High in Trial (2 page)

I always feel a little silly saying that—“boyfriend”—partly because I don’t think
any woman over sixteen should call any man a boyfriend and partly because, well, I
don’t exactly know what else to call him. For one thing, Miles is hardly a boy. He’s
in his mid-forties with short spiky salt-and-pepper hair, a rock-hard body, and nice
gray eyes. He has questionable political opinions, a bullheaded way of getting what
he wants, and more money than I even want to know about. He’s funny and charming and
smart, and he makes me laugh even when I’m mad at him. When we’re together, he always
cooks. He’s also the dad of one of my favorite people in the world, the aforementioned
ten-year-old Melanie, who’d begged to forgo a school field trip to Washington, D.C.,
this weekend in order to attend this trial. Melanie had aspirations of seeing her
own golden retriever puppy, Pepper—who was currently in the very capable care of their
housekeeper in Atlanta—bring home a slew of blue ribbons one day. While I agreed with
her father that a hands-on experience in American government should take priority
for the weekend, I also secretly agreed with Melanie that it’s never too soon to start
exposing a puppy to competition.

The upside of having Melanie in Washington was that Miles and I had the weekend to
ourselves—if you didn’t count the three hundred or so dogs between us—which was something
we’d learned to value since our relationship had taken a more romantic turn. Is he
my boyfriend? I still struggle with that. But what else do you call someone who drives
four hours just to watch you compete in an event that lasts less than a minute?

Here’s something else my mother taught me: Be careful who you date, because you can’t
always choose who you fall in love with.

“So,” said Miles, snapping open a bag of corn chips, “explain the rules to me again.”

An agility trial is always more fun with a buddy—someone to cheer you on, help with
strategy, and keep you from going bonkers between runs. Usually I trial with Maude,
my business partner, oldest friend, and the best dog trainer I know, but since we
were rather desperately trying to keep Dog Daze, our boarding and training center,
above water we agreed the business could spare only one of us per weekend. This was
my weekend, and while it’s true that trialing with Maude was both educational and
supportive, Miles was a lot more fun. For one thing, I liked seeing the game through
the eyes of someone who was new to it, and what girl doesn’t like that slightly superior
feeling that comes along with explaining things to her guy? For another thing, I’d
recently discovered he was almost as much of a junk food junkie as I was, and as everyone
knows, dog shows are junk food nirvana.

He offered me the bag of chips, but I shook my head—bad idea to load up on corn chips
before a run—and explained, “Okay, right now we’re watching the Excellent B Class,
which is pretty much as hard as it gets. What’s more, this is the twenty-inch jump
height group—border collies and Aussies, mostly, who are some of the fastest dogs
in the world. Unless you actually
have
a border collie or an Aussie, you really don’t want to be in that group. Those numbers
on the cones beside each piece of equipment mark the course. The object is to get
your dog to follow the numbers faster and with fewer mistakes than any other dog.
The trick is that you have to memorize the course and you don’t get to practice it
with your dog beforehand. But you see the way they’re arranged in loops and figure
eights and weird triangles? The handler has to do some pretty fancy maneuvering to
get his dog from one obstacle to the other without tripping over him. You’re not allowed
to touch your dog. You get disqualified if you do. It’s all done with body language
and voice commands. The team with the fastest time and the fewest faults wins first
place, and at the end of the weekend, the dog with the highest overall score wins
high in trial.”

There was, of course, a great deal more to it than that, but most people who weren’t
themselves agility competitors would have a hard enough time following the action
even with that broad outline of the rules. Miles, however, was unfazed. In the short
time I’d known him I discovered his interests were eclectic and his curiosity unbounded;
he had very little trouble catching on to new things.

“Hmm.” Miles watched a border collie sail off the teeter-totter and dash through the
tunnel. The judge’s hand flew up. “So, do people bet on these things or what?’

“What do you mean
,
bet?”

“You know, like at the dog track. The greyhounds.” He dug into the bag again, focused
on the Australian shepherd who was sailing over the first set of serpentine jumps.
Cisco turned to him hopefully, the crinkling of the bag having successfully drawn
his attention away from Brinkley.

“Of course not.” I was mildly offended. “Don’t be silly.”

“Then what’s the percentage?” He started to sneak a corn chip to Cisco, caught my
look, and pretended innocence as he popped the chip into his own mouth instead. “Who
pays for the training, the prizes, the shows? What do you get out of it?”

“Entry fees pay for the shows,” I explained patiently, “and the sponsoring dog clubs
do all the work. As for the prizes—a few hundred dollars cover the ribbons and dog
toys. What did you think, there was a jackpot cash prize for high in trial?” I shrugged.
“We do it for the fun of it, that’s all. It’s a game.”

He gave a slow shake of his head. “Wasted opportunity,” he said. “If Vegas ever gets
word of this, look out.”

I helped myself to a chip—okay, a couple of chips—and gave him a suspicious look.
“Okay, you don’t drink, you don’t smoke, you hardly ever swear, and you don’t mind
driving four hours to watch a dog show. So gambling’s your vice, right? You’ve got
bookies lined up from here to Atlantic City and you drop a couple grand every weekend
on football.”

“I work too hard for my money to gamble with it,” he replied mildly. “Whoa, look at
that little guy go. Are you watching that, Cisco? That’s the time to beat.”

Cisco grinned at him happily, ears pricking with renewed expectation as he watched
Miles’s hand dive into the bag again.

“Whatever you do,” I told him sternly, “don’t feed my dog.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“And make sure that bag is out of sight before we go into the ring.”

“You got it.”

“There are AKC regulations about training on the grounds, you know. And food in the
vicinity of the ring is absolutely forbidden.”

“Easy, sweetheart. Like you said, it’s just a game.”

I gave him a look known to send large dogs trembling to their crates. I could see
him fight back a grin as he crumpled up the empty bag and took out his phone. “Don’t
worry,” he said, scrolling through his messages. “No food, no training, no pissing
off the judge. Horse racing is just a game, too, you know, but two people have been
murdered at the Kentucky Derby in the past ten years alone over a horse.”

I stared at him. “How do you
know
things like that?”

He shrugged, not looking up from his phone. “I keep up.”

I rolled my eyes elaborately, and a woman taking a seat a few feet away from me caught
the expression and grinned. “Husbands,” she said.

“He’s not my husband,” I objected quickly.

Miles said at the same time, “Not her husband.”

That caused me to frown at him a little. I couldn’t say why, but he was still checking
messages and didn’t notice. The woman, who should by now have no doubt as to the nature
of our relationship, nodded at Cisco. “Great dog,” she said. “I was watching you warm
up. He’s got real heart.”

I rubbed Cisco’s ears and said proudly, “Thanks.” Cisco, who always knew when he was
being complimented, tilted his head back to grin at me. “This is Cisco, and I’m—”

“Raine Stockton,” she said. “I know.”

Cisco and I are pretty well known in our hometown, both for our search-and-rescue
work and as a therapy dog team. We get our pictures in the paper now and then, and
if there’s a fundraiser for the humane society, I’m always the one who does the radio
interview. But had our fame spread as far as Pembroke, South Carolina? Even my ego
was having trouble believing that.

My surprise must have been evident because she explained. “I recognized you from
your Facebook page.”

“Oh.” I relaxed. Everyone in dogs was on Facebook and Twitter; we posted action shots
of our champions to each other’s timelines and tweeted our triumphs like gleeful children.
I tried to remember if I’d seen this woman’s picture anywhere before.

“I’m Aggie Connor,” she went on, reaching across the bleacher to extend her hand.
“Celestial Goldens.”

Of course she was. The sweatshirt she wore had the kennel name, Celestial Goldens,
written in script above the happy face of a golden retriever on the front. Since the
AKC frowned upon apparel that identified a dog to the judge, I assumed she must be
here to watch someone else complete. She was a large woman in her forties or fifties
with short curly hair and work-worn hands, and as I shook one of those hands, I made
the connection.

“I know who you are,” I said, relieved to be out of the dark. “My friend, Maude, has
Sundance Goldens.” The dog show world is a relatively small one, and the chances are
good that you will meet someone you know, or almost know, at every show.

She grinned. “I know. My daughter Ginny is running Gunny in Novice. One of Maude’s
dogs is Gunny’s sire.”

I nodded. “Sure, I know Ginny and Gunny.” In fact, I’d never met Ginny, but had admired
her young golden’s focus in the ring, and they had had a clean run.

She nodded proudly. “Gunny is one of the most honest dogs I’ve ever met. There’s nothing
he wouldn’t do for Ginny, and he’ll get his title this weekend. First time out.”

I thought that might be a little optimistic, but smiled encouragingly.

“Maude has fine dogs,” Aggie added. “That’s why I wanted to use one in my breeding
program. I got four champions out of that litter.”

I said, “I’ll be sure to tell her.” But the chances were that Maude already knew the
history of any dog in which her kennel name had been involved. She’d been my father’s
clerk for thirty years and her propensity for meticulous recordkeeping had carried
over into the world of dogs.

Aggie chuckled and confirmed my thoughts with, “She knows. We keep up with each other’s
dogs. In fact, that’s why I’m glad to see you here. Maude’s line has produced some
solid working dogs, and I hear your Cisco has a pretty good start on a career in search
and rescue himself. Ginny’s moving to Boulder next month, and she’s been talking about
training Gunny for avalanche search and rescue when she gets out there. I know she’ll
want to talk to you about it, since Cisco and Gunny are practically cousins.”

I started to protest that I didn’t know anything about avalanche dogs when Miles,
one of the most social people I know and an annoyingly efficient multitasker, glanced
up from text-messaging and invited, “Why don’t you and your daughter have dinner with
us tonight? The hotel dining room isn’t bad. Miles Young,” he added, stretching across
me to offer his hand. “Not her husband.”

Aggie shook his hand, pleased to accept the invitation, and I smiled a little weakly.
Of course I’m always up for spending time with another golden retriever lover, but
I’d kind of been looking forward to room service that night. Room service was, in
fact, the best thing about traveling with dogs.

We chatted a little more, and I learned that both Aggie and her daughter were part
of the host club for this event. Miles held up his phone to me, which displayed a
picture of Melanie standing in front of the Washington Monument, and said, “Mel says
hi.” I told him to tweet hi back from Raine and Cisco, and the next group was called.

“Summer is up,” called the gate steward. “Flame on deck!”

“Flame?” I said, leaning forward to get a better look at the intense little border
collie who was next in line. “As in Neil Kellog and Flame? I didn’t know they were
going to be here!”

“Who are they?” Miles asked.

In the time it took him to ask the question, Summer broke her start-line stay, completely
destroying her handler’s two-obstacle lead out, sailed over the first jump, took a
wrong course, knocked over the bars on the next two jumps, and tore into the tunnel
backward. The whistle sounded when she emerged from the tunnel and jumped over the
seesaw without touching it, and a ring crew flooded in to repair the damage.

“Neil is last year’s national champion, that’s all,” I told Miles, “with his other
dog, Bryte.
And
he won the Standard Cup two years in a row. Bryte’s the fastest dog in the Southeast,
and her sister, Flame, isn’t far behind.” I reached for his phone. “I’ll bet you anything
she’s the next champion. Let me borrow your phone. I want to video this.”

He turned a shoulder to me, eyes on the screen. “Hold on. Downloading from Belgium.
Where’s yours?”

“Back at the camp in Cisco’s crate.”

Now he looked up. “You left your phone in a dog crate? What for?”

“Because that’s where you keep important stuff at a dog show.”