Black Ribbon (3 page)

Never been to Maine? If so, I’ll do my best to take you along, but I have to admit that I notice pines, firs, spruce, hemlock, maples, and birches principally in their absence. If
the Mooselookmeguntic Four Seasons Resort Lodge and Cabins had been denuded of vegetation, I’d probably have winced at the cruel, raw look of recent clear-cutting. If the mountains had flattened out since my last visit, or if a big dry hollow had stretched itself in the background where the lake belonged, or if the big log-cabin lodge and matching little cabins hadn’t been there at all, I might have wondered whether I’d taken a wrong turn and landed us in the Desert of Maine. As it was, tall trees and thick undergrowth surrounded the big grassy field on one side of the newly blacktopped parking lot, and mature trees rose here and there around the numerous buildings, which, as the brochure had promised, looked newly refurbished. What had obviously been an old fishing and hunting camp had, indeed, become a resort. The logs and the cedar siding had fresh coats of stain, every roof was brand-new, and every paintable piece of trim—doors, window frames, window boxes, shutters—was a bright, high-gloss crimson. If I’d randomly turned in at the long drive to the resort in search of a place to spend the night, I wouldn’t even have bothered to ask whether there was a vacancy; I’d have taken one look, turned around, and driven off to find a room I could afford. I wouldn’t really have cared. Whenever I feel poor, I remember that I’d rather have my dogs than other people’s money.

So, scholarship camper that I was, I proudly led Rowdy across the grass to the crowded registration area that had been set up in the field.

“Holly Winter,” I told the woman who stood behind the table running her eyes and hands through the manila folders crammed into a portable plastic file box. At first glance, I assumed that she must be an agility instructor. Quick introduction to agility: timed obstacle course for dogs. Canine playground. Anyway, the filing woman had straight, bristly hair cut so short that its color vanished into her scalp, a style I associate with agility people, who are so single-mindedly devoted
to their sport that they pare down all other aspects of their lives to become the ascetics of dog athletics, lean fanatics with sinewy muscles and burning eyes. Their hair and everything else, too: If it gets in the way of agility, bind it back, or cut it right off. No breasts showed through the woman’s plain white T-shirt. I wondered whether she’d carried her commitment to excess. Like almost everyone else, however, she wore a name-tag pin, a white square with an outline of red curlicues, the words
Waggin’ Tail
across the top, and the motto
Ruff It In Luxury
across the bottom. In between, hand-printed in red Magic Marker, was her name, Heather, with something illegible beneath.

“Chief Fecal Inspector,” said Heather, her voice and expression as flat as her chest.

Holding out Rowdy’s health certificate, I stammered, “He’s, uh, he’s negative. We just had a stool sample checked.”

Heather tapped a blunt-nailed finger against her name tag. “I saw you looking. It’s my job. Chief Fecal Inspector.” The corners of her thin lips inched upward. “Camp rule,” she explained. “Clean up after your dog, or I’m the one who yells at you.” She glanced at Rowdy, who was eyeing the Chesapeake bitch. “And don’t let him leave his mark on the agility equipment, either! Winter? And Rowdy.”

I nodded compliantly. My customary friendliness and volubility were hard to suppress. For example, I had to fight the urge to ask Heather whether she was, in fact, a double Amazon. She removed a fat brown envelope from one of the manila folders, thrust it into my hand, and directed me to the next stop on my registration pilgrimage. “Get a pin,” she ordered me. As an apparent afterthought, she said, “Welcome to Waggin’ Tail.” The camp’s name seemed to embarrass her. I began to like Heather.

“Welcome to Waggin’ Tail!” The cry, unabashed this time, emanated from a fortyish woman with a soft, round face, faded blue eyes, a mop of springy yellow-gray curls, and pale
skin brightened by networks of prominent veins, red on her face, blue on her legs. Despite the SPF-30 pallor, she had an outdoorsy look. She was plump in the middle and nowhere else, and wore khaki shorts and a Waggin’ Tail T-shirt, gray with red letters.

“Maxine,” I said. When I’d asked Bonnie what Maxine McGuire was like, she’d provided the only introductory information of any concern to anyone in the fancy:
“Very
nice dogs,” Bonnie had pronounced. As I’ve said, Bonnie and Maxine both had mastiffs. The only representative of the breed in sight, the adolescent male who’d already caught my eye, was dozing under a nearby tree. So how did I recognize Max McGuire? Let me explain that after extended periods of time spent in the company of dogs, even an unlikely ESP prospect like me acquires the ability effortlessly to discern the names of total strangers. Get a dog! It’ll change your life. Actually, I read her name tag. “I’m Holly Winter,” I told her.

In contrast to Heather, Maxine greeted this unremarkable piece of information with an effusive and nervous-sounding display of surprise and delight. The surprise couldn’t have been genuine—I’d sent in all my forms—but the delight was certainly heartfelt. Its object, of course, was the article I’d write for
Dog’s Life.
If Rowdy and I had looked like the wolfman accompanied by the bride of Dracula, Maxine would still have gushed over us. “What a
beautiful
dog! You
do
show him, don’t you?”

I nodded. Rowdy preened. Maxine fired off an anxious volley of questions, instructions, comments, and bits of information. I had my registration packet, didn’t I? But I needed a name tag. Had I seen my cabin yet? It was right on the lake. Phyllis and Don Abbott had the other half of the cabin, but I wasn’t to worry: The entrances were separate, so I’d have plenty of privacy to write. I used to have goldens, didn’t I? I showed them in obedience? Well, maybe I’d shown under Phyllis Abbott, and I knew who Don Abbott was, didn’t I?
Yes, AKC, very big in dogs. Right.
Lovely
people. Wasn’t the heat terrible? Max wasn’t used to it, but we had the lake, didn’t we? And it always cooled off at night. I had brought a bathing suit, hadn’t I? Rowdy was the camp’s only malamute. Did he like to swim? He didn’t? Well, maybe he’d at least like to wade. I could drive right up to my cabin to unload, but afterward, would I please leave my car in the lot. There was an orientation meeting in front of the main house at four o’clock. A lot of people were taking dips in the lake to cool off. What an eager group! Cars had begun arriving at eleven o’clock, two hours before camp was supposed to start, and nothing was scheduled until four, when we had our orientation meeting. Had she mentioned that already? I’d find the schedule in my registration packet. I had picked it up, hadn’t I? Of course I had.

Maxine’s nervous verbal barrage held Rowdy’s attention slightly longer than it did mine. When she paused for a breath, I moved fast. “It
is
terribly hot, and I’d love a swim, and Bonnie sends her best, and she says your dogs are gorgeous, and Rowdy is desperate for some water. Which cabin are we in?”

Ah, the Maine log cabin. The oh-so-charming outdoor plumbing that smells worse than a dog-show Porta Potti on an August afternoon, the ropes of oakum that slip loose to admit snow in the winter and bugs in the summer, the carcinogenic reek of creosote, the nauseating redolence of damp wood stove, the ephemeral stench of moldy mattress in which small rodents have nested, produced their young, perished, and half-decomposed, usually right under the spot on which you lay your weary head. That’s how it used to be. Then tourism triumphed. The indoor flush had no sooner vanquished the outhouse than oakum lost to synthetic caulk, and creosote to odor-free preservative stains. Even as I speak, the mattress-nesting field mouse, Maine’s official state rodent, is probably becoming an endangered species.

In the combination bedroom and living room that occupied the front of my own cabin, the creature was already extinct, its ecological niche destroyed by Blueboard, plaster, and paint, its familiar breeding place replaced by a king-size bed that Rowdy sniffed with mild interest. The beige carpeting had been installed by someone other than a local jack-of-all-trades, as had the pleated blinds, one of which I immediately raised to get a look at the lake and thus the reassurance that I was, after all, in northern Maine. The principal source of my disorientation was, I suppose, the powerful-looking air conditioner built into one wall. Rangeley, Maine, is, after all, the precise spot toward which God Herself directs each immaculate exhalation; the air in Rangeley needed artificial conditioning about the way that water in the Vatican baptismal fonts needs chemical filtration. With water on my mind, I checked out the bathroom. Only a year or two ago, I suspected, when the enterprise had still been a serious fishing and hunting lodge, the shower must have been one of those rusted metal stalls with a dirty plastic curtain magnetically attracted to the human body and a slimy floor with a drain that reliably failed to deserve the name and periodically backed up to spew the contents of the septic tank around the end-of-a-long-day feet of the angled-out fishermen and shot-out hunters who’d come North to escape the city and had only to open their noses and wiggle their toes to understand just how completely they’d succeeded. Pale blue tile with white grout now covered the walls and floor of the room. The toilet was a low-slung, water-conserving model, the dead-white fiberglass tub and shower unit didn’t show a trace of stain, and when I experimented by turning on the faucet at the foreign-looking wash basin, the water didn’t smell like fish or beavers. I hoped that the proprietors of the refurbished lodge weren’t counting on the return of the old customers, who’d take one whiff, turn around, and head back to Boston and New York. The real sportsmen—the
sports
, as they’re called in Maine—would hate the place now.
Me? I grew up in Maine. I thought the bathroom was wonderful.

Having overcome the impulse to fill the tub and have a civilized soak instead of a swim in the lake, I returned to the big front room, where Rowdy had taken advantage of my absence. Dogs aren’t allowed on my bed unless they are explicitly invited. Rowdy understood the rule perfectly: Unless invited, he was to stay off the bed, that is, my bed at home. We weren’t at home. Therefore, this one was up for grabs. And he’d got it first. So his face proclaimed. Have I mentioned Rowdy’s face? White, an “open face,” without the dark markings that make up Kimi’s full mask, but a handsome, commanding face, richly expressive. What it expressed at the moment was intense curiosity about exactly how I intended to lay claim to that bed.

I respect Rowdy too much to lie to him. “Very clever,” I remarked. He flattened his ears against his head. His wagging tail thumped the expensive-looking and probably hand-woven beige bedspread that I was supposed to protect from dog hair. His dark eyes smiled.

Two seconds later, he was off that bed. The secret? Obedience training. How do dogs and people ever survive without it? It’s the essence of human-canine teamwork, perfect interspecies cooperation in which two radically different minds think as one. For instance, the thought on Rowdy’s and my joined mind happened to be food. When I reached into my pocket, extracted a small dog biscuit, and called, “Rowdy, come!” he instantly leaped off the bed. Rowdy is a brilliant trainer. He has shaped my behavior so that I exemplify what the AKC regulations call “the utmost in willingness, precision, and enjoyment.” I now have my CPX—Companion Person Excellent title—and you may look forward to seeing me in the Utility ring soon.

There is, however, one training technique that Rowdy has yet to master. It’s frequently neglected by many human trainers
as well. No one uses it anymore. No one but me. I’m the last true believer in the good old-fashioned talking-to. “That is
my
bed!” I announced. “Mine! And no one invited you on it, and furthermore, dogs are not allowed to deposit hair on the nice bedspreads here, and even if the other dogs were permitted to do it,
you
, buddy, would be forbidden! And the next time I leave you alone in this lovely room that’s a lot fancier than we are, I expect to return and find you on the floor or in your crate or somewhere else where you belong! I do not
ever
want to see you on that bed again unless I have specifically given you permission. Is that understood, buster? That is
my
bed!” I whirled around, raised my arm, and pointed dramatically at the bed.

As it turned out, my fingers led my eye to a buff-colored envelope that rested on the pillow like a sort of stationery version of mints. I wondered whether it contained some tactful reminder to protect the good linens from my dog or whether it might simply be a note of welcome. I opened the envelope. The greeting card inside showed a small watercolor picture of pink-flowering trees, green hills, and a soon-to-set sun. Blue letters across the top of the card read:
With Sympathy on the Loss of Your Pet.
A sentence beneath the watercolor went on:
Our pets are our better selves, honest, trusting, pure.
Bewildered, I opened the card. The preprinted message inside was this:
I know how much you loved your pet and how deeply you are grieving now.

The card was unsigned.