Black Ribbon

isn’t it? Fun with your dog!” She repeated, as if reminding herself, “That’s what it’s all about.”
    “It sure is,” I agreed. When we reached the pile of our belongings, I pulled on a dark green sweatshirt that showed a picture of an adorable malamute of four or five weeks. Above his head was a query addressed to breeders about whether they knew where their puppies were; below, an admonition to support rescue.
    “Oh, I like that!” Mrs. Abbott said.
    Only a few years earlier, I’d sometimes had to explain to disappointed members of the general public that Malamute Rescue does not mean training the breed to sniff out earthquake victims; our dogs have been rescued, and any heroic acts they may subsequently perform are strictly incidental. Far from confusing our dogs with the Search and Rescue variety, a few members of the fancy had seen them as the likely perpetrators of disaster scenes: slavering beasts, their mad eyes fixed on the jugulars of young children. Then all of a sudden, the dog fancy discovered the breed rescue movement and abruptly declared us politically correct. The AKC’s stamp of approval hadn’t yet paid any vet bills, but cachet was a start. Maybe cash would follow. I wondered whether Phyllis Abbott had ever taken a Pomeranian from a shelter or trained a wild-acting stray to become a civilized pet. When she and Don Abbott were with their AKC friends, did she raise the issue of puppy mills? Or did her support of rescue consist of saying nice things about other people’s sweatshirts?
    Quite a few people were letting their dogs drink out of a communal water bucket, but I filled Rowdy’s own little travel bowl from his own water bottle. When he’d slurped up three or four bowlfuls, I replaced his training collar and leash with his retractable lead, which, I might add, I had examined minutely without discovering any signs of tampering. After taking Rowdy to the edge of the woods for what dogdom persists in calling a bathroom trip, I led him to the big crowd that had gathered for flyball, a sport I’d watched before, but one that neither Rowdy nor I had ever tried. Janet, our drill team instructor, and two other women had set up three flyball boxes, each about the size of a big milk box. Lines of handlers and dogs were already queuing up. The line on the far left was obviously where Rowdy and I didn’t belong. Rowdy could easily have cleared the series of low jumps in front of the professional-looking flyball box, but unlike the bouncing, yelping off-lead dogs in that line, he wouldn’t have known what to do once he got to the contraption. Should you be as inexperienced as Rowdy was, let me explain that when the dog whacks the front of the box—or in the primitive versions of the apparatus, a pedal at the front—the contraption releases a tennis ball that the dog is supposed to catch. An advanced dog dashes over the jumps, hits the box with his paw, catches the ball, and goes back over the jumps. In flyball tournaments, teams of dogs compete in what are, in effect, relay races. Competitive flyball is simple and fast, beautiful to watch, the basketball of canine sports.
    Mainly because Eva Spitteler and Bingo were last in line at the middle flyball box, I led Rowdy to the line at the right. Directly ahead of us were Phyllis Abbott and her male Pomeranian, Nigel; and in front of them, Joy and Lucky. For once, the little quasi-Cairn was standing on his own four feet. Looking bare-chested without the dog clutched to her breast, Joy was engaged in animated conversation with Phyllis Abbott.
    I caught the end of something Joy was saying: “…from a pet shop. I didn’t know any better at the time, and he is —”
    “Every dog comes from somewhere!” Phyllis interrupted, “and that doesn’t mean you love him any less.” She paused. “Does it?”
    “Of course not!” Joy replied. “It’s just that—”
    “They don’t all have to be show dogs,” Phyllis pronounced. “And Lucky has a very sweet face.” For that moment, so did Phyllis.
    Warmed by Phyllis’s praise, Joy made what sounded like a confidence. “And he, uh, he just passed his Canine Good Citizen test.”
    Considerate obedience judge that she was, Phyllis projected her voice: “Congratulations! That’s very special. I hope you’re proud of yourself and proud of your dog.” What bothered me, I suppose, was a brittle note that made me wonder whether Phyllis’s kindness to Joy represented a triumph over some