about papers, but they’ll sure go for a malamute, especially an obvious stud like Rowdy, beautiful and wolflike, gentle and friendly. And the liberationists, the animal rights lunatics! I’d heard all the rumors and had passed along the warnings. Rowdy would be easy prey, swishing his tail, making eyes, playing up to everyone. An unknown crated dog could’ve turned protective, might’ve growled and bitten, but Rowdy would’ve been a no-risk steal. And, to someone who knew nothing about dogs, Rowdy would have looked so damned natural, as if he could fend for himself once he’d been freed from the bonds of human exploitation. Released. Turned loose. Manumitted. Liberated. Right next to 1-95.
In my sprint for the nearest exit, I shoved past a massive Kuvasz, barely missed crushing a brace of Maltese, crashed into a blessedly forgiving Newfie, and narrowly missed tripping over a darling Cairn and plunging down onto a German shorthaired pointer. In my terror, I fixed on a mad idea: Why hadn’t I just dashed off to Sally Brand? Rowdy belonged where’d he never be lost, on my skin, under it, permanently inked and linked to me. What did it matter where? On my back, on my arm, or inside my ear like the ID number on a French dog.
As I neared the cafeteria, though, I spotted a crowd of people and dogs in an area away from the show rings, and I heard what I’m now convinced are the most beautiful words in the English language. They aren’t cellar door, of course, and they aren’t what my fellow writer, Dorothy Parker, said, either: Check enclosed. If your partner and soul mate has vanished at a show, the most beautiful words in the English language are loose dog. “Loose dog!” voices called out. “Loose dog!”
One of the worst and best things about being a supposed expert on dogs is that your own dogs, the ones you presumably understand best, teach you over and over again that you know nothing at all. I pushed and squirmed through the crowd around the concession stand. From Rowdy’s point of view—evidently situated in his stomach—he’d done the obvious. Before I caught sight of him, I heard the trail mix crunch under my feet. The guy who held Rowdy’s leash was a jovial, ursine young Rottie-owner I’d noticed now and then in the obedience rings. I’d always liked his happy, easygoing manner with his dogs, and I liked it now with Rowdy. The two of them made me think of some corny children’s movie about a bear and wolf who become pals. They beamed at one another, the man obviously proud to be the hero who’d caught the loose dog. Dogs do get loose at shows by accident, of course. Exhibitors sometimes forget to latch the crates, and there are a few notorious canine Houdinis who’ve figured out how to escape from anything. Once loose, though, most of those dogs are terrified: disoriented, bewildered, scared silly, sometimes outright panicked. Not Rowdy, though. The opportunistic show-off had grabbed the chance for an unexpected feast and was now reveling in his role as the center of everyone’s attention. When he caught sight of me, the tempo of his tail quickened to allegro, and he burst into song. No exaggeration, either. Song. Woo- woo-woo-woo. In case I haven’t already bragged about Rowdy, let me tell you that he has a truly spectacular voice. Objectively speaking, the dog should attend the New England Conservatory of Music instead of the Cambridge Dog Training Club. You really should hear him. Anyway, I won’t swear to the following, but I will wager a small bet on it. I’m not positive, of course, but I think it’s possible, and his song definitely carried a note of triumph, at least to my ears. Grinning and wagging and wooing there in the center of the crowd, Rowdy sure acted and sounded like a dog who knows he’s just gone Best in Show.
8
Every exhibitor at Shawsheen Valley, myself included, had sat through plenty of hellfire-and-brimstone preaching about the evildoings of radical
In my sprint for the nearest exit, I shoved past a massive Kuvasz, barely missed crushing a brace of Maltese, crashed into a blessedly forgiving Newfie, and narrowly missed tripping over a darling Cairn and plunging down onto a German shorthaired pointer. In my terror, I fixed on a mad idea: Why hadn’t I just dashed off to Sally Brand? Rowdy belonged where’d he never be lost, on my skin, under it, permanently inked and linked to me. What did it matter where? On my back, on my arm, or inside my ear like the ID number on a French dog.
As I neared the cafeteria, though, I spotted a crowd of people and dogs in an area away from the show rings, and I heard what I’m now convinced are the most beautiful words in the English language. They aren’t cellar door, of course, and they aren’t what my fellow writer, Dorothy Parker, said, either: Check enclosed. If your partner and soul mate has vanished at a show, the most beautiful words in the English language are loose dog. “Loose dog!” voices called out. “Loose dog!”
One of the worst and best things about being a supposed expert on dogs is that your own dogs, the ones you presumably understand best, teach you over and over again that you know nothing at all. I pushed and squirmed through the crowd around the concession stand. From Rowdy’s point of view—evidently situated in his stomach—he’d done the obvious. Before I caught sight of him, I heard the trail mix crunch under my feet. The guy who held Rowdy’s leash was a jovial, ursine young Rottie-owner I’d noticed now and then in the obedience rings. I’d always liked his happy, easygoing manner with his dogs, and I liked it now with Rowdy. The two of them made me think of some corny children’s movie about a bear and wolf who become pals. They beamed at one another, the man obviously proud to be the hero who’d caught the loose dog. Dogs do get loose at shows by accident, of course. Exhibitors sometimes forget to latch the crates, and there are a few notorious canine Houdinis who’ve figured out how to escape from anything. Once loose, though, most of those dogs are terrified: disoriented, bewildered, scared silly, sometimes outright panicked. Not Rowdy, though. The opportunistic show-off had grabbed the chance for an unexpected feast and was now reveling in his role as the center of everyone’s attention. When he caught sight of me, the tempo of his tail quickened to allegro, and he burst into song. No exaggeration, either. Song. Woo- woo-woo-woo. In case I haven’t already bragged about Rowdy, let me tell you that he has a truly spectacular voice. Objectively speaking, the dog should attend the New England Conservatory of Music instead of the Cambridge Dog Training Club. You really should hear him. Anyway, I won’t swear to the following, but I will wager a small bet on it. I’m not positive, of course, but I think it’s possible, and his song definitely carried a note of triumph, at least to my ears. Grinning and wagging and wooing there in the center of the crowd, Rowdy sure acted and sounded like a dog who knows he’s just gone Best in Show.
8
Every exhibitor at Shawsheen Valley, myself included, had sat through plenty of hellfire-and-brimstone preaching about the evildoings of radical
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