High in Trial - By Donna Ball Page 0,3
dog shows are junk food nirvana.
He offered me the bag of chips, but I shook my head—bad idea to load up on corn chips before a run—and explained, “Okay, right now we’re watching the Excellent B Class, which is pretty much as hard as it gets. What’s more, this is the twenty-inch jump height group—border collies and Aussies, mostly, who are some of the fastest dogs in the world. Unless you actually have a border collie or an Aussie, you really don’t want to be in that group. Those numbers on the cones beside each piece of equipment mark the course. The object is to get your dog to follow the numbers faster and with fewer mistakes than any other dog. The trick is that you have to memorize the course and you don’t get to practice it with your dog beforehand. But you see the way they’re arranged in loops and figure eights and weird triangles? The handler has to do some pretty fancy maneuvering to get his dog from one obstacle to the other without tripping over him. You’re not allowed to touch your dog. You get disqualified if you do. It’s all done with body language and voice commands. The team with the fastest time and the fewest faults wins first place, and at the end of the weekend, the dog with the highest overall score wins high in trial.”
There was, of course, a great deal more to it than that, but most people who weren’t themselves agility competitors would have a hard enough time following the action even with that broad outline of the rules. Miles, however, was unfazed. In the short time I’d known him I discovered his interests were eclectic and his curiosity unbounded; he had very little trouble catching on to new things.
“Hmm.” Miles watched a border collie sail off the teeter-totter and dash through the tunnel. The judge’s hand flew up. “So, do people bet on these things or what?’
“What do you mean, bet?”
“You know, like at the dog track. The greyhounds.” He dug into the bag again, focused on the Australian shepherd who was sailing over the first set of serpentine jumps. Cisco turned to him hopefully, the crinkling of the bag having successfully drawn his attention away from Brinkley.
“Of course not.” I was mildly offended. “Don’t be silly.”
“Then what’s the percentage?” He started to sneak a corn chip to Cisco, caught my look, and pretended innocence as he popped the chip into his own mouth instead. “Who pays for the training, the prizes, the shows? What do you get out of it?”
“Entry fees pay for the shows,” I explained patiently, “and the sponsoring dog clubs do all the work. As for the prizes—a few hundred dollars cover the ribbons and dog toys. What did you think, there was a jackpot cash prize for high in trial?” I shrugged. “We do it for the fun of it, that’s all. It’s a game.”
He gave a slow shake of his head. “Wasted opportunity,” he said. “If Vegas ever gets word of this, look out.”
I helped myself to a chip—okay, a couple of chips—and gave him a suspicious look. “Okay, you don’t drink, you don’t smoke, you hardly ever swear, and you don’t mind driving four hours to watch a dog show. So gambling’s your vice, right? You’ve got bookies lined up from here to Atlantic City and you drop a couple grand every weekend on football.”
“I work too hard for my money to gamble with it,” he replied mildly. “Whoa, look at that little guy go. Are you watching that, Cisco? That’s the time to beat.”
Cisco grinned at him happily, ears pricking with renewed expectation as he watched Miles’s hand dive into the bag again.
“Whatever you do,” I told him sternly, “don’t feed my dog.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“And make sure that bag is out of sight before we go into the ring.”
“You got it.”
“There are AKC regulations about training on the grounds, you know. And food in the vicinity of the ring is absolutely forbidden.”
“Easy, sweetheart. Like you said, it’s just a game.”
I gave him a look known to send large dogs trembling to their crates. I could see him fight back a grin as he crumpled up the empty bag and took out his phone. “Don’t worry,” he said, scrolling through his messages. “No food, no training, no pissing off the judge. Horse racing is just a game, too, you know, but two people have been murdered at the Kentucky Derby in