The Trick Showdown

Me and Charlene got to the park at nine in the morning, which was earlier than I wanted to be up on a Saturday, but I had a plan and plans don't wait around.

"Remind me why we're doing this," she said, juggling her coffee and a bag of dog treats while I hauled Moose's crate out of the truck bed.

"Because we're gonna win, that's why. Five hundred bucks and a trophy. And because Moose is the smartest dog in this county and it's time somebody recognized it."

Moose is a mutt. He's maybe a third shepherd, a third beagle, and a third whatever was wandering around loose the night somebody dropped him off at the shelter. He's brownish and his ears don't match and I love him like a brother. Charlene says that says a lot about me.

"Lionel, honey, there's going to be actual show dogs here. Groomed ones. Ones with paperwork."

"Paperwork doesn't catch a frisbee."

She rolled her eyes at me, but she was smiling while she did it, so I figured I was still ahead on points. We've been together two years now, ever since I met her at that college pet show where she was volunteering and I was getting dragged around the ring by a nine-month-old Moose who thought a leash was a suggestion. She laughed at me then and she's been laughing at me ever since, and honestly it works.

She's twenty-two and she works at the vet clinic on Route 9, so she knows more about animals than I do, which I try not to hold against her. I'm twenty-three and I train dogs out of my garage, which sounds more impressive than it is, since the garage is also where I keep the lawnmower.

The park had tables set up and a little agility course cobbled together out of PVC pipe, and there was a judges' table with a banner that said TRI-COUNTY TALENTED TAIL CONTEST in letters that had clearly been printed off somebody's home computer. There were vendor tents too. Somebody was grilling something. The breeze carried popcorn and grilled meat and dog smell all mixed together, which is honestly not a bad smell as smells go.

We signed in at the registration table, and that's where I saw him.

Trent Olsen. Twenty-eight years old, jawline you could grate cheese on, sunglasses pushed up on his head even though he was standing under a tent. And next to him, on a little braided leash, a standard poodle that had obviously been to a groomer that morning. The thing looked like it was wearing a haircut worth more than my truck.

"Trent," I said.

"Heywood." He looked at Moose. "That's your entry? Cute. Very, uh. Rustic."

"This rustic dog is gonna bury your poodle."

"Her name is Princess," Trent said, in a tone like that settled the argument. "Champion bloodlines. She's performed at three regional shows."

"Great. Has she performed at a county fair next to a funnel cake stand? Because that's today's environment."

Charlene pinched my arm, the way she does when I'm being a jackass in public. "Hi, I'm Charlene. Ignore him, he's been talking trash all week and I'm tired."

The woman behind the table looked up at that. She had her hair pulled back and a clipboard and a name tag that said KIRSTY, JUDGE. She was maybe twenty-five, and she gave Trent a look that had history in it.

"Trent. Still entering things you're sure you'll win?"

"Kirsty. Still judging things you couldn't win yourself?"

"Well," she said, stamping our forms, "one of us has a ribbon and it's not you. Number eleven for you two, number twelve for His Smugness. First round starts at ten."

I liked her immediately.

We got set up on the grass near the far end of the course and I ran Moose through a warmup while Charlene held the treats.

"So that's the rival," she said. "The one you've been monologuing about all week."

"That's the rival."

"He seems kind of full of himself."

"He's VERY full of himself. And that dog has never caught a frisbee in its life, I guarantee it. Poodles are show dogs, Charlene. Moose is a working dog."

"Moose is a couch dog who learned to spin for cheese."

"Working couch dog."

* * *

The first round was basic commands. Sit, stay, come, down, the stuff every dog claims to know and most dogs don't. There were twenty-six entries and we went in groups of eight. Kirsty judged from the table while two other people took notes, and honestly I barely looked at them because I was locked in.

Moose was perfect. Sat on the first word. Stayed through a full thirty seconds while I walked away and turned around. Came when I whistled. Laid down like his bones had melted. Charlene was trying not to look proud and failing at it, which is my favorite look on her.

Then Trent went, and Princess did the whole routine like she was bored by it, precise as a metronome. I hated how good it was. I hated it a lot.

Then the guy with the corgi went, and that's when things got interesting, because we all had to line back up for the group stay portion. Every dog in a row, handlers ten feet back, first dog to break loses points.

Moose was rock solid. I could feel him next to me, vibrating with want for the treats in my pocket but holding, because he's a professional.

Princess was three dogs down. And on some signal I did not catch, she just casually stood up, strolled two steps to her left, and hip-checked a golden retriever into Moose, who got bumped sideways and broke his stay trying to keep his feet.

"Hey!" I said, before my brain caught up with my mouth.

"Accidents happen," Trent said, not even looking at me.

"That wasn't an accident, that was a hit and run."

Kirsty got up from the table and walked over. "What happened?"

"His dog bumped mine," I said.

"My dog stood up," Trent said. "Your dog fell over. Maybe work on his balance."

Charlene appeared at my elbow. "His dog walked over and shoved mine. I watched the whole thing. It was like a pool shot."

Kirsty looked at Trent for a while. There was definitely history there, and I made a mental note to ask Charlene to find out what kind later, because I love gossip like anybody.

"Princess loses her stay points," Kirsty said, writing. "Moose gets a re-run after this round. And Trent, if your dog commits assault again, you're out."

"Assault," Trent said. "It's a dog show."

"It's my dog show," Kirsty said, and went back to her table.

Moose re-ran his stay and nailed it, and I gave him half the treat pouch on the spot, which Charlene said was going to ruin his dinner, and I said dinner is for dogs with fewer talents.

* * *

Round two was the fetch relay. Dog stays at the line, handler throws, dog retrieves, two throws, fastest clean run wins. Simple. Moose was born for this. Moose would swim a lake for a tennis ball and I had a brand new one, bright yellow, fresh out of the package.

First throw, sixty yards, he was on it like a missile, brought it straight back, dropped at my feet. Princess ran hers clean too, I'll give the devil his due, that poodle could move when she wanted to.

Second throw I put everything into. It sailed high and long, over the course, over the rope line they'd set up, and into the crowd near the vendor tents. I watched Moose streak after it and I thought, that's fine, he'll bring it back, he always brings it back.

Except the ball came down near a hot dog cart.

And Moose, my loyal dog, my champion, saw the ball land, saw a hot dog fall off a cart at the exact same moment, and made what I can only describe as an executive decision.

He took the hot dog. Ball and hot dog, one in the mouth each.

"Oh no," Charlene said beside me.

The vendor, a big guy in a paper hat, saw it happen and came over the counter of his own cart like it was an action movie. "HEY! DOG! Get back here with my bratwurst!"

Moose did not get back there with his bratwurst. Moose ran. Through the crowd, weaving between lawn chairs, hot dog in one side of his mouth, yellow ball in the other, cheeks puffed out like a squirrel, absolutely living his best life while a grown man in a paper hat chased him and about two hundred people turned to watch.

"Whose dog is that!" the vendor yelled.

"Mine!" I yelled back, already running. "Sorry. He's got two things, he can't bark."

I chased him past the funnel cakes, past the judges' table where Kirsty stood up to get a better view, past Trent, who said, "Some working dog," as I went by, and I did not stop to answer because there was no time and also he was right and I knew it.

Moose did one full loop of the picnic area, ate the hot dog mid-stride, which honestly takes talent, and then trotted back to me with the ball, tail up, proud as a general, and dropped it at my feet like he had done me a favor.

Charlene caught up to me, bent over, wheezing with laughter.

"Your face," she said. "Your FACE when you yelled 'he's got two things.'"

"I'm glad my crisis entertains you."

"Lionel. That was the funniest thing I've ever seen in my life. The vendor did a slide over his own counter."

The vendor came stomping up a second later, out of breath. "That dog owes me a bratwurst."

"I'll pay for it," I said, already getting my wallet out, because whatever else was happening, the money part comes first and I wasn't going to stand there haggling while my dog panted at me like a hero. "Four bucks, right? I'm sorry, man. He's got a nose and no morals."

The vendor took the money, glared at Moose, and said, "Good dog, though. That was impressive."

"That's what I keep saying," Charlene said.

Kirsty called from the table, "Heywood. You're still in it, but there's a five-point deduction for leaving the course."

"We accept the deduction," Charlene called back, still laughing.

I knelt down by Moose and he licked my chin with the same tongue that had just had street meat on it, and I swear the little jerk knew exactly what he'd done.

"Round three's the obstacle course," Trent called over from his tent, all sunny. "Hope the mutt's got more than sit and steal."

Charlene squeezed my arm. "Okay. Obstacle course, and then the freestyle final. What's our routine?"

I looked at her, and I looked at my dog, who was now rolling in the grass on his back with all four legs in the air.

"Well," I said, "it was a backflip catch and a handstand walk. Now I'm improvising."

"Okay, hear me out," Charlene said, sitting down on the bench and pulling me next to her. "You have the spin-and-bark. The special trick. Save it for freestyle. Save it for the final."

"The spin-and-bark is not a special trick, it's an accident he does when he gets excited."

"It's adorable and it kills every time. Remember Mae's birthday? Her whole family was crying."

"That's because her uncle Louie had been drinking. That's not the same as a judged competition."