Year of the Dog by Shelby Hearon Page B

catch my breath. I’d dressed in khaki pants and a black cotton jacket, so I wouldn’t look like I thought this was play. To my surprise, every parking place in the motel held a car, half of them from Quebec, and the NO VACANCY sign flashed on and off. Crowds already pouring into Vermont to see the fall leaves. In late September! When I’d stayed here at the end of May, the place had been virtually empty.
    At the former Country Day School, Edgar and his person, Sylvia, greeted us in the parking lot, and we both felt good seeing the two dogs recognize each other, them getting excited the way toddlers did when they saw another small person they knew, and we let them nip and play a bit. Sylvia had been worried about Edgar being the only golden retriever in the class of labs, and, lately, worried that maybe he had a cold. Did dogsget colds? I didn’t know. I’d read in the Puppy Manual all the warnings about ear infections, itchy skin, fleas and ticks, urinary infections, lameness, accidental breeding (!), but nothing about colds.
    In the cheerful primary room, Sylvia and I sat next to each other for support, and talked in a general way about how things were going. Then the evaluators arrived and introduced themselves. Patsy, in jeans and boots, explained she would be the one walking our dogs through their paces. As her eyes roamed the room, she seemed not to see the persons at all, but to be studying the dogs as possible Companions. Deirdre, also in jeans, a braid down her back, told us she would be the one scoring our checklists. That a perfect score was five, but that no dog ever received a five.
    And then our dogs were called out one by one.
    â€œTory,” Patsy spoke the frisky black lab’s name firmly and his person led him out. He actually wagged his tail when he stood by her—and it looked good to see a doggy dog. “Bring him to attention and turn him around,” Patsy instructed.
    The woman tugged at his leash, at the same time saying, “ Tor-y. ” But the dog didn’t move. Patsy said crisply, “He needs to know it’s time to work. Do you use his Companion Dog vest when you go out? Do you differentiate when he’s working from when he can relax? Here, let’s give it a try.” Then Tory’s raiser had to go through the excruciating drill of watching the evaluator walk the puppy around in a circle, keeping him close by her left leg, then stopping him, having him, “Sit,” then “Stay,” then being handed back the dog for her to do the same thing, without success.
    Help me, Jesus, I thought, using Mom’s phrase, my stomach knotting up.
    While Tory’s woman got her checklist from Deirdre, Patsy called out, “Vijay.” I and everyone else had seen that the huge yellow lab still had his mounting problem. All the time we’dbeen having sympathy for Tory, Vijay had been trying to hump first Edgar and then Naomi. Patsy spoke to his raiser, a cocky sort of jock guy, who seemed to think it smart, his big dog trying to be a stud. But to my regret, Vijay did great once Patsy took his leash. He stood attentive, held himself well, looked straight ahead. Twice he led the evaluator up and down the wide stairs in the back of the room, then he stayed, alert, when she dropped the leash and disappeared from his sight into the bathroom. “How is he in traffic?” Deirdre asked. “No problem,” the young man said, “except when there’s another dog.” “We like tough, confident dogs,” she told him. “But stop that problem before it becomes a habit.” When Edgar’s turn came, Sylvia got up quickly, leading him forward, expecting he would do well. We all did—everyone responded to his wide golden trusting face. But right away, we could see something was wrong. Patsy motioned to Deirdre to kneel down at dog level with her. “Listen. Do you hear that?”
    â€œI think he has a