High in Trial - By Donna Ball Page 0,16
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