coverage in the seat.” It’s so interesting to see people undressed or even half undressed. At the edge of the lake in her good-coverage maillot with her admirable Pomeranians bouncing around her small feet, Mrs. Abbott remained one of the fancy’s perfect types: the great big woman with little tiny dogs. It could truly be said, as the expression goes, that she was “big in toys.”
“I stewarded for you a couple of years ago,” I replied. “At Cambridge.” The Cambridge Dog Training Club’s annual trial. Mrs. Abbott knew that. “And I used to have goldens.” Before Mrs. Abbott could start encouraging me to train Rowdy, I said, “I still show a little in obedience. Rowdy just got his CDX.”
“A CDX malamute!” Although I always try to memorize: the heeling pattern a judge is using, I still like to hear the commands ring out clearly. Mrs. Abbott’s New York accent somehow helped to project her voice.
His attention drawn to Rowdy, Eric Grimaldi gave me a nod of congratulations, took a second look at Rowdy, and said, “Good-looking dog.”
Eric, I might point out, was a conformation judge, and he didn’t judge just one or two breeds, either. As I’d learned from Cam and Ginny, he was a Sporting Group judge. Admiring my dog. Brag, brag. That the Alaskan malamute belongs to the Working Group is incidental.
I returned Eric’s compliment. “Beautiful Chesapeake. I love watching her in the water.”
The Adam and Eve of the breed, Sailor and Canton, arrived in this country in 1807 when an English brig went aground on the shores of Maryland. The American ship Canton rescued the passengers, the drunken crew, and the two presumably sober puppies. Ever since, the Chesapeake Bay retriever has been striving to return to the oceanic womb from which it sprang. A good all-around hunting dog and handsome, versatile companion, the Chesapeake is the ultimate breed for hunting waterfowl, and a unitary breed, not split into bench and field lines.
Eric’s face showed pride and chagrin. “Once Elsa hits the water, she doesn’t come out until she’s good and ready.” He paused before finishing the Chesapeake-person joke that must date from the arrival of Sailor and Canton. “And,” he said, she’s never ready.”
When I’d seen Eric at the meeting earlier that day, he’d reminded me vaguely of some old-time Hollywood leading Wan. Now that he was knee-deep in the lake, I realized that the association wasn’t vague at all: Eric Grimaldi looked like an age-ripened Johnnie Weissmuller, Olympic swimmer turned movie star. Weissmuller wasn’t much of an actor, but it didn’t matter because as Tarzan he usually appeared either half-s u bmerged or swimming a silver-screen version of what
my grandmother still calls “the Australian crawl.” Like Weissmuller, Eric was a strapping guy with hard, prominent lats, traps, and pecs, and he had Weissmuller’s healthy, friendly face and big features, too.
“I could watch her forever,” I told him.
Phyllis Abbott’s face lit up. “Oh, Eric has!” she commented. “Frequently.”
Eva Spitteler had been standing in the shallow water a few yards away from the rest of us. She was alone. Moored to a tree on the bank above the cove, Bingo was barking and yelping. Next to Eva on the edge of the dock lay one of the resort’s thick red towels and what I assumed was a bottle of sunscreen. Beach towels were one luxury that we campers were expected to provide ourselves; we’d been asked to bring them, and a politely worded sign in my bathroom had reminded me that the towels there were not for use in the swimming area. I'd complied. So had almost everyone else. The red towel on the dock was the only one in sight. Eva Spitteler reached toward it, picked up the plastic bottle, and poured liquid into the palm of one hand. Instead of spreading the stuff on her skin, she rubbed it on her head and lathered her hair. When she dunked, the clear lake water turned cloudy. Bingo silenced
“I stewarded for you a couple of years ago,” I replied. “At Cambridge.” The Cambridge Dog Training Club’s annual trial. Mrs. Abbott knew that. “And I used to have goldens.” Before Mrs. Abbott could start encouraging me to train Rowdy, I said, “I still show a little in obedience. Rowdy just got his CDX.”
“A CDX malamute!” Although I always try to memorize: the heeling pattern a judge is using, I still like to hear the commands ring out clearly. Mrs. Abbott’s New York accent somehow helped to project her voice.
His attention drawn to Rowdy, Eric Grimaldi gave me a nod of congratulations, took a second look at Rowdy, and said, “Good-looking dog.”
Eric, I might point out, was a conformation judge, and he didn’t judge just one or two breeds, either. As I’d learned from Cam and Ginny, he was a Sporting Group judge. Admiring my dog. Brag, brag. That the Alaskan malamute belongs to the Working Group is incidental.
I returned Eric’s compliment. “Beautiful Chesapeake. I love watching her in the water.”
The Adam and Eve of the breed, Sailor and Canton, arrived in this country in 1807 when an English brig went aground on the shores of Maryland. The American ship Canton rescued the passengers, the drunken crew, and the two presumably sober puppies. Ever since, the Chesapeake Bay retriever has been striving to return to the oceanic womb from which it sprang. A good all-around hunting dog and handsome, versatile companion, the Chesapeake is the ultimate breed for hunting waterfowl, and a unitary breed, not split into bench and field lines.
Eric’s face showed pride and chagrin. “Once Elsa hits the water, she doesn’t come out until she’s good and ready.” He paused before finishing the Chesapeake-person joke that must date from the arrival of Sailor and Canton. “And,” he said, she’s never ready.”
When I’d seen Eric at the meeting earlier that day, he’d reminded me vaguely of some old-time Hollywood leading Wan. Now that he was knee-deep in the lake, I realized that the association wasn’t vague at all: Eric Grimaldi looked like an age-ripened Johnnie Weissmuller, Olympic swimmer turned movie star. Weissmuller wasn’t much of an actor, but it didn’t matter because as Tarzan he usually appeared either half-s u bmerged or swimming a silver-screen version of what
my grandmother still calls “the Australian crawl.” Like Weissmuller, Eric was a strapping guy with hard, prominent lats, traps, and pecs, and he had Weissmuller’s healthy, friendly face and big features, too.
“I could watch her forever,” I told him.
Phyllis Abbott’s face lit up. “Oh, Eric has!” she commented. “Frequently.”
Eva Spitteler had been standing in the shallow water a few yards away from the rest of us. She was alone. Moored to a tree on the bank above the cove, Bingo was barking and yelping. Next to Eva on the edge of the dock lay one of the resort’s thick red towels and what I assumed was a bottle of sunscreen. Beach towels were one luxury that we campers were expected to provide ourselves; we’d been asked to bring them, and a politely worded sign in my bathroom had reminded me that the towels there were not for use in the swimming area. I'd complied. So had almost everyone else. The red towel on the dock was the only one in sight. Eva Spitteler reached toward it, picked up the plastic bottle, and poured liquid into the palm of one hand. Instead of spreading the stuff on her skin, she rubbed it on her head and lathered her hair. When she dunked, the clear lake water turned cloudy. Bingo silenced
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