“Tomorrow afternoon, Teddy’s still going to be off the wall.” Rowdy already had his CGC and TT titles, so the changes didn’t affect me, but Isympathized with the grumbler. Both tests should have been scheduled for the end of the week, when the dogs had adjusted to the novelty of camp.
In response to the muttering, Max said, “I know it’s not ideal, but it’s very complicated to fit in so many activities, and this is the best we could work out. So bear with it, and I’m sure that the dogs will all do just fine.”
“There aren’t all that many activities,” Cam whispered to me. “Half the time, there’s nothing to do. I hope Maxine doesn’t totally blow this thing.” With her usual superb organization, Cam had brought the long red sheet from her registration packet. She tapped a neatly filed fingernail on the paper on what was evidently a gap in the schedule. “At Dog Days,” she said, naming one of Waggin’ Tail’s competitors, “there’s something every second.”
Having neither examined the schedule nor attended another camp, I just shrugged. The microphone screamed. Heather moved the loudspeaker. When Max spoke again, her overamplified voice sounded metallic and oddly distant, as if an android addressed us from afar. “Don’t forget what we’re here for! We’re here to get away from it all! So don’t push your dogs! And don’t push yourselves! This is vacation! RELAX!”
The command jolted me and irked me. If Max had ordered us to set high goals for ourselves and to hurl ourselves at the task of meeting them, I’d have been able to rebel by not doing a damn thing. As Max began to introduce the instructors, though, I remembered why I’d decided that camp would be okay. Chuck Siegel, the show obedience instructor, and Kerry O’Brian, the pet obedience person, were supposed to be first-rate. At a show a while back, Rowdy and I had done an agility miniclinic with Sara Altman, who was terrific. When Maxine asked Sara’s assistants to show themselves, I wasn’t surprised to see that they included Heather. I knew nothing about the people in charge of lure coursing, drill team, flyball, or Frisbee.I’d never heard of the person giving the workshop on pet tricks, but her little shepherd-mix dog established his owner’s expertise by dropping to the ground, rolling over three times, leaping up, walking on his front legs, and taking a bow that drew wild applause.
“And our breed handling instructor,” Max announced, “Eric Grimaldi.” The name was familiar. Max looked around. “Eric? Eric, stand up. Is Eric here? Well, he’s here somewhere.” The mike echoed tinnily. Max leaned down to listen to someone. “Eric’s still trying to get Elsa out of the lake! Chessies are like that. But you’ll meet Eric at dinner. And now we have a few very special campers I want to introduce—not that everyone isn’t special, but these are people you’ll want to be sure you get a chance to know. From
Dog’s Life
, Holly Winter, who’s brought us our only malamute. Holly?”
I swore under my breath, and popped up and down as fast as possible.
“And we’re honored to have a very distinguished couple, Phyllis and Don Abbott. Everyone knows Don, and a lot of you know Don’s marvelous book about getting started in the fancy. And Phyllis Abbott, one of our most respected obedience judges. Don and Phyllis?” Don Abbott was, of course, the round-faced man who’d been on the deck when I’d left my cabin, the man who’d been too busy with his phone conversation about AKC politics to give Rowdy even a quick glance. Real dog person. When Mrs. Abbott and her husband stood up, I noticed that she wore a silky-looking blouse and navy slacks that would have been suitable even for the formality of the breed ring. In obedience, it’s common to see women judges in informal slacks or warm-up outfits, but when Mrs. Abbott judged she usually wore a conservative suit with a medium-length skirt. By comparison
In response to the muttering, Max said, “I know it’s not ideal, but it’s very complicated to fit in so many activities, and this is the best we could work out. So bear with it, and I’m sure that the dogs will all do just fine.”
“There aren’t all that many activities,” Cam whispered to me. “Half the time, there’s nothing to do. I hope Maxine doesn’t totally blow this thing.” With her usual superb organization, Cam had brought the long red sheet from her registration packet. She tapped a neatly filed fingernail on the paper on what was evidently a gap in the schedule. “At Dog Days,” she said, naming one of Waggin’ Tail’s competitors, “there’s something every second.”
Having neither examined the schedule nor attended another camp, I just shrugged. The microphone screamed. Heather moved the loudspeaker. When Max spoke again, her overamplified voice sounded metallic and oddly distant, as if an android addressed us from afar. “Don’t forget what we’re here for! We’re here to get away from it all! So don’t push your dogs! And don’t push yourselves! This is vacation! RELAX!”
The command jolted me and irked me. If Max had ordered us to set high goals for ourselves and to hurl ourselves at the task of meeting them, I’d have been able to rebel by not doing a damn thing. As Max began to introduce the instructors, though, I remembered why I’d decided that camp would be okay. Chuck Siegel, the show obedience instructor, and Kerry O’Brian, the pet obedience person, were supposed to be first-rate. At a show a while back, Rowdy and I had done an agility miniclinic with Sara Altman, who was terrific. When Maxine asked Sara’s assistants to show themselves, I wasn’t surprised to see that they included Heather. I knew nothing about the people in charge of lure coursing, drill team, flyball, or Frisbee.I’d never heard of the person giving the workshop on pet tricks, but her little shepherd-mix dog established his owner’s expertise by dropping to the ground, rolling over three times, leaping up, walking on his front legs, and taking a bow that drew wild applause.
“And our breed handling instructor,” Max announced, “Eric Grimaldi.” The name was familiar. Max looked around. “Eric? Eric, stand up. Is Eric here? Well, he’s here somewhere.” The mike echoed tinnily. Max leaned down to listen to someone. “Eric’s still trying to get Elsa out of the lake! Chessies are like that. But you’ll meet Eric at dinner. And now we have a few very special campers I want to introduce—not that everyone isn’t special, but these are people you’ll want to be sure you get a chance to know. From
Dog’s Life
, Holly Winter, who’s brought us our only malamute. Holly?”
I swore under my breath, and popped up and down as fast as possible.
“And we’re honored to have a very distinguished couple, Phyllis and Don Abbott. Everyone knows Don, and a lot of you know Don’s marvelous book about getting started in the fancy. And Phyllis Abbott, one of our most respected obedience judges. Don and Phyllis?” Don Abbott was, of course, the round-faced man who’d been on the deck when I’d left my cabin, the man who’d been too busy with his phone conversation about AKC politics to give Rowdy even a quick glance. Real dog person. When Mrs. Abbott and her husband stood up, I noticed that she wore a silky-looking blouse and navy slacks that would have been suitable even for the formality of the breed ring. In obedience, it’s common to see women judges in informal slacks or warm-up outfits, but when Mrs. Abbott judged she usually wore a conservative suit with a medium-length skirt. By comparison
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