Black Ribbon

getting Lucky to put his paws on the pedal, but each time the tennis ball flew through the air, the little fellow acted more startled than pleased. At the flyball box to our left, the one manned by Janet, our drill team instructor, Elsa the Chesapeake leaped after a ball, and Eric Grimaldi gave a shout of pleasure. “Good girl, Elsa! Good girl!”
    “Let her keep it,” Janet advised him. “It’s her prize. For now, just let her keep it.”
    Prancing at the end of her lead, the triumphant Elsa, her catch in her mouth, led Eric to the end of the line. They wouldn’t have long to wait. Mainly because of Eva Spitteler’s presence, I suspected, their group was small.
    While I’d been watching Elsa and preventing Rowdy from finding out whether she’d share that tennis ball with him, Phyllis and Nigel had taken their turn, with what success I don’t know.
    “And now the malamute!” Betsy called. “Let’s see what the malamute can do! What his name? Rowdy? Bring Rowdy up here. All you want to do for right now is get him to get those big paws down here.” She pointed to the carpeted pedal that ran across the front of the box. “Can you get him to jump? Bounce around? All we’re after now is just getting him to hit it by accident.”
    Persuading a malamute to clown around isn’t exactly difficult. With the big plastic handle of the retractable lead in one hand, I had a little trouble clapping my hands, but my effort, in combination with a lot of excited chitchat, got Rowdy going, and within a few seconds, his forepaws had landed on the pedal and sent a ball flying out of the back of the machine. Clowning around is a virtually universal passion in the breed; retrieving isn’t. With Rowdy and Kimi, I’d lucked out. Besides, a lifetime with golden retrievers had trained me to expect demonic fetching from all dogs, and, in part, Rowdy and Kimi had done what I’d expected. When the tennis ball flew, Rowdy took a second to notice it, but then zoomed after it. After a late start, he failed to catch it in midair, but happily snapped it up as it rolled across the grass. When I led Rowdy back to the flyball box and made a big happy fuss that caused him accidentally to whack the pedal, he caught the ball before it hit the ground. Our turn was up. Like Elsa, Rowdy kept the ball he’d caught, and like her, he paraded back to the end of our queue with his prize in his jaws.
    As it happens, I have a photograph taken at the exact moment that Rowdy and I took our place at the end of the line. Craig, who took the picture, must have stepped far back to snap it. On the right, Betsy is loading the arm of the flyball box with a tennis ball. Jacob, first in line, is peering at Michael, who is pointing at the box. Michael’s mouth is open; he is talking to his dog, trying to entice Jacob toward the pedal. Some of the handlers in back of them are people I remember. Mary wears a cobalt blue Waggin’ Tail sweatshirt; Carole, a red anorak. The husband and wife with the English setters are there, the dogs even more handsome in the photograph than in my memory. Baskerville is yawning. Joy has on a fuzzy pink jacket, and adorning her blond curls is a matching pink bow suitable for a child. She kneels down, one arm around Lucky, her hand under the dog’s chin to tilt it toward the camera. She is posing; the odd smile on her half-open mouth suggests that Craig may have caught her as she was uttering cheese or pickles or one of those other words superstitiously believed to confer temporary photogenicity on the pronouncer. Joy does not, however, need to order lunch to look lovely; in the eye of the lens, Craig’s eye, she radiates a bride’s beauty. Phyllis Abbott’s face is turned away, and Joy’s body completely blocks the camera’s view of Nigel. At the end of the line, at the extreme left of the picture, I am grinning foolishly at Rowdy, who has noticed the camera. Oblivious to the unfortunate state of his coat, he has spontaneously stacked himself for the show ring. As if to brag of his recent accomplishment, he holds his head high and prominently displays the tennis ball in his mouth. My hair looks even worse than Rowdy’s coat. His display of pride is unabashed, deliberate. Mine is unintended and entirely unself-conscious. Indeed, I am conscious only of Rowdy and of a thought that is crossing my mind—an unusual thought to cross the mind of any writer, I might add—the thought that—wow!—my editor was right. Bonnie’s