Black Ribbon

mean: “Hightail it in the opposite direction, dash in giant figure eights, drop to the ground, roll onto your back, and wave your paws in the air until the judge cracks up and the spectators are in stitches.” That’s Mahlemut for you: succinct. I've studied up. My research has given me a great respect for the people who developed this breed. Extraordinary language. Ungodly beautiful dogs. Big-boned. Low-slung. Like small-eared wolves with dark, gentle eyes and an expression warm enough to melt the Arctic night and sweet enough to turn blubber into honey, and...
    And what does all this have to do with dog camp? Let’s just say that five hours after we left Cambridge, when I parked the Bronco in the Waggin’ Tail lot, leashed Rowdy, and led him across a field of rough, weedy rural Maine grass toward what a cardboard arrow informed me was the camp registration table, I had a dog I was proud to be seen with. And he had heavy competition, too: a handsome young mastiff; three sleek basenjis; numerous Labs in yellow, black, and chocolate; a darling papillon; a perfectly matched brace of Pomeranians groomed for the show ring; three English springer spaniels; a pretty briard with a barrette in her hair; one bichon; two Boston terriers; a very old Pembroke Welsh corgi; a young whippet; a beautifully proportioned, well-balanced Chesapeake bitch with that dark brown coat favored in this part of the country; an Australian cattle dog; a Bernese hitched to a festively decorated cart; two drenched goldens and a flatcoat fresh from the lake, all three cooling off everyone in shaking distance; dozens of multiethnic, culturally pluralistic mixes and crosses, and... Well, I could go on and on, and, if I’m not stopped, will probably do so at extreme length and in minute detail. But, as I’ve indicated, even judged against heavy competition, mine was certainly the most outstanding dog of all. This happy realization, of course, filled me with the comforting sense of being exactly where I belonged, right in the midst of my own Blue Lodge, secure in the knowledge that everyone around me shared the Unifying True Secret known in our fellowship as the Transcendent Paradox: Everyone else present at Waggin’ Tail at that moment was thinking exactly the same thought I was. And every single one of us was absolutely right.
    Never been to Maine? If so, I’ll do my best to take you along, but I have to admit that I notice pines, firs, spruce, hemlock, maples, and birches principally in their absence. If the Mooselookmeguntic Four Seasons Resort Lodge and Cabins had been denuded of vegetation, I’d probably have winced at the cruel, raw look of recent clear-cutting. If the mountains had flattened out since my last visit, or if a big dry hollow had stretched itself in the background where the lake belonged, or if the big log-cabin lodge and matching little cabins hadn’t been there at all, I might have wondered whether I’d taken a wrong turn and landed us in the Desert of Maine. As it was, tall trees and thick undergrowth surrounded the big grassy field on one side of the newly blacktopped parking lot, and mature trees rose here and there around the numerous buildings, which, as the brochure had promised, looked newly refurbished. What had obviously been an old fishing and hunting camp had, indeed, become a resort. The logs and the cedar siding had fresh coats of stain, every roof was brand-new, and every paintable piece of trim—doors, window frames, window boxes, shutters—was a bright, high-gloss crimson. If I’d randomly turned in at the long drive to the resort in search of a place to spend the night, I wouldn’t even have bothered to ask whether there was a vacancy; I’d have taken one look, turned around, and driven off to find a room I could afford. I wouldn’t really have cared. Whenever I feel poor, I remember that I’d rather have my dogs than other people’s money.
    So, scholarship camper that I was, I proudly led Rowdy across the grass to the crowded registration area that had been set up in the field.
    “Holly Winter,” I told the woman who stood behind the table running her eyes and hands through the manila folders crammed into a portable plastic file box. At first glance, I assumed that she must be an agility instructor. Quick introduction to agility: timed obstacle course for dogs. Canine playground. Anyway, the filing woman had straight, bristly hair cut so short that its color vanished into her scalp, a style