High in Trial - By Donna Ball Page 0,2

a gorgeous April weekend, and the venue was perfect: huge open agricultural fairgrounds and exhibition center with two covered pavilions, a concrete livestock building for crating, plenty of public restrooms, a separate concessions building surrounded by picnic tables, and acres of rolling grass for setting up shade canopies and walking dogs. There was even RV parking on site, and every time I walked past the camping area with the smell of charcoal-grilled burgers and the sight of happy dogs lounging in their ex-pens in front, I felt a stab of yearning. Although I had no complaints about my luxurious room at the Pembroke Host Inn on this trip, most doggie motels left a great deal to be desired. An RV was any dog show enthusiast’s secret dream.

If I had had an RV, for example, I would have brought my two Aussies, Mischief and Magic, and I would have entered every class being offered this weekend. I might even have a chance of winning one. On the other hand, Cisco and I had trained all winter—well, part of it, anyway—and I was feeling good about our chances. I only hoped Cisco shared my confidence.

Of course, there were a few advantages to staying in a motel rather than an RV, even if it did mean limiting myself to one dog. Like room service, for example, and a full stand-up shower. And the fact that my boyfriend, Miles, had surprised me by driving in from Atlanta last night and had immediately upgraded our room to a mini-suite. I have to admit, the evening wouldn’t have been nearly as enjoyable had we been staying in an RV with three dogs.

I always feel a little silly saying that—“boyfriend”—partly because I don’t think any woman over sixteen should call any man a boyfriend and partly because, well, I don’t exactly know what else to call him. For one thing, Miles is hardly a boy. He’s in his mid-forties with short spiky salt-and-pepper hair, a rock-hard body, and nice gray eyes. He has questionable political opinions, a bullheaded way of getting what he wants, and more money than I even want to know about. He’s funny and charming and smart, and he makes me laugh even when I’m mad at him. When we’re together, he always cooks. He’s also the dad of one of my favorite people in the world, the aforementioned ten-year-old Melanie, who’d begged to forgo a school field trip to Washington, D.C., this weekend in order to attend this trial. Melanie had aspirations of seeing her own golden retriever puppy, Pepper—who was currently in the very capable care of their housekeeper in Atlanta—bring home a slew of blue ribbons one day. While I agreed with her father that a hands-on experience in American government should take priority for the weekend, I also secretly agreed with Melanie that it’s never too soon to start exposing a puppy to competition.

The upside of having Melanie in Washington was that Miles and I had the weekend to ourselves—if you didn’t count the three hundred or so dogs between us—which was something we’d learned to value since our relationship had taken a more romantic turn. Is he my boyfriend? I still struggle with that. But what else do you call someone who drives four hours just to watch you compete in an event that lasts less than a minute?

Here’s something else my mother taught me: Be careful who you date, because you can’t always choose who you fall in love with.

“So,” said Miles, snapping open a bag of corn chips, “explain the rules to me again.”

An agility trial is always more fun with a buddy—someone to cheer you on, help with strategy, and keep you from going bonkers between runs. Usually I trial with Maude, my business partner, oldest friend, and the best dog trainer I know, but since we were rather desperately trying to keep Dog Daze, our boarding and training center, above water we agreed the business could spare only one of us per weekend. This was my weekend, and while it’s true that trialing with Maude was both educational and supportive, Miles was a lot more fun. For one thing, I liked seeing the game through the eyes of someone who was new to it, and what girl doesn’t like that slightly superior feeling that comes along with explaining things to her guy? For another thing, I’d recently discovered he was almost as much of a junk food junkie as I was, and as everyone knows,