The Fast and the Furriest (14 page)

“You don’t mean that,” said Zach. “You know you like it.”

Kevin smiled, then examined the trophy again. Zach pressed on.

“You won’t stop and you know it—not unless you’re able to pay back your investor. Can you do that?”

Kevin laughed.

“Admit that you sort of want to see what the non-Elka world of dog agility looks like,” said Zach. “Come on …”

“Okay, I do,” said Kevin. “But if it looks anything like Jody and Shasta, then it’s out of our league.”

“Elka seemed happy for Cromwell tonight,” said Zach. “Perhaps a little miffed with me, for whatever reason.”

“Anytime Cromwell doesn’t destroy her equipment, it’s a success,” said Kevin.

“Hey, don’t sell the dog short,” said Zach.

“He’s not a dog, he’s a …”

“… a high-performance machine. So true.”

The machine farted, then rolled over.

A
lthough Kevin was not generally prone to bouts of confidence, he felt unusually accomplished in the days following the Paw Patch Invitational. He carried himself differently, his chin raised a little higher, his voice just slightly louder. He doodled
“0:00:49.600”
everywhere. When Kevin jogged with Cromwell, he made eye contact with other joggers—this was an entirely new habit. Sometimes he even smiled at them. Occasionally he passed someone.

He couldn’t actually keep the trophy in plain view, of course, so he hid it under his mattress at the foot of his bed. He retrieved it from time to time, inspecting it, reminding himself of his new place in the dog agility hierarchy. In particular, he enjoyed the memory of his conversation with the reigning champion of
the Purina Challenge (and of every other meaningful agility event). She seemed legitimately miffed—possibly even rattled—by Kevin and Cromwell’s run. That thought brought him great satisfaction, since he had decided that the girl was fundamentally evil.

All things considered, life was going well for Kevin Pugh, just shy of his thirteenth birthday. His relatively minor summer deceptions hadn’t been uncovered, and they certainly weren’t hurting anyone. Cromwell was happy. Zach was happy. Kevin’s family was happy.

It was happiness all around, basically.

The only aspect of Kevin’s life that had become more difficult was the class with Elka. She drove him harder and demanded more than ever—and it’s not as if Cromwell were suddenly nailing every training run. In fact, it would be accurate to say that the dog didn’t nail
any
training run in the week after the invitational. The dog had improved perceptibly, but he still had only 49.6 seconds of excellence to his credit.

“He will be
splendid
next week,” said Elka.

“Really?” asked Kevin. “Because he’s not so splendid this week.”

Elka scratched the dog’s head. Cromwell slurped her hand.

“Have faith in yourself, Mr. Pugh. And your fine dog.”

Faith was nice, but Kevin also wanted preparation on his side. If he and Cromwell were going to embarrass themselves at the United Center, it wasn’t going to be the result of any lack of pre-race effort. They ran each day, faithfully.

Kevin also decided that he wouldn’t mind some of Elka’s spooky mysticism. When she offered him a homemade CD, he dutifully loaded the songs onto his iPod.

“This music will balance and repair you,” she said.

“I’m lopsided? I’m broken?” he asked.

“We all have our quirks,” Elka said. “You might like the songs, Mr. Pugh.”

And so it came to pass that on an idyllic Saturday morning—five days before the Midwest Kennel Club Championship—Kevin raced through Welles Park with Cromwell, listening to what sounded like angry cats being dragged across the strings of a damaged harp.

“This stuff must be … (deep breath) … kind of an acquired taste,” Kevin said to his dog. “But it’s probably … (deep breath) … on top of the charts in … (deep breath) … well, wherever Elka’s from.”

Kevin shut down the iPod and went music-less.

He listened to park sounds for a little while—birds in trees, kids on swings, cars honking in streets—and glanced down at his dog. Cromwell had, of course,
never been so alert and lively. His tongue flapped, his legs churned. They passed near a dirt field where slovenly men played softball, then another field where small kids played T-ball. Kevin ran hard, and Cromwell kept his pace.

In the distance, Kevin saw a group of kids playing football—there may have been eight of them, or possibly ten. The teams were smallish. It occurred to Kevin that his escape from football camp was easily the strategic highlight of his summer. It had required a flash of inspiration at
just
the right moment, and a coach who gave his full support to an elaborate, unspoken con. Kevin smiled contentedly.

“Tip of the cap … (deep breath) … to Coach Z,” he said. “Without him, Cromwell … (deep breath) … we wouldn’t be where we are today.”

As Kevin drew closer to the game, something about the scene became oddly familiar. But he continued the one-sided conversation with his dog.

“In fact … (deep breath) … I’m willing to say … (deep breath) … that Coach Z actually saved our sum—”

A voice carried across the field.

“Down! Set!”

Kevin stopped in his tracks, no more than thirty yards from the game.

“Lightning, lightning!”

“No … way …,” said Kevin softly, squinting.

Cromwell circled him. Clearly, the dog had not wanted to stop.

“Hut!”
called the voice of the quarterback.

“Okay,” said Kevin in a near whisper. “The ball will be snapped, then everyone will chase the quarterback, and then we’ll just turn around and go.” Cromwell panted. “No one’s ever gonna notice us, boy.”

But someone already had.

The quarterback was no longer waiting for the snap, and he was no longer barking signals. Instead, he’d taken a few steps toward Kevin. He held a hand over his eyes to block the sun.

“Pugh?!”
called Brad Ainsworth Jr. “Is that you, Pugh?”

“Oh, hey,” replied Kevin, trying desperately to sound casual. “How’s it goin’? It’s really been a while. Probably haven’t seen you since … hmm, lemme see …”

“Since you broke my face!” called Brad.

“Yeah,” said Kevin. “I suppose that would be …”

Brad was now sprinting toward Kevin.

“… it.”

“Get him!”
shouted Brad Junior.

“Go, Crom, go!”
shouted Kevin.

“Fight!”
shouted several kids, all of whom chased after him.

Kevin chugged across the grass at top speed, and Cromwell raced beside him. It was not at all clear that the dog was aware of any danger in their predicament—Kevin thought he looked happy, in fact. Kevin didn’t dare look back at Brad. He just kept sprinting.

He ran across the softball field, cutting between the shortstop and the third baseman. Then he interrupted the T-ball game, scampering over the pitcher’s mound.

Parents screamed in disapproval.

“Relax!”
he yelled. “There’s not even a pitcher!”

Kevin heard Brad’s footsteps behind him, but couldn’t quite tell where he was. He knew from experience that Brad Junior was ridiculously fast—maybe even Jody/Shasta fast. But he’d never actually been pursued by Brad, because Kevin had never been allowed to touch the ball at camp. Still, they’d established their relative speeds many times, in many ways. All ways ended poorly for Kevin. Based on what he remembered from those horrible mornings at Scherzer, he estimated that he’d be tackled in approximately four seconds … three … two … one …

Yet nothing happened.

Kevin and Cromwell kept running.

“Pugh!”
cried Brad’s voice. “You can’t outrun me, Pugh!”

So where the heck are you?
thought Kevin.

He eyed the corner of the park nearest to his house, then lowered his head and ran as hard and as furiously as he could.

“Pugh!”
screamed Brad.

Kevin and Cromwell kicked up a streak of dirt as they sped across the park.

“Puuuuuuugh!”

Each time Brad yelled Kevin’s name, it sounded slightly farther away. But that wasn’t possible. Kevin needed to sneak a glance, just to know when his doom was at hand. He turned his head slightly, expecting to see Brad just behind him, surrounded by bloodthirsty friends.

Instead, he saw Brad at least forty yards behind—maybe forty-five.

“Hustle up, Ainsworth!” Kevin yelled, smirking.

“You’re
dead
, Pugh!” shouted Brad.

Kevin smiled, in spite of his impending deadness. He and Cromwell hauled out of the park, then raced through the neighborhood that separated the park from Kevin’s house.

Just a few weeks ago
, he thought,
no way would we survive this
.

He peeked at Brad again, who’d fallen farther back. Kevin ran backward for a moment, long enough to yell, “You need me to slow it down, Ainsworth?”

At that point, Brad was no longer responding. He was simply digging in as hard as he could, trying to catch up. A few of his associates seemed to have abandoned the chase, though at least two remained.

Kevin turned and saw his house come into view, then let out a loud, victorious
“Whoooooo!”

Cromwell woofed. There was no response from Brad Junior.

Kevin hit his driveway at full speed. Not content to simply run inside the house to safely avoid the Brad threat, he ran straight for the Bears Tahoe, jumped onto the hood, and scrambled onto the roof.

There he stood, pumping his fist in triumph, waiting for Brad Junior. Just a few short weeks before, beating any camper in a footrace would have seemed unthinkable. Suddenly Kevin was dusting off the speediest kid he knew.

Cromwell had dashed off into the yard, where he thunked against the tire swing happily.

Several seconds later, Brad finally reached the Pughs’ house. He was breathless and accompanied by only one friend—but Brad was no less mad than he’d been at Welles.

“Where’ve you been, li’l Brad?” said Kevin, pleased with himself. “And what’s that on your face?”

Brad Junior wore a clear plastic mask over his nose and eyes.

“I have to wear it now … (deep breath) … in
sports … (deep breath) … to protect my nose,” managed Brad.

“Ah, gotcha,” said Kevin. “You’re lookin’ good, ace. At least the lisp is gone.”

Brad and his friend were bent over, clearly exhausted.

“What the heck … (deep breath) … are you doing up there, Pugh?” asked Brad.

“I
beat
you!” chirped Kevin. “So I’m celebrating up here. I’m not sure when it happened, li’l Brad, but I’m actually
faster
than you.”

He clapped, delighted. Then he broke into a dance sequence—running man, Batsui, moonwalk—and made vague disco sounds atop the Tahoe.

Brad glared, then tapped his friend on the shoulders.

“Pugh,” said Junior, “there’s still two of us, and one of you. And you’re still
dead
.”

They began to walk up the driveway—almost zombie-like, but still in pursuit.

“I can run all day,” said Kevin happily. He looked down, evaluating potential landing areas and escape routes.

Then the back door opened loudly. Howie Pugh stepped out. Cromwell barked. Howie ran a finger across his mustache and examined the scene.

“Kevin,” he said. “Please get off the Tahoe. I just washed it.”

“Hey, Dad!” said Kevin cheerfully. “Sure thing.”

He looked back at Brad.

“Is that you in the mask there, Ainsworth?” asked Howie.

“Hello, sir,” said Brad.

Howie leaned against the doorframe, smiling. “You kids okay out here?”

“We’re super!” said Kevin. “We were just having a race. And I
wo—
”

“Your son got kicked out of camp on purpose, Mr. Pugh!” blurted Brad.

Kevin wobbled, like a dazed boxer.

Then his pulse raced. Then he felt breakfast in his throat.

“Wha … um … wh-wha—” he stammered.

“Bradley,” began Howie, not quite patiently. “Kev got expelled from camp for the incident with your face—which was
very
unfortunate and uncalled for. And he’s apologized. And he knows it was a cheap sho—”

“It was
not
a cheap shot,” said Brad. “It was a total freak accident.” Brad glared at Kevin, who was well beyond panicked. “Kevin couldn’t hit me if he tr—”

“Okay, then!” said Kevin, hopping down from the Tahoe. “Great seeing you, old camp buddy! Drop by whenever you like.”

Kevin walked purposefully toward Brad.

“Kev,” said Howie, “I think maybe Bradley is trying to forgive you—albeit in an unusual way. Extend the olive branch, as it were.”

“And I will, Dad!” said Kevin anxiously. He turned toward Brad, gripped his shoulders, and tried to steer him toward the street. “Thanks again, bud—”

But Brad wriggled away.

He then delivered a wickedly accurate thirty-second description of Kevin’s summer that began with “Coach Zalenski told my dad
everything
!” and ended with “And now Kevin is doing secret dog shows with Zach!”

Kevin stood in the driveway with his mouth agape, stunned.

“What on earth is Bradley
talkin’
about, Kev?” demanded Howie.

Not that it would have helped, but Kevin had no instinct to deny anything. He was awed by Brad—both by his precision and by his ruthlessness.

“H-how …,” began Kevin haltingly, “… do you even, um …”

“How do I know about the dog shows?” asked Brad, with a cold, cruel look on his masked face.

“Y-yeah,” replied Kevin, nodding.

“Zach’s got video on his blog, champ.” Brad winked. Kevin really hated the winking. “Nice little bone trophy, by the way.”

Kevin was utterly silent. His mouth still hadn’t closed.

“So this nonsense is
true
?!” exclaimed Howie. “Secret dog shows?”

Kevin said nothing. He simply stared at his dad, terrified, sweat streaming down his face.

Brad turned, smiled, and tapped his protective mask with a finger. He patted Kevin’s shoulder as he walked by.

“Now we’re even, Pugh,” he said.

B
rad’s revelations had fallen like little bombs, obliterating several fragile structures that Kevin had built over the course of the summer. The Pugh home became a devastatingly uncomfortable place. When Brad Junior left, Howie simply stood in the yard, clearly dumbfounded, examining his son. At first Kevin said nothing.