The Fast and the Furriest (19 page)

“Dude,” said Kevin. “I did
not
come back for another of your motivational talks.”

“Sorry. Right. I’ll, um …”

“You’ll enjoy the performance of Team Cromwell, for better or worse.”

The three of them brushed past Jody and Shasta, who were preparing to be interviewed by a WFRK reporter. The terrier yapped happily at Cromwell. But Cromwell did not turn around. He stared intently at the course ahead.

“Oh, are you still
here
?” the black-haired girl asked, smirking. Kevin froze. “I thought I saw you leave,” she continued. “We all thought maybe you hurt yourself. You know, falling on your face. In front of everyone. The seesaw can be so cruel.” She grinned.

Kevin smiled back, which seemed to unnerve her a bit.

“If the worst thing that ever happens to me occurs on a seesaw,” he said, “then I’m probably doing okay.”

The WFRK reporter jabbed a microphone into the girl’s face and began talking.

“That’s right, Brad, I’m here with world-renowned MKC dog agility champion Shasta Gatkowski and her dog, Jody …”

“The
dog
is named Jody and the
chick
is Shasta?” blurted Zach, just loud enough to be heard by WFRK viewers. “No way!”

Zach laughed, drawing an angry look from a producer and a sharp glance from the reporter.

Kevin stepped toward the starting line with Cromwell, and a Midwest Kennel Club representative greeted them. The stands had emptied somewhat—not that Kevin was thinking about any audience members other than the assembled Pughs and Zach and Elka.

Cromwell stood rigid and steely-eyed at the starting line. Elka was right. He was ready.

Kevin and his dog shared another determined look. Kevin nodded. Cromwell grumbled, low and purposefully. The buzz in the arena melted away to a soft, indistinct murmur.

The kennel club representative stepped away from the starting line.

“You may begin whenever you are …”

“GO!”
shouted Kevin.

“… ready.”

Cromwell’s explosion off the line drew a gasp from the crowd.

Cromwell zipped up, down, over, and through, almost as though he weren’t bound by the laws of ordinary physics. The ramps, the hurdles, the tunnels, and the walls were all conquered as if they weren’t even there, weren’t obstacles at all.

Kevin moved with precision and shocking quickness. Zach was hooting wildly, only four feet from the live WFRK interview. The reporter was powerless to stop him. Shasta was clearly disturbed, sputtering into the microphone, cringing whenever Zach yelled.

Elka, Howie, Izzy, and Maggie inched toward the course.

“That’s my boy!” bellowed Howie.

“And our dog!” shouted Maggie.

Cromwell nailed all the necessary points of contact on the seesaw. Only the hoop remained.

Kevin sprinted hard, just ahead of his dog.

“Wait … wait … wait …,” he said, just as he had before.
BOOM!

Cromwell soared like an arrow—a plush brown arrow with flapping ears and pointed tail.

This time there was never any question as to whether he would nudge the bottom of the hoop—he cleared it with room to spare, nearly scraping the top.

The crowd gasped again.

Cromwell landed with perfect balance and raced without the slightest hesitation to the finish line, Kevin at his side.

The judges stared at one another, stunned. The entire arena seemed to turn in unison toward the blinking clock:

0:00:39.800.

The judges looked at Kevin, nodding their approval, and the crowd erupted in cheers. Everyone knew there had been no imperfections.

Cameras were flashing all around Kevin and Cromwell.

Elka raced to the judges’ table and flung herself at Kevin, hoisting him up briefly—much to his surprise—and then setting him down. She picked up Cromwell, too, hugging him and spinning him around. The dog woofed happily.

“And that is
another
new MKCC record!” declared the P.A. announcer, barely audible over the crowd noise.

Kevin’s head swiveled. The scene felt faraway, as if someone else were at its center. People seemed to cheer in slow motion, and voices sounded muffled. The word RECORD blinked on the scoreboard. Kevin noticed that the WFRK reporter—a youngish woman with poofy hair and a thick layer of makeup—had abandoned Shasta and was charging through the crowd toward him.

He was still stunned and out of breath when she arrived.

“That’s right, Brad!” she began. “We have breaking news here at the agility show, believe it or not! I’m here with … um … what’s your name, young man?”

The microphone was thrust in Kevin’s direction,
and he examined it as though it were a glowing meteor, at first saying nothing.

Elka entered the frame with Cromwell in her arms.

“This amazing young man’s name is Kevin Pugh,” she said, beaming. “And
this
is his masterful dog, Cromwell, a creature of extraordinary character.”

“W-we won?” asked Kevin, still panting.

Cromwell licked his cheek.

“You did, Mr. Pugh,” said Elka.

“And in record time!” chirped the reporter.

“Hey, are we on with Brad Ainsworth?” asked Kevin rather dreamily.

“Yes, we are, Kevin. Anything you’d like to say to Brad while we’re on the ai—”

“WHOOOOOOOOO!”
screamed Kevin.

“WHOOOOOOOOO!”
screamed Zach, chest-bumping his friend, then raising the logo of his Team Cromwell jersey.

“WHOOOOOOOOOO!”

“As you can see, Brad,” the reporter said, attempting to gain control of the conversation, “there’s absolute pandemonium here at the United Cen—”

Kevin grabbed the microphone.

“
Champ-ee-uhhhnnnn! WHOOOOOOOO!
Take
that
, Ainsworth! And tell your boy that Kevin Pugh is comin’ for him!” Kevin gestured from his eyes to the camera, then back to his eyes. “You got me,
Ainsworth?! You hear me, old man?! I’m talkin’ kickball, next summer! I will
own
you, Bradley Junior!
WHOOOOOOO …
”

The reporter grabbed at the mic as Kevin and Zach hooted.

“I won! I won!”

Kevin wrestled for control of the microphone again, noting the panic in the eyes of the reporter.

“Make me your wacky sports blooper
now
, Ainsworth!”

The petrified reporter finally yanked the microphone back from Kevin’s hand. Izzy came pogoing through the live camera shot, searching out Cromwell. A grinning Howie Pugh stepped in front of Kevin and wrapped his arms around him, then squeezed.

“I’m proud of you, kid,” he whispered.

“Because I won!” screamed Kevin. “
WHOOOOOOOO!
I won!”

He leapt onto his dad’s wide back, then climbed atop his shoulders and thrust both arms into the air.

“Nah,” said Howie. “I’m proud of you because you
tried
, because you gave this thing your best effort and you …”

“And I
won
! I can’t believe we won!”

Howie grinned, sneaking into the WFRK camera’s frame as the reporter struggled to sign off.

Izzy picked up Cromwell and continued hopping. Elka had a preposterously large trophy in her hands.

Kevin stared at the field of handlers and their pampered dogs.

“Is there
no one
to challenge me?!” he yelled.

“I don’t think they normally talk a lotta smack at these things, Kev,” said Howie. “Maybe you should just …”

“WHOOOOOOOOOO!”
screamed Kevin, high over his father’s head.

Howie grinned. Elka slid past him, patting his shoulder.

“I’m so happy you were here today, Mr. Pugh.”

“Me, too.” Howie smiled. “Me, too.”

“WHOOOOOOOOOO!”

“Ms. Brandt,” said Howie. “Do you think the boy is gonna keep entering these competitions?”

She looked up at Kevin. He had taken the trophy from her and was swinging it above his head in a wide arc.

“I would imagine so, yes,” said Elka. “He seems rather pleased with himself at the moment. I hope you will approve of Kevin and Cromwell’s continued involvement with dog agility train—”

“Oh, yeah,” said Howie. “Couldn’t be happier. That’s not the thing at all.”

“What is it, then?”

“Well, if we’re going to stick with this stuff …”

“WHOOOOOOOOOO!”

“… at some point we’ll have to discuss …”

“WHOOOOOOOOOO!”

“… a few basic principles of sportsmanship.”

Elka smiled.

“I quite agree, Mr. Pugh …”

“WHOOOOOOOOOO!”

“… although I do not think …”

“WHOOOOOOOOOO!”

“… the lesson would sink in right now.”

K
evin leaned back confidently, fluffing a couch cushion with his left hand while leaving his right on the controller. He smirked and stared at the screen.

Left arrow … down arrow … “X” button …

Kevin’s smirk widened into a toothy grin.

“This is just too …”

His purple-clad receiver hauled in a pass along the left sideline, then high-stepped into the end zone.

“… easy.”

Kevin dropped the controller at his feet and stood up, his palms raised.

“Seriously, that was way too easy. I’ve always been good, it’s true. But it’s possible that I’ve found a new plateau here today.”

He stared down at the couch.

“It’s 37–0,” said Kevin. “Do you seriously want to continue this farce?”

“I-I don’t …”

Howie Pugh stroked his mustache, his controller in his lap. He wore one of his old jerseys. Howie stared at the TV as if in disbelief.

“You don’t have words for the utter
mastery
you’ve just beheld?” asked Kevin, edging closer to his father. “The timeless dominance? The full expression of my Madden
genius?”

“Well …” began Howie tentatively, “I mean, the Vikings were so bad that year.”

“Uh-huh,” said Kevin. “My quarterback what’s-his-name is like a 76. That really is pretty bad, Dad.”

“And the Bears were so
good,”
said Howie, shaking his head.

“Yup, I know. That’s why I encouraged you to be Chicago.” Kevin rested a hand on his father’s shoulder. “If
I
were the Bears and
you
were the Vikings, it would be, like, 72–0 right now.”

Howie stared up at his son with a mixture of confusion and stubbornness in his eyes.

“I think maybe this controller is bust—”

“Dad, we’ve switched controllers eight or nine bazillion times. The gadget is fine. It’s operator error.”

“Okay, so how did you know I was going to … ?”

“Come out of that cover-two? Yeah, that was sweet. If there’s one thing Howie Pugh can’t stand, it’s having his run defense gashed.” Kevin imitated a few head fakes; then he mimed a quarterback dropping back to pass. “And I knew I’d get you with the corner-post route. It’s my signature play. Don’t feel bad, though, because Zach can’t stop it, either.”

Howie continued to stare at his son, but his expression changed to awestruck pride.

“Yes, Dad, I am intimately familiar with the corner-post. I’m kind of deadly with the screen pass, too, as you’ve seen. And of course I’ve got the hitch-and-go for an easy six basically whenever I want it, and …”

“All right, rematch. C’mon. I know the beloved Bears aren’t going to get shut out, not against the Vikings, of all tea—”

Cromwell leapt onto the couch between them, his leash in his mouth. He woofed once and dropped his leash.

“Gotta go, old man.”

Kevin swatted Howie’s rounded midsection as he snatched the leash from atop the couch.

“Kev, it’s
raining
out there. You can’t seriously be thinking about …”

“Running?” Kevin looked at his father indignantly. Cromwell seemed to as well.

Howie’s glance fell.

“Dad, being a winner is not a part-time commitment,” Kevin lectured. “Do you think Shasta and Jody take the afternoon off
when it rains
? I think not.”

“Shasta and Jody are probably sticking pins in little Kevin and Cromwell dolls,” said Howie. “And then setting them on fire.”

Kevin attached the leash to Cromwell’s collar.

“Well,” he said, “maybe little Kevin Pugh dolls. Not sure about Crom. I felt like maybe there wasn’t the same level of animosity between Jody and Cromwell.”

“You felt a love connection, maybe?” asked Howie.

Cromwell simply panted excitedly.

Howie perked up. “We should get those two together, Kev. Imagine the puppies! They’d be unstoppable! They’d be masters of agili—”

“Yeesh,” said Kevin, stretching in preparation for his run. “It wasn’t so long ago that you were
mocking
these dogs, Dad. Now you’re envisioning the next generation of agility champions.”

“We could be a dynasty, Kev. Like the Bears of Halas, years ago.”

Kevin continued to stretch.

“We can’t talk dynasty without getting a few more wins under our belt, Dad. You gotta take ’em one competition …”

“… at a time. Yeah, I know. I get paid to dispense such wisdom.” Howie straightened, growing more animated as he spoke. “But let’s just say Cromwell strings together a few “W’s” in the major competitions. Then we need to think of the Pughs as an agility franchise.”

“Like we’re a NASCAR family? The Earnhardts? Or the Pettys?”

“Exactly! A multi-generational dynasty. That’s where the real money is. That’s how you get your name on lunch boxes and clothing lines.”

“Well,” said Kevin, bending forward to touch his toes, “
this
generation needs to get win number three. And we won’t get win number three by letting a little rain stop us.”

“But, Kev, it could seriously pour out there. The skies could open. How ’bout we just finish the second half of the game here?” Howie turned around slowly to face his son. “You know, the weather guy at WYCR says …”

But Kevin was already halfway up the basement steps, Cromwell bounding ahead of him. They reached the top step in full stride, slipped between Maggie and Izzy, and then hit the kitchen door.

Kevin and Cromwell raced down the sidewalk, eyes squinting against the rain. Cromwell’s tongue flapped wildly. He leapt a puddle.