Dogged Pursuit by Robert Rodi

Author:Robert Rodi
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group

CHAPTER 17

Hounds for the Holidays

Winter arrives. In Chicago this can mean appalling quantities of snow or frigid, heart-stopping cold. In a good winter, we’ll have a few memorable instances of each, just to keep us from forgetting that we are in fact nature’s bitch. In a bad winter, we’ll be pounded with one right after the other, alternating blows that leave us reeling. And every once in a while we’ll have a terrible winter, in which we actually get both calamities at the same time. This is shaping up to be a terrible winter.

It’s eleven below zero and snowing briskly when Dusty and I set out for Milwaukee and our first overnight agility trial. In fact we’ll be staying two nights so that we can compete in three consecutive days of the Cream City Canines Agility Club trial. I’m hoping a three-day trial will break the run of bad luck we’ve had with two-day trials, which have been a series of depressingly similar, lackluster performances. Possibly, the extra day will be just what Dusty needs to grow accustomed to the venue and the people and build a modicum of confidence and, who knows, even honest-to-God ambition.

This Cream Cities trial is more popularly known as Hounds for the Holidays (or just Hounds, for short). It’s a highlight on the All Fours calendar, and this year is no exception. Almost a dozen of us will be there. I’m especially looking forward to it since it’s my first time—I never attended with Carmen.

And now I remember why. The snowfall has reduced visibility to almost nil, and with the sun not yet risen, my headlights are reflecting off the whirling flakes as they spiral toward my windshield. The effect is potentially mesmerizing—and thus potentially lethal. I have to keep adjusting my vision, trying to see beyond the storm; it requires some serious concentration. In the meantime, I can’t seem to stop trembling; the temperature climbs a bit (to a balmy six below), and the heater’s on full, but my body won’t adjust. This is where a good breakfast would’ve come in handy. I’m usually Breakfast Boy, but this morning I woke up late and had to hurry out of the house to beat the Thursday morning traffic. My first walk-through is scheduled for 8:10, and it’s at least a ninety minute drive to Milwaukee. So my stomach’s growling and my limbs are shaking as we speed through the dark in a vortex of shimmering snow.

Where the heater has failed me, the music steps in to dispel the chill. I’ve rather cannily chosen a disc of music by the Argentine composer Astor Piazzolla, whose torrid, tango-driven sound world soon envelopes me and makes me feel, well, not quite like I’m on a beach, but at least like I’m wearing a Panama hat.

We arrive at Uihlein Soccer Park well before eight, leaving sufficient time to unfold Dusty’s crate and set up shop. The facility is enormous, the largest I’ve seen yet. There are three courts, one of which is dedicated solely to excellent standard, another to excellent jumpers.

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