense.”
Windmill’s owner is a tall, overweight man who looks like a trucker or professional beer-drinker. He seems like the last person who would have a great Frisbee dog, but he knows what he’s doing. I overhear someone next to me say that Windmill finished third in the national Frisbee contest the previous year. I can see why. The big guy and Windmill operate like clockwork. The man sails the Frisbee out just past the 30-yard mark and Windmill flails after it, usually catching the disc a good three or four feet off the ground before racing back to the throw line. Only once does Windmill catch it on the ground and fail to get the half-point bonus. They look ridiculous, but they’re good.
“Windmill’s going to be hard to beat,” Luke tells me and I know he’s thinking the same thing I am.
During our practice sessions we’ve never tried to throw it out beyond the 40-yard mark, and the reasons are obvious. Even though you get an astounding 5 points for a 40-yard throw—5.5 if your dog catches it in the air—your reliability goes way down. So most people aim for the 30-yard mark. But then along come Windmill an
d his owner, who have already scored about the maximum possible at the 30-yard distance and look like they could throw 40 yards in the next round. Worse, I know from the Fall Fair that Brad is also strong enough to clear the 40-yard line. Luke and I have discounted this before, thinking he’d never be able to pull that off again, but now I’m having second thoughts.
If Brad believes that 40 yards is what it will take to win, I think, he might just get lucky and pull it off.
“What do you think I should do?” I ask Luke. “I don’t care about beating Windmill, but I have to beat Brad. Should I try for the 40-yard mark?”
Suddenly the announcer shouts, “Guy Martinez and Streak!”
My heart—or maybe it’s my spleen—leaps up and tries to pop out of my mouth, but I force it back down.
Luke looks at me. “Aw…I don’t know, Guy. Can you even throw it forty yards?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe on a good day. I wish Brad had gone ahead of us so we would know what we’re dealing with.”
“Yeah,” Luke agrees. He thinks for another moment, but doesn’t come up with any revelations. Finally he leans over and whispers to Streak. “Go get ’em, boy!” Then to me he says, “I guess just throw it the way you think is best.”
Big help.
I take a deep breath and, without knowing what I’m going to do, make my way through the crowd. Off to the side I see Brad Mullen sneer and flip me off. I also see my mom making her way to one of the 20-yard orange cones, her camera at the ready. She waves, but I don’t wave back.
“Is this Streak?” the starter asks.
I nod.
“You understand the rules? You get one minute to throw as many times as you can. You’ll get another chance in Round Two. High score counts, but if I were you, I’d do my best this time. This snow is only going to get worse.”
“Okay,” I say, my tongue barely working. I bend down to unclip Streak from his lead. For a second I’m afraid he’s just going to start playing in the snow, but he seems to sense this is the real thing. He shoots out about five yards and then spins around to stare at the disc in my hand.
“Ready!” the starter yells.
Streak and I both tense.
“Set!”
Streak does a quick 360.
“Go!”
I fling the Frisbee straight out. It sails smoothly beyond the 30-yard mark. It curves slightly to the right, but it’s not too far, not too short. Streak easily chases it down and leaps, bagging the Frisbee in midair for 3.5 points. A few whoops go up from the crowd, but it’s like I’m hearing them underwater. All my attention zeroes in on Streak as he comes racing back to me, kicking up snow behind him.
I take the Frisbee from him and throw it again. The throw is much like the last one, not too hard, but just far enough to clear the 30-yard mark. Streak again hunts it down with a smooth leap into the air. The crowd cheers a little louder. Now we’ve got 7 points.
I throw the Frisbee again and Streak performs like I’ve never seen him. Snow spotting his fur like white polka dots, he nails the Frisbee as if he’s the only real competitor out there. Before I know it, we’ve got 10.5 points. But we’re only partway there.
“Fifteen seconds to go!” the starter yells.
As I take the Frisbee from Streak one more time, I realize that we’ve got time for two more throws—and a chance at the lead. I swing my arm back and decide to again throw for the 30-yard line. It’s a good throw and Streak starts after it. But just then a loud two-note whistle cuts through the noise of the crowd. The whistle is exactly like the one I use to get Streak’s attention. Streak screeches to a halt and looks at the crowd and then at me, his ears at full alert.
“Go!” I yell, motioning to the Frisbee. After a split second, Streak bounds after it, but it’s too late. The Frisbee plows into the snow.
“Come on!” I yell, and Streak picks up the disc and rushes back to me. I pull it out of his mouth, but we’ve lost too much time. As I swing my arm back to throw, the starter shouts “Time!”
A few people clap, but I hear a lot more mumbling.
I pat Streak on the head. “Good boy!” I tell him, but my pulse is pounding as Luke walks up to me.
“What happened?” Luke asks, giving Streak a dog treat.
“That’s what I want to know,” I say, still dazed.
“Next dog!” the starter yells. “Brad Mullen and Shep!”
The crowd parts for Brad and his German shepherd and we’re face to face. “Step aside, losers,” Brad says with a smirk.
In that instant I know what happened. There’s only one person here besides Luke who knows the whistle I use to call Streak—at least, only one person who’d use it against me.
I start to say something, but the words stick in my throat. Brad laughs and says, “Watch how it’s done!”
I glare at Brad, fire burning in my chest.
“He did it,” I tell Luke.
Luke looks at me. “Are you sure? He whistled at Streak?”
“I’m sure. He heard me use that whistle at the Fall Fair.”
“Ready!” the starter yells for Brad.
“What are you going to do?” Luke asks me.
“I’m not sure,” I say.
“Set!” the starter yells.
Brad pulls his arm back with the Frisbee.
“Go!”
I watch as Brad throws the Frisbee for Shep. I feel like going out there and kicking Brad in the butt as he’s about to throw, but I don’t. And I have to admit that he and Shep are good. Brad throws the Frisbees just about perfect. Most of his throws clear the 30-yard line, but one clears the 40. Fortunately, the snow slows down Shep enough that he has to catch them on the ground, but still, their performance is impressive.
“Time!” the starter yells. “Brad and Shep—17 points!”
The crowd claps. Brad and Shep are now in a dead heat for first place and my brain churns over what I should do about it. I can go tell the judges what Brad did and try to get him disqualified, but it would be hard to prove. I can also do something equally rotten to Brad, but that’s not my style. I want to win this thing straight out.
As the final few dogs compete, I scramble for a plan.
Chapter Eighteen
By the time the second round starts, snow is coming down in big chunks. The judges confer about whether to continue the match, but none of the dog owners show any sign of leaving, so the contest continues. For Round Two, the dogs compete in the reverse order. This is good for Streak and me since we’ll go sooner instead of later, when conditions might even be worse. But it also means that I’ve got to move fast.
“So,” Luke asks, “did you decide what you’re going to do?”
I nod. “I think so. Listen, Luke. Do me a favor and go tell the judge over there to keep an eye on Brad when Streak and I are up.”
“Aw…sure. What should I say?”
“Tell him you thought you saw Brad whistle during the last round and you want to make sure it’ll be a fair competition.”
Luke grins. “Okay. I like that.” He walks off and I scan the crowd for Brad. I see him off to the side by himself, and Streak and I head toward him. As I approach, I go over what I’m going to say.
“Hey, loser!” Brad says. I feel like knocking his smirk right off his face, but I stay calm.
“Big score,” I say. “Too bad you had to cheat to get it.”
Shep strains toward Streak, wagging his tail, but Brad tugs him back.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he tells me.
I force a laugh. “Yeah, sure. You cheat at everything, Brad. Math, English, you even cheat with friends. I just thought you’d at least be honest where your dog’s concerned.”
Brad’s fake smile turns down and he steps forward menacingly. “You want a busted face?”
I keep grinning, even though I feel like a cherry bomb with a lit fuse. “What’s really the matter?” I ask. “Are you afraid you can’t do anything unless you cheat?”
&n
bsp; “I can win this contest hands down.”
“Is that right,” I say, drooling sarcasm.
“Yeah!”
“Well, you’re going to have to from now on. I’ve got three witnesses who saw you whistle and if you try it again, I’ll turn you in.” I pause to let that sink in. “I may turn you in anyway.”
“You’ve got nothing,” Brad says, but I see doubt cross his face.
“I do, and I’ve told the judge to watch you, just in case.”
“You little bastard.”
This is basically what I’ve been waiting for. My plan is to get Brad riled up and then drop the hammer on him by saying something insulting about his dead father. Payback. Tit for tat. I figure that between his anger and his fear, it might just throw his Frisbee-tossing out of balance—which is my best shot at getting a fair round. As I open my mouth to deliver the blow, though, I lock onto Brad’s eyes and suddenly I change my mind. As much as I despise this moron, I also know what it’s like to lose a father. I just can’t bring myself to rub salt in this particular wound, no matter what Brad’s already done to me.
But that doesn’t mean I can’t say something.
“Well, we’ll see,” I say, stepping away. “I hope you’re feeling strong, though. With this cold air, you’re going to have to throw the Frisbee a lot harder to get it out beyond the 30-yard line.”
“Yeah, right, Calf Crap,” Brad snorts.
“Fine, don’t believe me,” I tell him. “But lower temperatures make air denser and harder to move through. Every 5-degree drop in temperature makes the air 50 percent heavier. You’ll probably have to throw the Frisbee 75 percent harder to make up for it.”
Brad looks at me suspiciously and says, “You’re full of it.” Which is totally true. Air is denser when it’s cold, but I’m just making up the part about having to throw harder. Still, I’m almost positive Brad doesn’t know that.
“Well, let’s see if you’re right,” he says, picking up a Frisbee.
“Go ahead,” I say, shrugging. “You’ll see.”
But before Brad can throw, the starter calls his name. “Brad Mullen and Shep—you’re on deck!”
Dog Sense Page 11
