Black Ribbon

of the line to the ends that I felt almost apologetic about the ups and downs of human heads, as if all of us should have anticipated the aesthetic demands of drill team by selecting dogs according to our own proportions, giant dogs for lofty people, toys for the tiny.
    Even if the rest of us had chosen our breeds with a good drill-team topline in mind, Phyllis Abbott would’ve thrown it off, but in all other respects, she was an asset, and so was little Nigel. Edwina, who’d had the unhappy encounter with the scent articles, was a good-looking bitch and an excellent obedience dog, but Nigel was flashier than Edwina, a sturdy, sparkling fellow with a naturally fabulous, beautifully nurtured coat in a shade of red remarkably like that of Phyllis’s hair. Yes! The ovogallinaceous puzzler in cynogynic form: Which came first, the dog or the tint? In either case, the well-matched, soigne pair were a credit to obedience, exactly the kinds of ambassadors we need to dispel our image as the Order of Slobs of The Fancy.
    Also, once Janet began directing us, it became evident that Mrs. Abbott knew what she was doing. We started without music. On signal, Mrs. Abbott heeled Nigel forward. Head high, shoulders back, she had a dancer’s carriage. When she’d taken about four steps, the teams to her left and right moved forward; and then four paces later, the next two teams, and so on until we were spread out in V-formation, like Canada geese. Reaching the end of the field, our leaders, Phyllis and Nigel, made an about-turn, came to a halt, and waited until, two by two, the other teams executed the same maneuver and thus re-formed a straight line. After that, with Phyllis leading, we again distributed ourselves across the field and performed what in my mind became a rather bewildering series of halts, turns, and forwards, at the conclusion of which we somehow found ourselves back in what had now become a ragged line I that eventually straightened out and attempted to rotate itself. Pivoting in place, Phyllis and Nigel acted as a pin that held our center firm, but I’m afraid that those of us at the outer edges created such a straggly effect that, viewed from above, our supposedly precise line must have looked like the melting hands of a Dali clock. I tried my best to do everything at once, but everything proved more than I could manage. I’d take big, fast steps to move us even with the man and the Great Dane 1 bitch at our left, and having positioned us in line with them, I’d discover that we’d forged far ahead of the woman and the big mix-breed to our right. Simultaneously listening to Janet’s booming instructions and slowing down to put us even with that team, I’d glance to the far end of the line to discover that our supposedly opposite numbers, Michael and Jacob, weren’t actually opposite us at all. Adjusting my pace to make us match Michael and Jacob, I’d lose track of Rowdy, and while bringing him back to heel position, I’d take my eye off the Great Dane, and when I looked toward her again, she’d somehow have ended up way, way behind us. So I’d slow down, thus throwing off the team to our right. And thus it went until, after a great deal of backing up and stepping forward, we ended up exactly where we’d begun, the handlers a little;dizzy and out of breath, but so ferociously proud of our performance that we burst into cheers, released our dogs, rubbed their chests, and thus sent them into the leaping, yelping equivalent of our own self-applause.
    The second time, we did almost as badly as we’d done the first and congratulated ourselves just as wildly. Thereafter, we became, if not precise, at least a little less sloppy than we’d been. Lost in play, I lost track of time and was amazed when Janet announced the end of drill team by telling us what a great group we were. Tomorrow, Janet promised, we’d add music.
    In the past hour, shaded by the darkening clouds and cooled by a sudden steady breeze from the lake, the field had changed seasons from late summer to early autumn. Barearmed, I needed the sweatshirt I’d left with Rowdy’s canvas travel bag; and especially with flyball due to begin almost immediately in the same field, Rowdy needed a drink and a little walk. As I crossed the grass toward the area by the blacktop where most of us had piled our gear and where a crowd had gathered to wait for flyball, I caught up with Phyllis Abbott, who exclaimed, “Now that’s what it’s all about,