by Andy Behrens
They did not go second, either—that was Tinkles.
Or ninth—that was Vladimir.
Or twelfth—that was a Newfoundland named Constantine Tazmanius III. (And yes, there had been a Tazmanius I and II.)
Kevin and Cromwell waited … and waited … and waited. They watched each dog-and-handler combination go before them—everyone in the class. Friends and family clapped in approval. Kevin was fairly sure that Elka eyed Cromwell after each of the runs, and that they shared a look of some sort. He wondered if he should feel jealous, having another person connect with his dog in some psychic, wordless way. But that seemed selfish. Cromwell should be allowed other friends, Kevin concluded.
The dog rubbed against the AstroTurf, then woofed. Then he jumped.
“Stay loose, boy,” said Zach.
Hard to say if he’s loose or tight, thought Kevin. But he’s definitely something.
Jody and Shasta and their goon hadn’t left. They stood patiently along a far wall, signing autographs, posing for photos, glancing toward the course every so often.
Kevin’s classmates all put up similar times, regardless of the age and shape of the handler or the age, shape, and breed of the dog. The leader was a golden retriever named Melvin, with a time of 55.9 seconds. Trailing him were a shepherd-chow mix named Bodie at 56.2 and, to Kevin’s surprise, the resilient shih-poo, Tinkles, at 56.7.
Scoring and timing were handled by Elka, and she betrayed no emotion while monitoring the course. It was the usual series of obstacles: running up ramps, down ramps, over hurdles, and through three different tubes; weaving through a series of poles; coming to a full stop on a small table; leaping the little windmill; scrambling over the seesaw; and jumping through a hoop. It was a route that Cromwell had run (improperly, though not slowly) dozens of times. The hoop in particular gave Cromwell fits. It was slightly higher than the tire swing in the Pughs’ backyard—the one Cromwell had never quite mastered. Often he just bashed his head into the bottom of the hoop and streaked on. Kevin wasn’t particularly good at convincing Cromwell to repeat the obstacles he missed, and this led to enormous, unconquerable time penalties.
The dog continued his jumping.
“Chill, Crom,” said Kevin. “At this point, there’s really no need to hurry up and lose.”
All the other dogs and handlers were either mingling with each other or fawning over Jody and Shasta. Many were already congratulating Melvin and his owner, a stout woman named Mandy.
Kevin and Cromwell simply waited. They had not yet been called.
“Check this out, dude,” said Zach. He motioned toward the goon, who was clearing a path for Jody and Shasta to leave.
“Please, everyone, please,” said Elka, just loud enough to hush most of the conversations. “Let’s give our final competitors your attention. Allow me to introduce Cromwell, a precocious beagle mix, and his owner, Mr. Kevin Pugh.”
Zach clapped energetically. He was leaning against the wall, wearing sunglasses and the Team Cromwell jersey. Some others clapped politely. Then Zach whistled, alarming a few dogs. And then he woofed, which brought responses from many dogs.
“Thank you, Zachary,” said Elka, flashing him a stern look. “Your contributions have not gone unnoticed today.”
Cromwell made a low rrrrrroooo-ing sort of sound.
Kevin felt a surge of nervous energy as he walked his dog to the starting line. He caught a glimpse of Jody and Shasta from the corner of his eye. They were exiting slowly, moving toward the door from which they’d made their triumphant entrance.
Maybe I should stall until they’re gone, thought Kevin.
“Whenever you’re ready …,” said Elka.
Kevin contemplated his readiness. Cromwell shook off a bit of slobber.
Elka took a step toward them and spoke softly.
“Remember, we compete only against the course, Mr. Pugh. Nothing else.”
Kevin nodded, but he was still looking at the crowd.
“Nothing else,” repeated Elka.
Kevin glanced at the course, then toward his dog. His eyes began to trace the path between obstacles. The crowd noise faded and the world seemed to slow. Kevin looked back at Elka. Her mouth was moving, but he couldn’t quite hear her. He assumed she was telling him to start whenever he and the dog were ready.
When he saw Cromwell staring up at him, Kevin knew it was time.
“Go,” he said firmly.
Cromwell did.
He flew off the starting line, a blur of spinning paws and flopping ears. Kevin kept Cromwell’s pace—barely—darting ahead of him through the course, spitting out directions and encouragement.
Cromwell raced up the A-frame ramp, then down the other side …
He leapt three hurdles, each with room to spare …
He scurried through the fabric cylinder that Elka called a “collapsed tunnel” …
He jumped more hurdles, his tail just nicking one …
He clambered up an incline, across a plank, then back down …
He looped through a U-shaped vinyl tunnel …
He hopped onto the table, where he was supposed to pause—and to Kevin’s amazement, he actually froze for an instant, like a statue …
And then he was off again, streaking through the weave poles easily …
Then onto the edge of the seesaw, climbing cautiously … up … and up … pausing … and then racing down the seesaw, from which he always, always, ALWAYS had seemed to jump too early—but not this time! All four paws crossed over to the contact point, and Cromwell leapt off, totally in control …
He eyed the hoop—the final obstacle—and ran for it, paws churning. Kevin raced with him, hoping he could get his dog to wait for just the proper instant to jump, as there was no margin for error with Cromwell and hoops …
“Wait,” said Kevin. “Wait … Wait …”
Cromwell neared the mark, perhaps three feet from the hoop …
“Now!” shouted Kevin.
Cromwell leapt, poking his face through, stretching …
… and his front paws made it, followed narrowly by his belly!
He scraped the hoop with his fur, his tail, and his rear paws. The hoop wobbled, but Cromwell hit the ground only slightly askew and raced to the finish.
“Yeah!” exclaimed Kevin, skidding to a stop near Elka’s platform.
Suddenly he noticed the crowd again.
Zach was hooting, and Elka evidently wasn’t stopping him. The audience applauded—and not tepidly, as before, but with real enthusiasm. A low murmur rolled through the room like a wave.
Cromwell panted and ran in a tight circle. Kevin crouched down to pet him, but Cromwell leapt into his arms, scampered atop his shoulders, and then hopped off—almost gracefully.
Kevin’s eyes sought out the official clock. It was blinking near the starting line: 0:00:49.600.
“No … way …,” he said quietly.
It had been, by at least fifteen seconds, the fastest run of Cromwell’s life. Kevin also felt quite sure that it was the least flawed run of Cromwell’s life. He stared at the clock for a few seconds in disbelief.
Then Zach leapt onto Kevin’s back, still hooting, and two-thirds of Team Cromwell tumbled to the ground. There they encountered the other third of Team Cromwell, who started licking them.
Elka made notes on a scorecard, then smiled at Cromwell.
“Not bad, Mr. Pugh,” she said. “A fine effort. A bit rough on the hoop, but not so bad at all.”
Kevin stood there, grinning.
“That was our best run ever!” he declared. “By a mile!”
“There is no doubting that,” said Elka. “But the hoop was a bit rough.”
“No,” laughed Kevin. “What just happened out there was a miracle! ‘A bit rough’ is when you have to remove your fat dog from his backyard swing twenty times a night because he can’t jump through it and won’t stop trying.”
“Mr. Pugh,” said Elka firmly, “you are no longer in your b
ackyard. We have not yet seen the best of this beautiful dog—and it’s your job to find it.”
“Uhhh … okay, yeah,” Kevin said.
Can’t see how the beautiful dog is going to top this, he thought. But okay.
Kevin smiled and stared at the clock as it blinked his time.
“You will need to find Cromwell’s very best for the North American Dog Agility Council Championship, that much is certain.”
Zach shoved Kevin gleefully. Being somewhat larger than Zach, Kevin didn’t actually move when Zach shoved him. Instead, Zach tipped back and landed with a thud on the AstroTurf.
Elka grinned. Classmates swirled around, offering congratulations.
“S-so … I’m going to the United Center?” stammered Kevin. “But weren’t there penal—?”
“Mr. Pugh!” said Elka. “Cromwell was six seconds faster than every other dog in the room!”
“Well,” said a nasal voice, “not faster than every dog.”
Kevin turned slowly. Directly in front of him stood the security goon. And directly behind the goon, peeking around his bulk, were Jody and Shasta.
“Hey, whassup?” said Zach, not coolly.
The girl ignored him. Instead, she smirked at Cromwell and Kevin.
“She seems a little angry, dude,” whispered Zach.
The terrier seemed content enough. It sniffed at Cromwell and he sniffed back.
But the girl sneered. She eyed Kevin the way policemen eye suspects in TV crime dramas. She was at least a full head shorter than him, he noticed. She was also somewhat older, and rail-thin. She said nothing. Just kept sneering.
“Uh … hello,” Kevin finally said. “I’m, uh …”
“Kevin Poo,” she said. “That’s your name, isn’t it?”
The terrier sat panting, along with Cromwell.
“It’s um … well, no,” said Kevin. “It’s Pugh. It’s pronounced Pee-yoo.”
She simply stared.
“You guys were amazing,” Kevin offered. “Truly amazing. I’ve never seen anything quite li—”
“I know,” snapped the girl.
“Yeah, absolutely. I saw you guys win the, um … well, I don’t know what the competition was called, but it was on televi—”
“The Purina Incredible Dog Challenge,” she said. “It’s just the single most important event on the agility calendar, that’s all.” She paused. “And we won it. But that’s okay if you can’t think of the name.”
“No, well, I don’t mean to disrespect anyone,” said Kevin. “Or anything. Certainly not a delicious dog food. Not that I know personally that it’s delicious, but Cromwell used to …”
“Whatever, Poo,” said the girl. She tapped the goon on the back. “C’mon, Dad, we’ve gotta roll.”
“Oh, that’s your dad,” said Kevin. “Because we were thinking he was some sort of bodyguard or enforce—”
The Bluetooth goon stared at Kevin angrily.
“Um … yeah,” said Kevin. “Well, it was very nice to meet your lovely family.”
“I’m sure it was, Poo,” said the girl. She spun around and marched toward the exit, the terrier at her side in perfect sync. “See you in two weeks,” she called.
Kevin looked at Elka.
“Two weeks?” he asked.
“Yes, well, the MKCC is rather soon,” Elka said. “I had not imagined that Cromwell could be ready for an event of this magnitude until perhaps next summer. Maybe March or April at the earliest.” She shook her head in apparent disbelief. “And actually, Mr. Pugh, I was not sure you’d commit to your training for so long. Not through the school year.”
Kevin didn’t immediately dispute this, though Zach did.
“Team Cromwell is the future of dog agility! Yeah, baby!”
“Zachary, I can only assume that you were not referring to me as ‘baby’ just then.”
“No!” he said. “I meant the collective ‘baby.’ Not one ‘baby’ in particular.”
“Well,” said Elka, “if you feel that you are indeed the future of agility championships—and I assure you, there are many possible futures—then you should know that the future arrives in thirteen days.”
18
That afternoon, the Pughs’ front door swung open with a loud crack and Cromwell burst inside, barking. Howie rolled off the living room sofa.
“Yeesh!” he said, clearly startled.
Howie was crouching defensively—a pose not unlike the one on his 1981 football card.
“What the … Cromwell? Whatcha …”
The dog charged, launching both paws into Howie’s chest and toppling him over. Then Cromwell stood on Howie’s rounded midsection, licked his face several times, and hopped off, racing down a hallway.
Kevin and Zach stood in the entryway, laughing.
“I’m glad you’re amused by the fact that I’ve just been assaulted by the family dog,” said Kevin’s dad.
“He’s not a dog,” said Zach. “He’s a high-performance machine.”
Kevin gave his friend a playful shove. This was followed by more laughter.
Somewhere in the distance there was a faint shriek from Maggie, followed by more barking from Cromwell.
“What the heck did you do to the dog, Kev?” asked Howie. “He’s a little wound up today. I kinda miss the old Cromwell, with the sleeping and the eating … and none of this jumpy stuff. Not sure I can get used to this dog.”
“I’m serious, Mr. Pugh!” yelped Zach. “He’s not a dog, he’s a machi—!”
“A machine,” said Howie. “Right. Got it.” He settled himself back on the couch, tossing his Sun-Times onto the coffee table. Howie stared at Kevin, though not with disapproval.
“He’s just in a good mood,” said Kevin, smiling. “He’s an active dog.”
Cromwell thundered back down the stairs, zoomed past the couch again, and then rolled to a stop at Kevin’s feet.
Zach hooted loudly.
“Please don’t whoo in my house,” said Howie.
“Sorry, sir,” said Zach, as calmly as he could.
Kevin grabbed his friend by the arm and motioned to the basement.
“You’ll be in your office, Kev?” asked Howie smugly. He readjusted himself on the sofa.
“Sure will, Dad.”
As soon as Kevin, Zach, and Cromwell reached the bottom of the stairs, Zach removed the Team Cromwell jersey from his backpack and pulled it over his head.
“I can’t believe you made me take this off, dude!”
“Might’ve been tough to explain it to my parents. You know, if they happened to ask what ‘Team Cromwell’ was, and why you were on it.”
Zach dug a little deeper in the backpack and extracted a bone-shaped trophy. Engraved on the bottom were these words: “CHAMPION—PAW PATCH INV’L.”
Zach tapped the lettering with his index finger.
“You see that? It says ‘Champion.’ That’s us. And we’re not finished … oh, no. This was merely our first—and certainly not our last—piece of hardware. I really couldn’t have done it without you, Kevin, because …”
“Because I own the dog. And I do all the running.”
“Right,” said Zach. “Anyway, you should take this trophy, put on your jersey—which you still haven’t worn—and march back upstairs. Slam this little beauty down on the coffee table and tell your dad that not only are you and Cromwell enrolled in agility classes, but you’re dominating!”
Cromwell pounced on the basement couch, sniffed the pillows, and then licked himself.
“Zach,” said Kevin, “we’ve never dominated.”
“Until today.”
“Right,” said Kevin, walking over to his dog. “And it was great. But it was also kind of a fluke. Cromwell has only made it through that stinkin’ hoop once …”
“And that one time was today, with the pressure on. When it mattered most.” Zach joined the rest of Team Cromwell on the couch. “Your dog is clutch, dude. You can’t deny it.”
“No,”
Kevin said, looking down at Cromwell. “I can’t deny it. He does seem to be clutchy. You sure were today, boy.” Kevin scratched Cromwell behind his ears. The dog craned his neck, then licked Kevin’s chin.
“So what you’ve gotta do,” said Zach, “is take the trophy, put on the jersey, and march back up—”
Kevin heard the creak of his father’s feet on the basement steps. He snatched the trophy, tossed it to Zach, and then smothered the hardware and the Team Cromwell jersey with a large animal-print pillow.
“Not a word!” he commanded in a whisper. “And don’t move the pillow!”
“Hey!” said Zach. “You can’t boss me around! I’m the mana—”
“Boys,” began Howie, now standing at the bottom of the stairs. “I’ve gotta go. There’s a collectibles show out in Rosemont. I’m autographing this afternoon.”
“Signing little helmets for little men,” said Kevin.
“That’s what your mother calls it,” said Howie. “Good money in those li’l men.”
“I’m sure there is,” said Kevin.
“Good money in little dogs, too,” said Zach, grinning.
Howie looked at him quizzically. Kevin looked at him angrily.
“O-kaaaay,” said Howie. “But to the best of my knowledge, no dog has ever spent thirty-five bucks to wait in my autograph line.”
Kevin elbowed the pillow that covered the evidence of Cromwell’s agility triumph. The dog himself had fallen asleep.
“So we’ll see you later, Dad,” said Kevin. “Buh-bye.”
“Kev,” said Howie, “I was thinking that maybe when I get back tonight we could throw the ball around.”
“Um … sure,” said Kevin. “Which ball?”
“The football, kid!” Howie smiled, then placed a foot on the stairs and jingled his car keys. “Your mom and I were … well, we’re impressed by the training, Kev. The jogging and whatnot. I don’t think we made that clear the other day.”
Not perfectly, thought Kevin.
The father stared at his son. The son fidgeted.
“Yeah, um … thanks, Dad. Cool.” He paused. “Bye.”
“Okay,” said Howie. “Later, boys.” He clomped back up the steps.
Kevin waited patiently for the sound of the kitchen door opening and closing, then ripped the pillow away from Zach and began pummeling him.
