curious heads appeared from within the stalls as the two burst from the barn and made a beeline toward the open field. Along the way, others took up the chorus, “Loose dog! Loose dog!”
As everyone knows, the worst thing you can do when your dog is running away is to chase him. A dog being chased only runs faster, delighted with the opportunity to prove once again to all concerned that nothing on two legs will ever match the speed of a canine on four. Nonetheless, when your dog is headed toward the horizon at the speed of light, it’s almost impossible not to run after him, so run is what I did.
I reached the outside of the barn just as Miles called, “Raine, catch!”
I spun around and snatched the bag of cheese puffs he tossed from the air. I called, “Cisco, here!” and snapped open the bag in the same moment.
Cisco had to be fifty yards away, but, like most dogs, he can hear the opening of a treat bag from the other side of the continent. He stopped, turned, pricked his ears, and raced back to me, the little border collie tearing along beside him. They were in full-out play mode now and were not about to break up the team.
From out of the corner of my eye I saw someone jogging in my direction and I heard her call out, but I was entirely too focused on my dog to pay much attention. Cisco galloped toward me, his eyes on the bag of cheese puffs and the border-collie zigzagging at his side, when I heard a woman call, “Bryte, come!” The border collie veered off and Cisco’s head turned in her direction. I called, “Cisco, no!” and he swung back. The two dogs collided, rolled in the dust, and bounced up again just as the woman plowed into the fray, moving too fast to stop. She went down in a tangle of arms and legs and paws and tails.
You might think the proper thing to do in a situation like that would be to rush to help the fallen, but if I had done that I would have lost both dogs again. So I mustered my most commanding voice, said again, “Cisco, here,” and plunged my hand into the bag of cheese puffs. Both dogs skidded to a stop in front of me.
“Hold on to her!” cried the woman, stumbling to her feet.
I slipped the leash that I keep perpetually draped around my shoulders over Cisco’s neck and plied both dogs with cheese treats and praise while the woman hurried toward us. I glanced at her long enough to inquire, “Are you okay?” and I saw it was Neil Kellog’s girlfriend, Marcie.
Her white shorts were covered in dust and dog slobber and her tee shirt was ripped from collar to hem, apparently the victim of a careless dog claw. She held the remnants closed with one hand, barely covering her satiny bra, as she grasped Bryte’s ruff with the other.
“Thank God you caught her,” she said, gasping. “This is Neil’s dog. I was putting her back in her crate when she took off. She never would listen to me. He’d kill me if anything happened to her.”
This was a far different woman than the one I’d seen arguing with Neil earlier, and the fact that she seemed inclined to overlook Cisco’s part in the fiasco—as well as her own bleeding knee—made me more disposed to like her than I had been earlier. I noticed Bryte wasn’t wearing a collar, and I said, “Hold on. I’ve got a spare leash.”
I took Cisco back to our stall and zipped him securely inside his crate. “This is starting to look more like the roller derby than a dog show,” observed Miles as I dug through my bag for a first aid kit and spare leash.
“I just hope she doesn’t realize it was Cisco who tripped her,” I muttered in reply. I grabbed my spare sweatshirt from the bag and ran back out to Marcie.
“Here,” I said, offering her the sweatshirt. “Yours is kind of…” I made a fluttering gesture across my chest to indicate the scraps of her tee shirt that remained.
She looked up from dropping the loop leash over Bryte’s neck and seemed surprised at the extent of the damage as she glanced down at her clothes. “Oh,” she said, once again pulling the pieces together with one hand. She accepted the sweatshirt and transferred Bryte’s leash to me.