Black Ribbon (7 page)

Without having really addressed the question of keeping dogs under control, Max hastily excused herself to get the meeting started. Rowdy and I followed her. The crowd had grown to about a hundred people and at least that many dogs. I found a shady spot under an ancient white birch near Cam and Ginny. Cam’s sheltie, Nicky, was stretched out at her side, his head resting on his paws. Wiz had been lying down, too, but she rose to her feet, licked Rowdy’s muzzle, abased herself before him, rolled onto her back, and wiggled. Rowdy sniffed her indulgently. I sat cross-legged on the grass. Rowdy put himself in an alert sit and began a systematic survey of the canine competition. Most of the other dogs napped.

Heather, the self-styled Chief Fecal Inspector, appeared with a small loudspeaker attached to a portable microphone. Maxine took the mike and called the meeting to order. She was no public speaker. The mike squealed. Max shouted a welcome. Everyone applauded. Max said that she was happy to see all of us and excited about camp. She thanked us for having faith in her and for making her dream become a reality. The heat made me drowsy. The temperature couldn’t have been above the high seventies, ten or twenty degrees cooler than Cambridge, but in Rangeley, Maine, it must have been one of the hottest days of the year. I drifted.

Max was talking about the contents of the registration packets we’d received when we’d arrived. She held up a red sheet of legal-size paper and said that she was sure that we were just as excited as she was about the courses and the activities. Everyone should take note of a couple of revisions in the schedule. Canine Good Citizenship testing, originally scheduled for Friday, would take place tomorrow afternoon; and Temperament Testing, scheduled for Thursday, would be held on Tuesday. A murmur greeted the announcement. “That shoots that,” I heard someone grumble. “Tomorrow afternoon, Teddy’s still going to be off the wall.” Rowdy already had his CGC and TT titles, so the changes didn’t affect me, but I
sympathized with the grumbler. Both tests should have been scheduled for the end of the week, when the dogs had adjusted to the novelty of camp.

In response to the muttering, Max said, “I know it’s not ideal, but it’s very complicated to fit in so many activities, and this is the best we could work out. So bear with it, and I’m sure that the dogs will all do just fine.”

“There aren’t all that many activities,” Cam whispered to me. “Half the time, there’s nothing to do. I hope Maxine doesn’t totally blow this thing.” With her usual superb organization, Cam had brought the long red sheet from her registration packet. She tapped a neatly filed fingernail on the paper on what was evidently a gap in the schedule. “At Dog Days,” she said, naming one of Waggin’ Tail’s competitors, “there’s something every second.”

Having neither examined the schedule nor attended another camp, I just shrugged. The microphone screamed. Heather moved the loudspeaker. When Max spoke again, her overamplified voice sounded metallic and oddly distant, as if an android addressed us from afar. “Don’t forget what we’re here for! We’re here to get away from it all! So don’t push your dogs! And don’t push yourselves! This is vacation! RELAX!”

The command jolted me and irked me. If Max had ordered us to set high goals for ourselves and to hurl ourselves at the task of meeting them, I’d have been able to rebel by not doing a damn thing. As Max began to introduce the instructors, though, I remembered why I’d decided that camp would be okay. Chuck Siegel, the show obedience instructor, and Kerry O’Brian, the pet obedience person, were supposed to be first-rate. At a show a while back, Rowdy and I had done an agility miniclinic with Sara Altman, who was terrific. When Maxine asked Sara’s assistants to show themselves, I wasn’t surprised to see that they included Heather. I knew nothing about the people in charge of lure coursing, drill team, flyball, or Frisbee.
I’d never heard of the person giving the workshop on pet tricks, but her little shepherd-mix dog established his owner’s expertise by dropping to the ground, rolling over three times, leaping up, walking on his front legs, and taking a bow that drew wild applause.

“And our breed handling instructor,” Max announced, “Eric Grimaldi.” The name was familiar. Max looked around. “Eric? Eric, stand up. Is Eric here? Well, he’s here somewhere.” The mike echoed tinnily. Max leaned down to listen to someone. “Eric’s still trying to get Elsa out of the lake! Chessies are like that. But you’ll meet Eric at dinner. And now we have a few very special campers I want to introduce—not that everyone isn’t special, but these are people you’ll want to be sure you get a chance to know. From
Dog’s Life
, Holly Winter, who’s brought us our only malamute. Holly?”

I swore under my breath, and popped up and down as fast as possible.

“And we’re honored to have a very distinguished couple, Phyllis and Don Abbott. Everyone knows Don, and a lot of you know Don’s marvelous book about getting started in the fancy. And Phyllis Abbott, one of our most respected obedience judges. Don and Phyllis?” Don Abbott was, of course, the round-faced man who’d been on the deck when I’d left my cabin, the man who’d been too busy with his phone conversation about AKC politics to give Rowdy even a quick glance. Real dog person. When Mrs. Abbott and her husband stood up, I noticed that she wore a silky-looking blouse and navy slacks that would have been suitable even for the formality of the breed ring. In obedience, it’s common to see women judges in informal slacks or warm-up outfits, but when Mrs. Abbott judged she usually wore a conservative suit with a medium-length skirt. By comparison with what Mrs. Abbott wore on judging assignments, then, today’s blouse and navy slacks were unmistakably casual.

While I’m on the subject of judges’ appearance, let me
mention that I’d love to know the full story behind the AKC guidelines on the matter, which sensibly suggest that women conformation judges avoid short or cumbersome skirts, “noisy, dangling jewelry,” and “hats unsuitable for the occasion”; and tantalizingly state that obedience judges “are in the ring to do a job, not to be the center of attention through outlandish dress or bizarre behavior.” So what I want to know is, why the guidelines? Damn, I’d love to have been there! I always envision a long-legged female judge strutting into the ring wearing a miniskirt that barely covers her undies and sporting on her head a gigantic basket of fresh fruit that she proceeds to toss—banana by banana, orange by orange, and grape by grape—to the startled spectators. It must have been some show.

Anyway, neither in the ring nor at camp did Phyllis Abbott wear any hat at all. She had pretty hair, carefully styled waves tinted a distinctive blondish-red. She was a big woman with a powerful build, muscular but not fat. The fussed-over hair softened what could have been a stern appearance. When Max introduced her, Phyllis gave the same tense, well-intentioned smile I remembered from shows. The Abbotts didn’t seem to mind being singled out. Judges are used to attention—they
are
special. For some reason, however, Don Abbott nodded and beamed for longer than I thought necessary. Maybe he hoped that if he looked like an affable guy, everyone would run out and buy his book.

When the introductions were over, Max turned to the final topic of the meeting: camp rules. We were to clean up after our dogs. We were, of course, allowed to take our dogs swimming, but otherwise, except during classes, dogs were to be kept strictly on lead. We were to observe water safety rules. In particular, we were never to swim alone and never to swim at night. The canoes beached by the lake were for everyone’s use, but the paddles were kept in the main house and absolutely had to be returned there. I was disappointed to learn
that once we’d started a course, we were expected to stay with it; popping in and out to sample this and that was against the rules. Instructors, Max said firmly, were hired only to teach their courses, not to work twenty-four hours a day. “Please respect their personal time,” Max told us tactfully. “Oh, here’s Eric! Eric Grimaldi, our breed handling instructor.”

The man was fully dressed and utterly drenched. At his side was the beautiful Chesapeake Bay retriever bitch that Rowdy had admired. Eric had obviously found one way to get Elsa out of the lake: He’d gone in after her. He was so wet that it was hard to see how handsome he was. Then Max made a last introduction. “Oh, I almost forgot Everett! Where’s Everett? Everett is the one who knows how everything works. If your sink gets stopped up, or if your car won’t start, or anything at all, he’s the one you ask. There he is! Everett Dow! Don’t forget. If it breaks, ask Everett!”

From around the side of the main house appeared a lean, tired-looking man dressed in battered boots, green work pants, and a wrinkled plaid shirt. Although Everett Dow just stood there doing absolutely nothing, hackles rose. As if the dogs had consulted with one another and agreed to act in unison, they leaped off the ground, turned toward the man, and barked a chorus of loud alarm. In my years of dog watching, I’d never before seen so unequivocal a display of apparently unprovoked alarm.

When dogs speak with one voice, dog people listen.

TOURIST BUREAUS in Down East Maine and on the Canadian shores of the Bay of Fundy have a hard time persuading tourists to venture north of Bar Harbor. I don’t understand why. When the fog clears, the view of the tiny islands and the healthy green ocean is spectacular, and in mid-August, the temperature of the Atlantic rises to a swimmable sixty-five degrees. The trillions of barely submerged ledges along the rocky, winding coast make for exciting sailing. And the food! Well, you haven’t tasted anything till you’ve sampled pickled whelks. But as I’ve said, it’s still tough to convince summer visitors that the trip is worth it. Directors of visitors’ centers must find the situation frustrating. Even the wildlife won’t cooperate: The newly emerging puffin-watching industry is hampered by the birds’ refusal to nest on the mainland, and the seals continue uselessly to sun themselves on inaccessible rocks instead of flipping out of the water and onto fishing piers where they might productively whirl beach balls on their noses and bark out adorable approximations of spoken English. Historic sites? The event known as
the Machias Rubicon simply will not lend itself to reinterpretation as a turning point of the American Revolution, and, in the absence of a snack bar or, better yet, a tiny theme park, there’s nothing to do where the incident occurred except leap back and forth across a brook, an aerobically beneficial activity, but not one likely to hold a crowd for long. So all I can say is, thank God for Franklin Delano Roosevelt, who, in an act of awe-inspiring self-sacrifice, came down with polio while vacationing on Campobello Island, thus forever luring tourists to the pond where he is supposed to have contracted the disease.

I thought of the FDR Memorial Polio Pond because it was the last place I’d gone swimming, and I was wishing I were there instead of standing on sharp stones in the shallow water at the edge of this lake listening to Eva Spitteler make fun of Rowdy, who was wading happily enough, but had balked at exposing his belly to water. In all other respects, I should add, the scene was idyllic. Mountains surrounded the lake, which must have been at least a mile and a half across and was dotted with picturesque tree-covered islands. On that hot, windless Sunday afternoon, canoes moved silently, sailboats lay becalmed, Jet Skis zoomed, and water skiers zipped back and forth across the wakes of a few noisy boats. If you looked carefully, you could see quite a few docks and floats on the distant shore, but the houses and cabins were set back from the water, their earth-toned rooftops and stone chimneys visible through the trees. Thirty or forty campers and at least that many dogs were swimming in the cove and frolicking along the shore in front of the resort.

“The big sissy,” said Eva Spitteler, who looked even more like a bulldog wet than she did dry. The soaking hair plastered against her head revealed the exceptionally large size of her broad, square skull. Her forehead was flat, her cheeks protruded sideways, and her jaws were not only massive but undershot. In lieu of a bathing suit, she wore green shorts and a long dirt-colored T-shirt. Glued to her torso, the shirt revealed
so many rolls of fat on her midriff and belly that she seemed to possess multiple rows of squishy bosom.

I shouldn’t have tried to coax Rowdy into the lake, but I’d fallen for the sight of the other dogs. Elsa the Chesapeake kept going after a blue-and-white rubber water-retrieve toy that Eric Grimaldi patiently tossed for her. Joy was gently easing her Cairn, Lucky, in for a dip. Westies played. Cam’s sheltie, Nicky, barked and dashed. At some distance from the others, the kissy-face Lab, Wiz, circled Ginny, who swam a smooth old-fashioned sidestroke. A man, a woman, and two English setters peacefully shared one of the resort’s red canoes. Am I neglecting the mixed breeds? They were there, too, large, small, hairy, sleek, bony, corpulent, as varied in size and shape as were we campers ourselves. What did me in were two golden retrievers splashing in and out. Goldens were what I had before I lost my sanity. Except to the extent that dog obedience is a sport dedicated to the proposition that any dog can be taught to act like a golden retriever, I’d always loved Rowdy for who he was, a dog who hated water as passionately as my goldens had loved it. It was true that Rowdy chased ocean waves, but only, I suspected, because they represented a particularly aggressive form of what he hated most: water. The time Kimi knocked him off the dock and into my father’s pond, Rowdy swam very efficiently. That was true, too. Rowdy raced directly to dry land, where he indignantly shook himself off and tore around in what looked like a frantic effort to ward off hypothermia.