Black Ribbon

I associate with agility people, who are so single-mindedly devoted to their sport that they pare down all other aspects of their lives to become the ascetics of dog athletics, lean fanatics with sinewy muscles and burning eyes. Their hair and everything else, too: If it gets in the way of agility, bind it back, or cut it right off. No breasts showed through the woman’s plain white T-shirt. I wondered whether she’d carried her commitment to excess. Like almost everyone else, however, she wore a name-tag pin, a white square with an outline of red curlicues, the words Waggin ’ Tail across the top, and the motto Ruff It In Luxury across the bottom. In between, hand-printed in red Magic Marker, was her name, Heather, with something illegible beneath.
    “Chief Fecal Inspector,” said Heather, her voice and expression as flat as her chest.
    Holding out Rowdy’s health certificate, I stammered, “He’s, uh, he’s negative. We just had a stool sample checked.”
    Heather tapped a blunt-nailed finger against her name tag. “I saw you looking. It’s my job. Chief Fecal Inspector.” The corners of her thin lips inched upward. “Camp rule,” she explained. “Clean up after your dog, or I’m the one who yells at you.” She glanced at Rowdy, who was eyeing the Chesapeake bitch. “And don’t let him leave his mark on the agility equipment, either! Winter? And Rowdy.”
    I nodded compliantly. My customary friendliness and volubility were hard to suppress. For example, I had to fight the urge to ask Heather whether she was, in fact, a double Amazon. She removed a fat brown envelope from one of the manila folders, thrust it into my hand, and directed me to the next stop on my registration pilgrimage. “Get a pin,” she ordered me. As an apparent afterthought, she said, “Welcome to Waggin’ Tail.” The camp’s name seemed to embarrass her. I began to like Heather.
    “Welcome to Waggin’ Tail!” The cry, unabashed this time, emanated from a fortyish woman with a soft, round face, faded blue eyes, a mop of springy yellow-gray curls, and pale skin brightened by networks of prominent veins, red on her face, blue on her legs. Despite the SPF-30 pallor, she had an outdoorsy look. She was plump in the middle and nowhere else, and wore khaki shorts and a Waggin’ Tail T-shirt, gray with red letters.
    “Maxine,” I said. When I’d asked Bonnie what Maxine McGuire was like, she’d provided the only introductory information of any concern to anyone in the fancy: “Very nice dogs,” Bonnie had pronounced. As I’ve said, Bonnie and Maxine both had mastiffs. The only representative of the breed in sight, the adolescent male who’d already caught my eye, was dozing under a nearby tree. So how did I recognize Max McGuire? Let me explain that after extended periods of time spent in the company of dogs, even an unlikely ESP prospect like me acquires the ability effortlessly to discern the names of total strangers. Get a dog! It’ll change your life. Actually, I read her name tag. “I’m Holly Winter,” I told her.
    In contrast to Heather, Maxine greeted this unremarkable piece of information with an effusive and nervous-sounding display of surprise and delight. The surprise couldn’t have been genuine—I’d sent in all my forms—but the delight was certainly heartfelt. Its object, of course, was the article I’d write for Dog’s Life. If Rowdy and I had looked like the wolfman accompanied by the bride of Dracula, Maxine would still have gushed over us. “What a beautiful dog! You do show him, don’t you?”
    I nodded. Rowdy preened. Maxine fired off an anxious volley of questions, instructions, comments, and bits of information. I had my registration packet, didn’t I? But I needed a name tag. Had I seen my cabin yet? It was right on the lake. Phyllis and Don Abbott had the other half of the cabin, but I wasn’t to worry: The entrances were separate, so I’d have plenty of privacy to write. I used to have goldens, didn’t I? I showed them in obedience? Well, maybe I’d shown under Phyllis Abbott, and I knew who Don Abbott was, didn’t I?
    Yes, AKC, very big in dogs. Right. Lovely people. Wasn’t the heat terrible? Max wasn’t used to it, but we had the lake, didn’t we? And it always cooled off at night. I had brought a bathing suit, hadn’t I? Rowdy was the camp’s only malamute. Did he like to swim? He didn’t? Well, maybe he’d at least like to wade. I could drive right up to my cabin