High in Trial

FIVE

Twenty-one hours before the shooting





My mother used to say that you can learn more from playing games than from anything else in life, as long as you pay attention. For example, from chess you learn patience, from tennis you learn how to keep your eye on the ball, from soccer and basketball you learn no one wins by himself, and from football you learn good financial planning because your career will very likely be short. I’ve learned a lot from running agility, but perhaps the most important thing is not to give up until you cross the finish line, because in this game it really isn’t over until it’s over.

The average person might think that once your dog has knocked you off your feet and given you a bloody nose the game is over and, all things considered, that might be a good time to give up. But the average person, not having competed with Cisco for almost two years, would have no way of knowing that we’d been in much worse spots than that. I barely hit the ground before I sprang up again, shouting Cisco on. Cisco took the last two jumps and crossed the finish line on his way to answer Brinkley’s tempting call, and that’s how I came now to hold a blue ribbon in my hand. Not red, not green, but blue. In dogs, as in life, you don’t always have to be the best to win; sometimes all it takes is for everyone else to be worse than you are. And sometimes the gods just smile on you. Cisco and I had taken first place in our jump height, and I suspect the reason was a combination of the two.

“It’s probably not broken,” Miles said, gently placing a paper towel-wrapped plastic bag of ice across the bridge of my nose, “but you’re going to have a shiner. Are you sure you don’t want to go to the emergency room?”

I just grinned at him, hugging my furry golden hero with one arm while I admired the blue ribbon I held in the other hand. “Did you see him? He was a magic dog! Like lightning! Did I tell you what our time was? 58.3! And that’s with the course fault, which means he really ran it in 53.3 seconds! What do you think of that?”

“I think you may have a concussion. You sound delirious.”

I laughed and hugged Cisco again. Cisco obligingly swiped my face with his tongue and grinned at me proudly. He knew he’d done good.

Miles sank into a camp chair beside me and scooped out a soft drink from the cooler. We’d returned to our temporary day campsite in the shady open-air livestock barn, where I’d snagged one of the private stalls by being there before the gates opened that morning. The stalls were clean and concrete floored, big enough for four or five dogs and a couple of people in each one, along with crates, coolers, camp chairs, and all the other paraphernalia required for a dog show. And, most importantly, they were gated, so Cisco could wander around free while we were there. It was almost as good as having an RV. Cisco’s travel bag, with his training treats, toys, collapsible bowls, pick-up bags, a chamois square for drying muddy paws, and space blanket to serve as sunshade or wind block, plus a battery-operated fan in case the weather turned hot, sat atop his crate. Next to it was my travel bag, with sunblock, insect repellent, extra socks, a spare Golden Retriever Club of America sweatshirt, first aid kit, emergency shoelaces, and a couple protein bars. I never knew how long my day would last at one of these big trials, so it paid to come prepared.

Behind us was a big grassy field for exercising dogs, liberally dotted with waste cans and signs reminding people to pick up after their dogs. A couple of people were tossing flying discs or balls for their dogs; others were practicing attention exercises or sit-stays. At the edge of the field, minivans and SUVs were parked, most with their hatchback doors open and crated dogs inside. Some of the dogs were seasoned veterans who knew the value of conserving their energy; others, mostly border collies, passed the time in frantic barking.

“The first trial we ever competed in,” I said happily, “Cisco ran half the course and then jumped in the ring steward’s lap.”

“I take it you’re not supposed to do that.”

“Not if you don’t want to get disqualified. It’s considered a major off-course.” I ruffled Cisco’s ears affectionately. “Last year I was running Mischief when Cisco broke out of his crate and ran the entire course by himself. Fastest time of the day. Of course, he didn’t exactly run the course the judge had laid out, and we were excused for the rest of the trial, but that’s when I knew he really had a talent for agility. We’ve come a long way.”

“Doesn’t surprise me a bit.” He popped the top on the soft drink and passed it to me, then took another for himself. “I always back the winner.” He turned on his phone. “You looked really good,” he added, “up until the crash. Do you want to see the video?”

I removed the ice pack from my face and leaned over to watch the video. It was pure poetry in motion up until, as Miles pointed out, the last five seconds or so. I couldn’t help grinning as I relived our triumph and wincing when it got to the end. I knew it was only by the grace of God and the judge’s good mood that the collision had resulted in a mere five points off for bad handling rather than an elimination, which is what I’d assumed the judge would call when I went down. If I hadn’t gotten up and finished the course anyway, that’s exactly what would have happened.

Miles pressed a button on the phone. “Just sent it to Mel. She wanted to know how Cisco did.”

I dug in my travel bag for Cisco’s brush. “Wait, you should send her a picture.”

I was making it a point to chronicle our big weekend on Facebook and had already posted pictures of our arrival at the hotel, loading up the SUV, arriving at the fairgrounds, our crating area in the livestock barn, our practice jumps, and many of the dogs who were competing against us. I would post the picture of our blue ribbon double the size of the other photos, but Melanie deserved the first look.

Miles’s phone chimed with a text message. He grinned as he read it, then held it out to me. Melanie texted: Is Cisco okay?

Spoken like a true dog person. I was the one crumpled on the ground in the video, but she was worried about my dog. I couldn’t fault her for that. I finished brushing down Cisco, straightened my Air Bud cap, and picked up the blue ribbon. “Okay, send her this.” He snapped the photo of me kneeling with my arm around Cisco, holding the blue ribbon in front of his chest and grinning around my puffy nose and purple eye like I’d just won Olympic gold, and sent it off to Washington. I said, “Send it to my phone, too. I want to put it on Facebook.”

“Done. Both videos too.”

“Thanks.” I got up and leaned outside the half door of the stall to hang the ribbon from one of the overhead nails that were provided for that purpose. I saw that some of the other competitors had already accumulated four or five ribbons, and some of them had even brought banners with their dog’s name or their kennel name emblazoned on them to hang over the stall entrance. Really, the lengths to which some people will go in this game… I wondered where I could get a banner with Cisco’s name on it before tomorrow.

From where I stood I could see the parking area with its line of minivans and SUVS with the back hatches open, part of the dog walk area and play field, and the corner of the jumpers-with-weaves ring, which was empty now. In less than an hour, Cisco and I would be making our second and last run of the day in that very ring. I saw Brinkley and his handler, heading toward the field with a Frisbee, and waved. She waved back and called, “Congratulations!” and I returned, “Thanks!” I wasn’t sure whether I should ask her to make sure to keep Brinkley out of sight during our next run or offer to pay her to stand with him at the finish line.

That was a joke, of course. I would never cheat in agility.

But the thought, along with a glimpse of Neil Kellog’s girlfriend, Marcie, taking one of her border collies out of a crate in the back of a minivan, reminded me of something that had been nagging at me all afternoon. I turned back. “Say, Miles…”

But his phone buzzed just then and he held up a finger as he glanced at the screen. “Need to get this one, babe.”

I rolled my eyes—he knows I hate it when he calls me “babe”—and he answered, “Miles Young.” He edged past me through the gate, brushing a kiss across my eyebrow as he did so, and took the call outside.

I made sure the gate was closed firmly behind him, settled Cisco down with a chew bone, and dug into my bag for my own phone. I sank back into my chair and enjoyed the video of our win one more time, then pulled up the other video Miles had sent. I watched Flame zip around the course as though she’d memorized it herself. I watched her stutter at the finish line and turn back, clearly frustrated, to return to her handler. I watched it again. I slowed it down. I zoomed in. I froze the action. By this time Miles had returned and I called him over.

“Look at this,” I said.

“Honey, no offense, but I’ve seen it.”

“No, seriously, look.” He bent to look over my shoulder, and I made him watch the last few frames of the video in slow motion and then froze it at the point at which Flame was almost to the finish line and Neil, half turned from the camera, extended two fingers down toward the ground. “I saw him make that same hand signal this afternoon, and Flame came right to heel. Ginny said all his dogs are trained to hand signals, that’s how he can send them around the course without saying a word—as long as they can see him, of course. So when he fell, he started calling the commands—but he never told her to take the last two jumps. She was trying to do that on her own, until she made the turn at the last jump and he was suddenly in her line of sight again. Then, here…” I pointed. “He called her back with a hand signal no one could hear.” I frowned. “That must be what Marcie meant when she said, ‘I saw what you did.’ And why she was so mad—apparently they have some kind of contract about the dogs, and she was claiming he was in violation. But why in the world would he do that? Flame is partly his dog, too.”

“Easy,” Miles said, straightening. “Fifty thousand dollars.”

I stared at him. “What?”

“Didn’t you just say he co-owns that dog? That means he has to split any winnings on it fifty-fifty.”

I scowled, not because his theory didn’t make sense, but because it did.

“Their contract probably calls for due diligence,” Miles added, “so he couldn’t refuse to handle the dog and do his best to win—or at least make it look that way.”

“But if he doesn’t go to the Standard Cup, he doesn’t get the money, either,” I pointed out.

“You’d be surprised what a man will do to screw his ex out of alimony,” replied the man who’d been divorced three times.

Apparently I couldn’t keep the suspicion out of my eyes because he held up a quick hand in self-defense. “Present company excepted, of course.”

Then he said, “Listen, hon, as much as I’m enjoying it, I’m going to have to cut out on this shindig a little early. I’m meeting one of my architects back on Edisto at four and it’s an hour drive. Do you need any help packing up this stuff before I go?”

I couldn’t hide my disappointment. “I have another run today!”

“I know, and I can’t wait to hear about it. I know you’ll kick butt.”

I stood and watched him fold up his camp chair and gather his cap and sunglasses. Cisco, sensing something interesting was about to happen, lifted his head from his bone alertly. “So is that why you came here?” I accused skeptically. “To meet with your architect?”

“Of course not. I came to be with you. And,” he confessed because he was, for the most part, an exasperatingly honest man, “to meet with my architect.”

Miles and I have a fairly casual relationship. Monogamous, but casual in the sense that I don’t keep tabs on him and he doesn’t keep tabs on me. His home base is Atlanta; mine is North Carolina. He flies to Dubai for the weekend and I pack up the SUV for a three-day dog show and neither of us feels the need to inform the other of our plans unless it comes up in conversation. I like it that way. I certainly didn’t expect him to check with me before he went on a business trip. Still…

“What’s in Edisto anyway?”

“A beachfront condo project.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Miles! When are you ever going to stop pillaging the environment and improving on nature with a bulldozer?” And even though I wasn’t really surprised, I was a little disappointed to learn he hadn’t made the trip just to support me at the agility trial. That probably made my tone grumpier than it should have been.

“I’m not pillaging,” he replied mildly, glancing one last time at the screen of his phone. “In fact, this is an award-winning eco-friendly design.”

“Oh, I’m sure the sea turtles appreciate that. Not to mention all the residents who can’t wait to see their beach turned into a tourist trap.”

“Hate to tell you, hon, but it already is. There are more condos on that beach than seashells, and mine is the only one that’s moving toward a negative environmental impact.”

I really didn’t enjoy being outmaneuvered in my own area of expertise. I glared at him. “There is such a thing as ‘greenwashing,’ you know.”

“I sure do. There’s a ton of federal money available for it. ”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Miles.” Exasperation was exactly what I felt for him at that moment. “Is work the only thing you know how to do? Don’t you ever play?”

“Absolutely.” He took out his keys and snagged a mini bag of cheese puffs from my snack collection, presumably for the drive. “Eighteen holes every Tuesday and Thursday, weather permitting.”

“Will you be back tonight?”

“Probably not,” he admitted. “It depends on how long the meeting runs. Enjoy dinner with your friends. It’s on me.”

“You’d better believe it,” I muttered, hiding my disappointment with a scowl. Now I knew why he’d been so quick to suggest I have dinner with Aggie. But if I’d known he wasn’t going to be there, I really would have preferred room service.

He came forward and kissed me, gently but thoroughly, then tilted my chin with his index finger and smiled into my eyes. “See you tomorrow, okay?”

By now you’re probably wondering just what I see in Miles, anyway. Perhaps I’ve failed to mention his eyes. And his smile. And there’s that whole kissing thing.

I was just about to forgive him and send him on his way when there was a commotion outside. Cisco stood up, ears forward, and barked. I glanced toward the door just as a black-and-white blur streaked by, and I heard the most dreaded words of any dog show: “Loose dog!”

The echo hadn’t even faded before my own dog scrambled past me, barking gleefully, and sailed over the gate.



~*~