Black Ribbon

grown to about a hundred people and at least that many dogs.
    I found a shady spot under an ancient white birch near Cam and Ginny. Cam’s sheltie, Nicky, was stretched out at her side, his head resting on his paws. Wiz had been lying down, too, but she rose to her feet, licked Rowdy’s muzzle, abased herself before him, rolled onto her back, and wiggled. Rowdy sniffed her indulgently. I sat cross-legged on the grass. Rowdy put himself in an alert sit and began a systematic survey of the canine competition. Most of the other dogs napped.
    Heather, the self-styled Chief Fecal Inspector, appeared with a small loudspeaker attached to a portable microphone. Maxine took the mike and called the meeting to order. She was no public speaker. The mike squealed. Max shouted a welcome. Everyone applauded. Max said that she was happy to see all of us and excited about camp. She thanked us for having faith in her and for making her dream become a reality. The heat made me drowsy. The temperature couldn’t have been above the high seventies, ten or twenty degrees cooler than Cambridge, but in Rangeley, Maine, it must have been one of the hottest days of the year. I drifted.
    Max was talking about the contents of the registration packets we’d received when we’d arrived. She held up a red sheet of legal-size paper and said that she was sure that we were just as excited as she was about the courses and the activities. Everyone should take note of a couple of revisions in the schedule. Canine Good Citizenship testing, originally scheduled for Friday, would take place tomorrow afternoon; and Temperament Testing, scheduled for Thursday, would be held on Tuesday. A murmur greeted the announcement. “That shoots that,” I heard someone grumble. “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 I sympathized 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