Day Three:
I have a theory that any given activity that someone finds worthwhile is considered a “red-headed stepchild” of some other activity. That’s the way it is with American football and what we Americans call “soccer”, which everyone else calls football. While we see “our” football as a natural evolution of the earlier, more pure form of the sport, just about everyone else in the world sees it as an overly complicated corruption of what they consider to be the greatest sport in the world.
Meanwhile, ancient Mayans would scoff at soccer because they use a wimpy inflatable ball instead of the decapitated head of their defeated enemy. Plus, the losing team isn’t ritually sacrificed, as the natural order of things demands.
There is a similar relationship between rally obedience and obedience in its original form, its older, more legitimate brother. On the morning of the third day of the trials, I spent some time watching trials in this type of obedience. Standard (sometimes called “normal” or “real”) obedience is a solemn, somber business. Unlike in rally obedience, handlers are to avoid giving the dog any feedback other than the robotically delivered commands telling it what to do next. Dogs often go through the motions with all the enthusiasm of Dachau inmates shoveling gravel from one meaningless pile to another.
The concentration camp metaphor is probably a little over-the-top. As far as I could tell, no dogs were gassed or cremated as part of the competition, although in fairness I should point out that I have no idea what went on behind the scenes.
While I watched this dreary spectacle, Cherise went shopping, as she is wont to do. She picked up two new leashes for the dogs, despite the fact that we already have an impressive leash collection that puts the Imelda Marcos footwear stash to shame. We have specialized leashes for walking, running, bicycling, obedience, agility, and surfing the internet. At least, I assume they cover all these activities, as it hardly seems economical to have more than one leash per dog that performs the same function.
Thus relieved of my bank account balance, I prepared once again to watch Mallory at work. It was our last chance to get out of there with some semblance of dignity intact.
It started out badly. As Cherise had trouble getting Mallory’s attention, I mouthed, “Not again!” Soon, however, our wayward pooch realized where she was and what she was supposed to be doing. Despite stopping a few times to sniff and once to look around, Attention Deficit Dog wound up completing the course with reasonable competency.
We held our breath as we awaited the final verdict from the judges. Soon, we had it: A score of 84. Qualifying.
We had done it! Cherise’s patience, Mallory’s had work, and my reading had finally paid off. After three tries, Mallory had her first leg of the advanced title.
She didn’t come close to the top three scores, though, so we made do with a tiny little ribbon signifying our lack of failure. It was enough. Breathing a sigh of relief, we loaded up our kennels, chairs, and dogs, and prepared to clear out of the EXPO! once and for all.
On the way out, we cut through the plaza, and discovered that Shiner was afraid of large expanses of concrete.
