Black Ribbon

hidden sense of her own fragility.
    “Well, all the dogs passed,” Joy admitted. “They did the second time.” Her pink face reddened. “The first time, they all... But then Maxine decided there was something wrong.” Regaining her composure, she speeded up. “And so Maxine decided that it wasn’t very fair, even though that’s what the rules said, strictly speaking, but Maxine decided that’s not what the rules really meant, because they meant, because what they meant was, uh, a dog you would like to own, really, a dog that is a good citizen. And so we all got to do anything we’d failed all over again! And that time, Lucky passed!”
    Phyllis Abbott looked as astonished as I felt. The guidelines for the CGC Program are very flexible. The AKC does not, however, even begin to condone the practice of passing all dogs by giving them extra chances at exercises they’ve failed.
    “Really,” Joy added, “it was fair, because all of them really are good dogs.”
    Phyllis bent down and needlessly fiddled with Nigel’s collar. As an obedience judge, Phyllis Abbott was not charged with policing CGC tests. Even so, as my column-in-progress had begun to point out, judges represent the AKC itself and the entire sport of dogs. If Maxine McGuire wanted to keep her campers happy by declaring all “good dogs,” whatever that meant, Canine Good Citizens, Phyllis Abbott didn’t want to hear about it. When Phyllis stood up, I caught her eye and said, “The dogs at camp are a lot better behaved than the average dog, and the owners are responsible, or they wouldn’t be here. And there’s probably a lot of self-selection. People probably wouldn’t have paid the twenty dollars unless they were fairly sure that their dogs would pass.”
    “You want to see Lucky’s ribbon?” Joy asked. “Craig! Craig! Where’s Lucky’s ribbon?”
    A Nikon dangling from a strap around his neck, Craig was seated on the rough grass, ready, I assumed, to take a picture of Lucky enjoying flyball. Beckoned by his wife, he reached into the pocket of what looked like a government-issue tan windbreaker and produced a green ribbon.
    Joy motioned to Craig to bring it to her. Up close, the dark green satiny strip of fabric looked all too familiar. AKC rules about ribbons, prizes, and trophies are clear and rigid. In conformation, dark green means a special prize; in obedience, it’s the color of the ribbon awarded to every dog that qualifies. Groups sponsoring CGC tests were, I knew, allowed to give ribbons to dogs that passed. I was quite sure, however, that dark green was not a permissible color, and I was positive that CGC ribbons were not supposed to display the seal of the American Kennel Club. But there it was, smack in the center of the ribbon: three concentric circles, the words American Kennel Club curving around the top of the outer circle, a star fore and aft, the word Incorporated underneath; then the circle of little dots; and within the solid inner circle—some mystical significance there, perhaps?—the letters AKC. No big deal? Wrong. Imprimatur: Let it be printed, the statement at the beginning of books approved by the Roman Catholic Church. Well, the AKC seal is the imprimatur of the fancy, and the AKC is about as happy to see it used without permission as the Pope would be to have the Church’s imprimatur casually placed on the masthead of every issue of Dog’s Life, not that there’s anything sacrilegious about Dog’s Life —for all I know, the Pope may even subscribe—any more than there’s anything objectionable about CGC tests. But just as the Pope can’t check out every issue of Dog’s Life before it’s published, the AKC can’t send a rep to every CGC test; therefore, no imprimatur and no AKC seal.
    Appropriately enough, Phyllis Abbott rolled her eyes toward heaven—or maybe toward 51 Madison Avenue. With admirable grace, she murmured, for my ears only, “I am not seeing that.” She cleared her throat. “I am not looking.”
    I complied with what I understood as Judge Abbott’s request. “Very nice,” I told Joy. I pointed out that she was next in line. Taking the green ribbon from his wife, Craig hurried away, hunkered down a few yards from the flyball box, and raised the camera to his eye. The flyball instructor in charge of our group—Betsy, her name was, a wiry woman with weathered skin and deep laugh lines—loaded the apparatus with a tennis ball. With Betsy’s help, Joy succeeded in