The Fast and the Furriest (3 page)

Cromwell inched the leash closer to Kevin’s feet with his nose.

“Can’t right now. I have to walk Cromwell,” Kevin replied.

There was silence on the other end of the line. And then an explosion of laughter.

“Okay, I’m gonna go,” Kevin said.

Zach was still laughing as Kevin hung up.

Kevin shuffled downstairs. Cromwell dragged the leash behind him and dropped it at Kevin’s feet. Kevin poured himself a bowl of cereal—a blend, actually. It was one-third Double Chocolate Puffs, one-third Cinnamon Frosted Crisps, and one-third Berry Marshmallow Monster Pops. The recipe had been developed over months of trial and error.

Cromwell made a low, restless
rrrrrrr-
ing sound. Kevin looked at him sideways. They’d trudged at least two miles yesterday around Lincoln Square, the Pughs’ North Side neighborhood. Exhausted, Kevin had finally called his mom to pick them up from Welles Park—a ninety-second ride from home. How could Cromwell be so eager to repeat that humiliation? But the dog was pawing at the sliding door.

“Okay,” Kevin finally said to Cromwell, setting down his empty bowl. “We’ll go out.”

They stepped into the yard just as Zach was heading up the driveway. Kevin’s best friend hopped off his bike, stumbled, then lurched forward as a tangle of controllers and cords flew from his unzipped backpack. Zach was always falling. He looked up at Kevin, who was being dragged forward by his dog.

“Graceful dismount,” said Kevin.

“Thanks,” said Zach. “I’m a raw talent. Um … what’s that on the end of the leash there?”

Cromwell was pulling Kevin toward the Pughs’ expansive backyard.

“It looks almost like Cromwell. Except it’s moving. Which Cromwell doesn’t do.” Zach walked alongside them. “What’s up, Cromwell? C-Money. C-Dog.”

Kevin unhooked the leash and let the dog streak off into the grass.

“He’s a freak.” Kevin shook his head.

Cromwell jumped over a garden gnome. Then the sprinkler. Then he tried to vault a bag of soccer balls, but two paws didn’t clear the top. He rolled over the bag; then the bag rolled over him; then Cromwell popped up and kept running.

“New dog food, dude?” Zach was mesmerized.

“Nope. You know those parent–slash–old people groups that say television will make your kids do insane things? Well, Cromwell saw some dog agility contest on TV, and now he’s totally lost it,” Kevin explained. “He thinks he’s in the Olympics or something.”

“Dog agility?” Zach asked suspiciously.

“It looks like putt-putt golf,” said Kevin, “but with a stopwatch and no ball. And, you know, dogs.”

Kevin leaned against the house as Cromwell ran in a wide loop. Zach stared at the dog. Cromwell
stopped, looked toward Kevin, barked, then started running again.

“That little guy can
move
,” said Zach. “Never woulda guessed it.”

Cromwell’s left front paw became briefly entangled in a garden hose, but he shook it free. Then he took a few slow, tentative steps toward a tire swing that hung from a maple tree near the back fence. He woofed at the tire. Then he looked at Kevin.

“No, I don’t think so, Cromwell,” Kevin warned. “It’s, like, two feet off the ground. You’ll never make it through—”

The dog was off, sprinting as hard as he could, his soft belly nearly scraping the ground. Cromwell hurdled a small flagstone wall, brushing past Maggie’s perennials, then bounded toward the low-hanging tire.

“
Go
, Cromwell!” shouted Zach.

“
No
, Cromwell!” shouted Kevin.

The dog approached the swing, dipped his head, sprang upward off his paws, and flew—Cromwell Pugh, Earth’s laziest dog, literally flew through the air. Quite gracefully, really … until his head collided with the tire with a deep, rubbery thud.

The collision knocked Cromwell onto his back. The tire wobbled.

“Ouch,” said Kevin and Zach in unison, both cringing.

Kevin ran toward Cromwell. But before Kevin could help Cromwell back onto his paws, the dog had shaken off his failure and began galloping around the yard, his tongue hanging from the side of his mouth.

“Cromwell!” shouted Kevin. “Sit, boy!”

But there was no “sit” in Cromwell.

Instead, he picked up speed, cruising along the flower beds that ringed the yard, occasionally kicking up a little dirt.

“No, Cromwell!” said Kevin firmly, waving his arms. This couldn’t be happening.

Zach cheered wildly.

The look in Cromwell’s eyes was pure determination.

Kevin froze, stunned by the sight of his dog—his fat, lazy dog—running. And preparing to jump through the tire. Again. This time, Cromwell took off just a few inches closer to the tire. He ascended at a steeper angle, eyes wide, slobber trailing behind him. Kevin braced for the inevitable collision.

Cromwell flew. And flew. Higher …

His front paws stretched, his head up, his ears back …

He rose to the tire’s hole …

Until he peaked and his ample belly sank into the swing.

Cromwell hung there, limp and helpless, like a
furry piñata. The swing rocked lightly. Cromwell’s front paws dangled from one side of the tire, and his rear paws from the other. He was suspended above the ground, immobilized. Cromwell’s tail wagged, and he was panting. He made a small whimpering sound.

Zach was whoo-hooing. He jogged to the swing, clapping as he moved across the grass.

“Okay,
that
”
—
he paused for dramatic effect—“was
awesome
.”

“I’m leaving him here in the tire. It’s the only safe place.” Kevin said, stroking Cromwell’s brown head.

Cromwell squirmed.

“Kev, I don’t know what exactly has possessed your dog, but you’ve gotta let him try that again.” Zach couldn’t seem to stop bouncing around.

“Again?!”
said Kevin. “I need to tranquilize him. Tie him to heavy objects. He’s clearly not made for this.”

Cromwell reached forward with his front paws, first with the right, then with the left, as though he were paddling.

Zach began petting the dog’s rotund middle enthusiastically. “Such a good boy,” he said. “Yes you are; yes, you’re such a good boy; yes …”

This elicited more tail-wagging, and a series of satisfied barks.

“You totally have to get Cromwell in those contests, Kev.”

This was the most serious Kevin had ever seen Zach in the entire time they’d known each other.

“You can’t be ser—”

Kevin was interrupted by the back door slamming shut. He and Zach instinctively tried to shield Cromwell from view, spinning around to face whoever had exited the house.

“KEVIN!”

Howie stood on the back step, glaring.

“Hey, Dad. Didn’t hear you, um … over there. Outside.”

“Hey, Mr. P,” said Zach meekly.

Howie stared, then gestured toward the plump brown dog in the swing.

“You begged us to get you a dog, Kev.
‘I’ll take such good care of him,’
you said.” Howie used a girlish falsetto for his impression of a younger Kevin, which his son did not appreciate.
“‘I’ll walk him, Dad. I’ll feed him, Dad. I’ll pick up the poop, Dad.’
I don’t remember you saying anything about torturing him.”

“First of all,” said Kevin, “I do not talk like a lady Muppet. Secondly, I
have
done the walking and the feeding and the poop-picking-up. And thirdly …”

“We all know Cromwell doesn’t go for walks,” interrupted Howie.

“… And
third
,” continued Kevin, “we are not torturing Cromwell.” He paused. “Cromwell likes it, don’t
you, boy?” Kevin scratched his dog behind the ear. But Cromwell had fallen asleep, his paws drooping from either side of the tire, drool clinging to the rubber.

“Just get the dog outta the swing, Kev,” said Howie. “And don’t put him in there again. It’s cruel.”

“He jumped!” protested Kevin.

Howie stared at his son. Cromwell had begun to snore.

“Move it, Kev.” Howie waved at them dismissively and stepped back inside the house.

Kevin and Zach pulled Cromwell from the swing, and Kevin hoisted the dog onto his shoulder. Cromwell grunted and snuffled loudly, but remained asleep. Kevin strained to hold him as they retreated down into the basement. He gingerly placed Cromwell on a recliner, next to a well-gnawed beef-flavored snack stick.

“Cromwell’s gonna sleep for three days,” said Kevin, wiping sweat from his face. “He’s never moved like that. Not even in fear.”

Zach removed a variety of gaming accessories from his backpack.

“You need to enter your dog in those contests,” Zach said. “Seriously. He could get product endorsements and stuff.”

“Zach,” said Kevin, picking up a game controller, “this is just a phase. And even if it isn’t a phase, there’s no way I’m running around the ring with
Cromwell. Those dog handlers are freaks.” Kevin rolled his eyes.

“First of all, it’s not a phase. He’s got skills. A little practice—the right diet and training regimen—and he could be as good as any TV dog. And you …” Zach paused. “Well, okay. We might need to find someone else to run with the dog. Someone a little peppier. Peppy ain’t Kevin Pugh.”

Kevin half slugged Zach’s shoulder, sending his skinny friend toppling off the couch.

“What?!”
Zach exclaimed. “There’s no shame in it. It’s not like jockeys own the horses. They’re just little dudes who
ride
horses. I’m sure it’s the same with agility contests. You’re not a dog jockey.”

“So who is?” snapped Kevin. “You?”

Zach placed Madden ’08 in the console.

“Well, I am nimble. And I’m probably telegenic. But no,” Zach said, returning to the couch. “We need someone who’s excited to be out there. Someone who isn’t afraid to play sidekick to a big personality like Cromwell. Because the dog’s a star. Cromwell’s got swagger. He looked so …”

“… rabid? Psychotic?” Kevin offered.

Zach shook his head. “No, happy. He looked really happy.”

Cromwell snorted in his sleep and Kevin wondered if he was dreaming of leaping through tires. Zach was right; he had looked happy.

“Game on,” said Zach, snatching a controller.

Kevin settled deeper into the familiar comfort of the Cromwell-scented couch.

“Game on,” he replied intently. Maybe Kevin couldn’t chase Cromwell across the yard, but he could certainly hold his own on the football field. Well, the virtual football field, anyway.

A
fter a day spent running spectacular plays in musty darkness, Kevin couldn’t sleep. His digital clock read 2:12 a.m. Cromwell snoozed at the edge of the bed—the dog had basically been unconscious since his morning romp. A fan whirred, stirring the air in the room. It didn’t really cool anything. Kevin stared up at the dark ceiling, then at his dog, then at his clock.

2:13 a.m.

He watched the silhouette of a tree branch moving just outside his window. It was a moonless night. He thought he heard a plane pass overhead. He distinctly heard his dog whimper at his feet.

2:14 a.m.

Kevin looked toward Cromwell.

“You did look happy, Crom,” he said. “Totally crazy. But happy.” Kevin rolled onto his side. “And I
did
promise to take care of you.”

He continued staring at the lump of a mutt, who offered an occasional
hmph
.

Another minute passed. Kevin stood, wiped his eyes, and shuffled over to his computer. He jiggled the mouse and the computer whirred to life.

Kevin brought up his Web browser. A search for “dog agility” returned a varied collection of links. He clicked on the first one. Skimming the Web page quickly, he saw lists of rules, examples of obstacles, world record times. Along the side of the page, listings for professional dog agility trainers proclaimed them “World-Renowned!” and “Premier!”

“Dog agility professionals?” Kevin grimaced into the darkness. He moved his mouse up to the search field and typed in “dog agility Chicago.”

Most of the entries led to dog trainers who said they were “in” Chicago, but meant the suburbs. And suburban trainers were definitely beyond Kevin’s travel radius.

“What was the name of that place with the pirate chick … ?” Kevin said.

And then he saw it.

Paw Patch, Inc.—Obedience Training and
Dog Agility
—Home

Offering
Chicago
’s premier training environment for all levels of
dog
, puppy to advanced. Located near Wrigleyville. Owner Elka Brandt began training animals in her native …

www.pawpatchchicago.com/—3k—
Cached
—
Similar pages

    When the site loaded, an animated dog—similar to the collie in the commercial—flipped several times against a graphic of the city’s skyline, leaving a trail of paw prints behind that spelled out PAW PATCH. The words faded as a rotating image of the gray-haired woman from the ad emerged. She wore a headscarf, baggy clothes, a vest, and giant hoop earrings. All she needed to be a fully accredited pirate was a parrot and a wooden leg. The woman stretched her thin arms wide and said—in a supremely creepy computer voice—“Welcome to Paw Patch. I am Elka.”

A menu of options appeared beside Elka’s left hand. The fingers wiggled.

“Whoa,” said Kevin quietly. “Freak show.”

He clicked through to the “Contact Us” page. Kevin noted that Paw Patch’s address on Clark Street was, in fact, within ten blocks of his house.

“Hmm,” he said. He tapped his desk lightly.

Kevin clicked “Send Message” and filled out the online form.