The Fast and the Furriest (11 page)

“No,” said Kevin, breathing hard. “I’m good. Think I’ll, um … head over to Zach’s.”

“That’s, like, two miles away, Kev!” said his dad. “You’re running away from Zach’s right now.”

“It’s actually just 1.38 miles away,” said Kevin. He immediately regretted the precision.

“Whoooooaa …,” said Howie. “Sor
-ry
, Mister GPS. My mistake.” He laughed. “Well, would you like a 1.38-mile ride to Zachary’s?” They stared at each other for a moment, father and son. Then Howie continued. “I’m telling you, Kev, big men like you and me—and there’s still a big man in there, in spite of this clothes thing—we weren’t necessarily built for jogging. We’re not your long-distance types.”

Kevin kept staring.

A car behind the Tahoe honked. Howie lifted his arms indignantly.

“Just havin’ a conversation, here!” he shouted. Maggie waved the car around.

Cromwell whimpered. Kevin fingered the timer in his pocket.

“No, I don’t need a ride,” he said impatiently. “Or anything else … I’m good.”

His family stared at him. Izzy chewed her gum.

“I tink it’s gway you’re jogging, Kev!” she said through the gum. “Looggin’ good!”

Kevin stared at the ground, becoming even more self-conscious. “Thanks, Iz,” he said.

Kevin wanted to take off, but his parents just … kept
… talking …

“So have you really been jogging often, honey?” asked Maggie. She leaned across Howie to address her son.

“Well …,” Kevin said, “yeah. I mean … it’s just jogging. You say it like you caught me shoplifting.”

“Hey,” said Howie, pointing a finger at his son. “You know I had my first encounter with the police when I was jus—”

Maggie swatted her husband’s arm again, this time with somewhat more force.

“Wrong lesson, dear,” she said tersely. Then she turned back to Kevin.

“No one’s saying it’s a bad thing, this jogging. It’s just not … um …” Maggie looked away. “It’s not really typical of you.”

“How the heck would you even
know
what’s ‘typical’ of me?” asked Kevin.

Cromwell whined again, then bumped Kevin’s leg with his nose.

“Does anyone know what a typical day is for me?” demanded Kevin. His annoyance was rising. “Anyone? Any guesses?”

Howie pulled the Tahoe to the curb.

“Listen, Kev,” he began, “I mean … I think we got your schedule pretty well down: sleep, eat, TV, eat, TV, slee—”

“See, that’s just what I mean!” Kevin huffed.

But he recognized that he was going too far. He wasn’t prepared to disclose the training with Elka; not now. That might involve a discussion of the unspoken arrangement with Coach Z. And that was a conversation he didn’t want to have, ever. It was actually convenient to have everyone think that he was the same old Kevin Pugh, with couch potato tendencies but a newfound interest in fitness.

“What
do
you mean, Kev?” asked his dad.

“I just … well, okay, it’s true that there is some eating and some TV. But you think that’s, like, my whole life?”

Before Howie could nod in response, Maggie delivered another small swat.

“Well, it’s not,” continued Kevin. “I just don’t want you to think I’m completely inert. I move. I train.”

“For football, yeah?” asked Howie.

Not in a thousand lifetimes, no
, thought Kevin.

“Well, sure,” he said. He stared at his father, unblinking.

“He is eating all weird,” said Izzy, removing her gum. “That’s for sure.”

“The boy was born eatin’ weird,” said Howie. “Had his first McRib before he even had baby teeth.”

“No,” said Izzy, “I mean, like, he’s been eating good stuff—non–fast food stuff. And fewer snack cakes, too.”

“Is that right, Kev?” asked Howie. “Really?” It was almost as if his son were being accused of witchcraft.

“Yes, Dad.” Kevin shook his head and groaned. “Come on, Cromwell.”

Kevin tugged at the dog’s leash, and the pair took a few quick steps.

Howie lurched the SUV forward and leaned his head out the window.

“Hey!” he yelled. “We’re tryin’ to talk to you, Kev. Come on … you say we don’t ask things, so here we are, asking.”

Kevin stopped.

“Yes, Dad, I have been eating a little differently.”

“For football?” asked Howie.

Heck no
, thought Kevin.

“Right,” he said. Kevin then looked at Maggie. “You actually buy the food, Mom. You haven’t noticed that I’m not eating just chips and cream-filled snack cakes? At all? You really haven’t noticed?”

She opened her mouth, but said nothing.

“I eat bananas and apples and stuff lately—right in front of you! Like at the table, in full view of everyone. Izzy can confirm it.”

“I think your, um … your weight loss initiative is lovely, Kevin,” said Maggie tentatively.

“It’s not a
weight loss
initiative!” Kevin said.

“It’s a football initiative,” said Howie, evidently satisfied. He honked the horn, which, of course, played the chorus of “The Super Bowl Shuffle.”

“Ohmy
gawd
, ohmygawd!” said an excited passerby. He wore a backwards Bears cap and his mouth was hanging open. “You’re Howie Pugh! Oh … my
… God …
”

“Hey, how ya doin’, kid,” said Howie with a practiced grin.

He wasn’t actually speaking to a kid, of course, but to a large grown adult male. But to Kevin, the dude looked a bit childish, fawning in front of his dad like that.

The man looked back and forth between Kevin and Howie.

“I … I’m totally sorry,” he stammered. “I’m interrupting. Very sorry.” Flustered, he dug into a pocket, withdrew a pen, and removed his cap. “If I could just maybe get you to sign the cap, Mr. Pugh, that’d be
so
awesome … I’m a
huge
fan….”

“Sure thing, kid.” Howie took the pen and the cap.

“Saw you play, back in the day,” continued the fan. “You were awesome….”

“Thanks, kid.”

Kevin turned on his iPod, clicked the timer, and tugged at Cromwell’s leash. He caught Izzy’s eye, then quickly spun on his heels and ran. Kevin furrowed his brow and dropped his head. The dog bounced happily beside him.

“You could sign hats someday,” he grumbled to Cromwell. The dog woofed. “Or dog sweaters, or something.”

Kevin arrived at Zach’s house drained from the jog, demanding virtual competition. Zach, of course, obliged.

Down arrow … left arrow … “A” button …

“You’re getting better in coverage,” Kevin said.

“Hmpf,” said Zach. “I don’t need your pity.”

“No, you tackled me almost right after the catch there—that 37-yard catch.”

“A” button … left arrow … right arrow …

“So are you sure that was the best move, not just telling your mom and dad about the agility stuff?” said Zach.

“No,” answered Kevin. “I don’t know the best move, exactly. I don’t wanna talk about it. I’d rather talk about how you can’t stop the Waggle.”

Up arrow … up arrow … left arrow … “A” button …

“You’ll eventually need to have the dog-versus-football talk.”

“But not
now
. With
you
.”

“Well, no, but …”

“… but you want to make sure your investment is secure.”

Zach was silent for a moment, then said, “Maybe.”

“Well, it’s secure. I’m just putting off the talk. Maybe until after the thing this week.”

“The Paw Patch Invitational?”

“That’s the one.”

“A” button … “A” button … “B” button …

“Elka says that the top finisher moves on to some Midwest Kennel something-something championships. This is apparently a big deal—it’s at the United Center.” Kevin’s thumb pounded the controller. “This is what she says.”

“Dude! Team Cromwell will
dominate
. Your dog is a
bolt of furry lightning! He’s a, a, a … well, he’s going to dominate!”

“Two things wrong with that,” said Kevin. “One,
I
am not a bolt of lightning. And two, Cromwell is not at all times what you would call disciplined. He moves fast—weirdly fast. But the deductions add up. That’s what kills us. We always have, like, two minutes of penalties.”

“As the manager of Team Cromwell, these are shortcomings that I expect you—my employee—to address.”

“Workin’ on it, boss,” said Kevin.

Up arrow … left arrow … up arrow …

Kevin intercepted Zach’s quarterback’s pass.

“Sweet!” said Kevin.

“Gaaaaaarrgh,” said Zach.

“Touchdown!” said Kevin.

“We need to make T-shirts.”

“Dude, I beat you at Madden all the time. It’s not really a shirt-worthy achievement.”

“No, fool. For Team Cromwell—we need T-shirts. For the Paw Patch thing. And then we’ll need ’em for the Midwest Kennel blah-bitty-blah championships.”

“Which, just to be clear, we won’t qualify for.”

“Whatever, Kevin. We need uniforms.”

Kevin snickered.

“We’ll get jerseys. Howie Pugh respects sports with jerseys, right?” asked Zach.

“I can’t imagine Howie appreciating anything about his son and dog jumping over little plastic obstacles, actually.”

“Who’s the best dog at Paw Patch?” asked Zach.

“Why, are you gonna do something to them? Like send threats, written in dog language? Or poison their kibble?”

“I like your cutthroat attitude, Kevin. But no. Just scouting the competition. If you’re going to be the best, you have to beat the best. That’s what they say in sports. At least that’s what they say on Sports Center.”

“There’s no
best
dog, really,” said Kevin. “Elka has trained an army of drones. You’ve seen ’em. They’re like machines, little dog-bots.” A virtual broadcaster was excitedly discussing the details of an on-screen injury. “I think most of the reason Elka likes Cromwell is that she hasn’t exactly made him a dogbot quite yet.”

“He’s like a dog stallion,” said Zach. “Can’t break him. Run free, li’l furry stallion.”

“You’re odd,” said Kevin.

“B” button … up arrow … left arrow …

“And you need to choose your receivers a little quicker.”

Up arrow … left arrow … up arrow …

“Another touchdown,” Kevin said flatly.

“Try to keep some of this dominance in reserve for the invitational, dude.”

Kevin smiled. “Sorry, buddy. It’s hard to control. You just never know when the awesomeness will burst forth.”

K
evin and Cromwell continued their daily training runs up to that Friday, the day of the Invitational, and their times continued to improve, if only slightly. Izzy ran with them once and—to Kevin’s total astonishment—she actually seemed tired when it was over. The Monday and Wednesday sessions with Elka went reasonably well, too, but Cromwell remained a deduction machine. He collided with too many things to ever post a seriously competitive time. Cromwell didn’t actually break any obstacles or dogs, though, and that seemed like a promising development.

Despite the fact that they’d jogged together, Kevin had still said nothing to his sister about dog agility—or to anyone else. It had become a weight he carried with him. Would his parents actually mind? Probably.
His dad certainly would. These were the classes that he refused to pay for, after all. Would this raise more questions about Kevin’s future commitment to football? Or worse, about his departure from camp at Scherzer? Possibly. The risks of discussing dog agility were too many, Kevin decided, and the benefits were too few.

He might have been nervous on Friday morning, were it not for his certainty about the results—they were going to finish near the bottom of the field, no question. Expectations were low all around. So no need to worry.

Zach, however, seemed unusually edgy.

“Big day for us,” he whispered to Kevin as the friends and family of Paw Patch clients filtered into the training area. “
Huge
day.” Zach cracked his knuckles, a nervous habit. “Just huge.”

“Sweet shirt,” said Kevin, mockingly.

Zach tugged at the bottom of his mesh jersey, then admired the green lettering:

Below the name was a very large number 1.

“I think it’s sweet,” said Zach, still whispering. “You should wear yours, dude. In fact, you should do
whatever I ask. Let’s try to remember who’s funding this operation.”

“Even if you gave me every cent of your three-thousand-and-whatever dollars you’ve got left, I still wouldn’t wear that jersey,” said Kevin. “No way, no chance. It’s teal. Not a good color for me.”

Cromwell began bouncing excitedly as dogs and their handlers lined up along the sidelines of the course.

Elka had arranged a refreshments table with an awful-looking reddish-brown punch, onion crackers, unpleasant-looking cheese, and some sort of unidentifiable fruit that wasn’t quite orange but not exactly pink. There were also dog treats and rawhides.

Cromwell continued to bounce, and soon began to whine.

“Shhh,” said Kevin. “It’s okay, boy.” He stroked the dog’s head.

“Maybe he wants his jersey,” said Zach. “It might calm him down.” He produced a smaller teal shirt from his backpack.

“No, um … I think the jersey would freak him out more. He’s not a clothes-wearing kind of dog.”