The Fast and the Furriest (18 page)

“WELCOME!” said a booming public-address voice, jarring Kevin from his self-obsession. From floor level, the voice sounded as if it belonged to some evil cartoon super-villain. Kevin fussed, but Cromwell remained stone-still.

“The Midwest Kennel Club is pleased to welcome you to its thirty-third annual agility championships, here at the United Center!” The crowd of thousands roared, then stood for the national anthem.

Dogs soon began racing through the course
… fast
.

It was clear that whatever spaz/speed advantage Cromwell enjoyed at Paw Patch was more than matched here among the region’s very best dogs. Cromwell, with Elka lightly stroking his head, appeared at ease—for the moment. Yet as each new dog
raced through the event with another sub-50-second time, Kevin felt less confident and more panicky. He couldn’t tune out the words of discouragement and dismissal floating in his head.

The dogs kept coming, and they were all, it seemed, spectacular. Elka applauded each one. Few penalties were enforced, and all the dogs, regardless of breed or handler, seemed to be stars.

Not surprisingly, given their usual lack of luck, Kevin and Cromwell were going to have to wait through every performance before they would get their opportunity—or, as seemed more accurate, their comeuppance. They were scheduled to go last. As new times were posted—0:00:48.600 … 0:00:49.700 … 0:00:46.100—Kevin saw just how far from ready he and Cromwell were for this. Elka’s original instinct about them had been correct.

He looked into the stands and saw the faces of the dog enthusiasts, then assessed the crowd of animals and handlers.

Dad’s totally right
, thought Kevin.
This is a silly event made up by a bunch of losers who are just too lame to compete in real sports—and I’m not even good enough for it
.

After twenty-nine other pairs had performed, Jody’s and Shasta’s names were announced.

Cheers arose and cameras flashed throughout the arena.

The reigning champs smiled at the crowd. Then,
as they reached the starter’s line, they struck a dead-serious pose.

“She certainly is a single-minded little person,” said Elka.

“Freak show,” said Zach.

“Cold-blooded assassin,” said Kevin, the first words he’d uttered in perhaps an hour. He shook his head.

“Mr. Pugh,” began Elka, “you are not to concern yourself …”

“… with the other handlers and their dogs. Right. Gotcha. Hadn’t given ’em a thought.”

Cromwell seemed to be watching the overhead scoreboard rather intently.

Jody and Shasta were like a special ops team. They moved at inhuman speed and with ruthless efficiency, wasting no steps. The dog barely seemed to make contact with any surfaces; it soared gracefully over each impediment. The girl made no unnecessary movements whatsoever.

She might be a two-faced little cretin
, thought Kevin,
but she’s kind of a badass dog handler
.

Ramp, hurdle, tunnel, hurdle, wall, tube, table, weave, seesaw, hoop … finished.

The digital clock flashed 0:00:40.100.

The crowd exploded.

“Yeesh!” said Zach.

Elka stood and clapped.

“And that is a new Midwest Kennel Club record!” bellowed the P.A. announcer.

Cromwell turned his head and studied his owner.

In a quick, decisive motion, Kevin Pugh slipped the leash onto his dog’s collar and got to his feet.

“Come on, Cromwell,” he said. “We’re outta here.”

E
lka and Zach pursued Kevin down the long gray arena corridor and up the short flight of stairs that led to Madison Street. Zach tugged at Kevin’s arm, begging him to turn around. But Kevin shrugged him off like a gnat and stomped ahead. Cromwell whimpered, clearly not pleased to have moved so far away from the agility course.

“Do
something
, Ms. Brandt!” yelled Zach. “You can’t just let this chucklehead break up Team Cromwell! Not like this, not now! I have plans for us! Merchandi—!”

“Zachary,” she said, “the chucklehead may do as he pleases. I have never once forced a pupil onto a course, and I will not do it today.”

Kevin stopped near the Michael Jordan statue at the arena’s east entrance and looked back at Elka.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I really am. I’m sorry, Zach; I’m sorry, Cromwell; and I’m sorry, Elka.” He looked at the ground. “I thought I was ready for … no, I thought I
wanted
this, but …”

“But you do not?” asked Elka.

Kevin was silent.

“Of course he wants it!” shouted Zach. “He’s trained for weeks! Like, really trained! Eating icky food, exercising, practicing, more exercise, more practicing … and for
what
? To give up? When he gets to the highest level of competi—!”

“This isn’t even the highest level, dude. There’s always another level. You win the Midwest, you go to the nationals…. You win the nationals, you go to the
inter
nationals…. You win those, you go to the inter
planetary…
. it doesn’t end. It never ends!”

“Until today,” said Zach angrily.

“Until today,” said Kevin flatly.

“You wish to go home, then, Mr. Pugh?”

“Yeah,” said Kevin, looking away. Cromwell whimpered again.

“And you are sure?”

“I’m rarely this sure of anything.”

Zach stomped back toward the arena’s entrance. “I’ll catch the bus,” he muttered.

“C’mon, dude,” called Kevin. “Do you even have money for the bus?”

“I was the
financier
!” shouted Zach. “Of course I have money for the bus.”

Kevin noticed Elka smiling at Zach, just for an instant. And then her expression flattened.

“So shall we go?” she asked.

“Uh-huh,” he said.

Cromwell took several steps toward Zach, whining a bit more, and Kevin scooped his dog up into his arms. He felt a great rush of guilt, knowing that his dog shared none of his reservations. “Sorry, boy,” he said. “I really am.” There was no licking. Just staring. “It was all fun while it lasted, Cromwell—really fun. You were awesome. The best. But we’ve done all we …”

Suddenly Kevin heard the familiar tones of “The Super Bowl Shuffle” via car horn.

Kevin’s head snapped up as the Pughs’ Tahoe screeched to a halt mere feet from the Jordan statue. Izzy hopped out through a rear window without opening the door.

Ignoring her mother’s yelling, she raced toward Kevin and Cromwell, hugged them, and chirped, “Whashup, bro?” She cracked her gum.

Kevin simply stared.

Howie and Maggie exited the SUV with looks of grave concern on their faces.

“Did we
miss
it?” Howie asked Elka. “We couldn’t
have missed it! I
just
called! I said, ‘Hey, did the Pugh kid go yet?’ They said, ‘No, he’s up in fifteen or twenty minutes.’ I said, ‘That’s grea—’”

“What are you guys
doing
here?” Kevin asked incredulously.

“We’re here to see the big dog show!” said Maggie. Everyone stared at her. “I mean the agility competition,” she said quickly. “Not a dog show, which is something very different.”

A United Center security guard approached and began to speak.

“Sir, I’m afraid you can’t park your car here, not by the … oh,
dang!
You’re Howie Pugh, ain’t you?”

An autograph and two pictures later, they were legally parked.

“So you blew off Izzy’s game?” Kevin asked.

“We skunked ’em,” Izzy said, hopping up and down and removing the wad of gum. “Mercy rule. Ten-nothin’, Team Illinois beats Team Wisconsin. It was a rout. Fifteen minutes, tops. Slaughter rule invoked. Game over.”

Cromwell licked Izzy’s hand.

“That’s, um … that’s cool that your team mercied ’em, I guess.”

“Not her
team
,” said Maggie. “Izzy actually mercied them.”

“Nine goals,” said Kevin’s sister, raising her hand
slightly. “One assist. Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom …,” she said, making a series of phantom kicks. “A great team effort. We skipped the trophy thing—who needs another?—and hit the road.”

Izzy smiled.

“Dad,” said Kevin, “this really isn’t necessary. I mean …”

“I thought you’d be happy we were here,” said Howie.

Kevin was, actually. He was delighted, in fact. He was also standing outside with the dog in his arms, headed to Elka’s car.

The trainer smiled at him.

“Is there something you would perhaps like to say to your family, Kevin?” she asked.

But he was dumbfounded.

“I think maybe
I
should start,” said Howie, leaning a hand against the base of the statue. “And I should start by saying that I was an idiot, Kev. And a baby.” He paused. “I was an idiot-baby, basically.” He rubbed his hands together, appearing to search for words. “If I’m gonna teach you anything about commitment and effort, you need to know that I’m
completely
committed to you. Win or lose. Football or … um … dog.” He shuffled his feet. “Look, we want you to find what you love, and then do it—really do it. If you and Cromwell are as great as we hear, we’d all love to watch you.”

Howie looked at his son earnestly.

“And if you’re
not
as great as everyone says, that’s okay, too. It’s not important where you finish. All that matters is what you give.”

Kevin stared at his father, stunned.

“Um … thanks,” he finally said. “W-we give, um … a lot.”

Cromwell whimpered again.

“So did we miss it?” asked Maggie. “Because your father really did call, and they really did say …”

“Oh, no,” said Kevin. “You’re totally on time. We were just, um …”

“A pep talk,” said Elka, discreetly tucking her car keys back into her bag. “I always insist on a quick outdoor pep talk before Kevin takes the course.”

“Yeah?” asked Howie, eyeing Elka.

“A Paw Patch tradition,” she said.

“And you just missed the pep talk, Dad,” said Kevin. “Sorry.”

“Let me tell ya, Kev,” said Howie, with a fiery look in his eye, “I’ve heard pep talks from the best of the pep-talkers. I’ve been in the presence of motivational geniuses. Gifted orators. I once saw my defensive coordinator take a machete to a life-sized mannequin that was dressed like a Lions quarterback.”

Kevin saw Elka’s eyes widen.

“Yeah,” Howie said, “that story doesn’t always go
over well in the retelling. People hear ‘machete’ and they just assume it was gross. But it was really very stirring. Very little gore. Men wept.”

“Had to be there, I guess,” said Kevin.

“That’s my point!” continued his dad, “You gotta be there, Kev! Like you and Cromwell are
here
.” Howie pointed at the arena. “This is no practice field, Kev. It’s the UC. You only get to compete in a building like this if you put the work in. Getting here is the big thing.” He paused. “It’s not the minutes on the course we’ll be cheering for, kid. It’s the hours of work we didn’t see. No matter where you finish, you’ve really impressed us.”

“And we’re proud,” said Maggie.

Howie smiled.

“Yes we are,” he added. “And I’ve always thought that if you work like a dog in practi … oh, no offense intended there, Cromwell. It’s an expression. If you work
hard
in practice, then the games are nothin’. They’re like a party.”

He gripped Kevin’s shoulders.

“This is the fun part,” Howie said. “You ready, Kev?”

“Um, I mean … well, I like parties …”

Howie squeezed Kevin’s shoulders tighter, then looked at the dog. Cromwell was fidgeting wildly, whirring like a kitchen gadget.

“Your partner is definitely ready.”

Kevin looked at the eager dog, the grinning family, and the unusually calm Elka, and he decided that he was ready, too.

“Let’s do this thing,” he said firmly.

“You are certain, Mr. Pugh?” asked Elka.

But Kevin had already dropped the dog and begun to sprint toward the doors, Cromwell at his heels. Soon the entire family was running through the competitors’ entrance—thanks to the Bears-loving security guard—down a flight of stairs, and back into the chilly United Center corridors.

Kevin focused on his dad’s words: “If you work hard in practice, then the games are nothin’.”

Yeah
, he thought.
This is nothin’. The fun part
.

He looked down at his excited, wide-eyed dog. This was clearly fun for him. Cromwell barked and wove his way through the crowd of competitors, handlers, and members of the media, clearing a path for the family. Re-energized, Kevin streaked past other competitors, not bothering to make eye contact. He knew—or at least suspected—that they were smirking at the boy who’d nearly knocked himself unconscious on the seesaw. But he didn’t care.

Kevin spied Zach in a corner, still clearly angry, stuffing a few belongings into his backpack. He’d already removed his Team Cromwell jersey.

Kevin darted over to him, tapped him on the shoulder, and breathlessly said, “Game on.”

“Wha—?” said a clearly befuddled Zach. “You’re in, you’re out. The game’s off, it’s on …”

“No,” said Kevin urgently, “it’s
so
on.”

Cromwell woofed, then pressed a paw on Zach’s foot, then barked again.

The P.A. announcer called Kevin and his dog to the course.

“Get that jersey back on,” said Kevin, whacking Zach’s backpack.

E
lka gripped Kevin’s hand and smiled as the announcer called his name. The hum of the crowd was constant, and the lights were harsh. A ring of flickering advertisements littered the floor. The air smelled like stale popcorn and nacho cheese, with just a hint of dog poop. Kevin grinned confidently. Elka’s bracelets jangled.

“Don’t you have anything to say to Cromwell?” Kevin asked. “In your secret dog-speak?”

“Cromwell is perfectly prepared,” Elka answered, smiling wider. “And this has already been a most successful day for you, Mr. Pugh.”

“Thanks.”

Kevin and Cromwell hurried to the course, walking perfectly in step with one another. They were followed
closely by Zach, who was back in his teal Team Cromwell jersey.

“This is gonna be awesome, Kev,” said Zach. “Just promise me you won’t spaz—”