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| MOM SHOWS OFF |
| Sailor here. Today, bright and early, Mom finally got it right. She got out of bed when she should this morning and I didn�t have to poke my nose in her eye. She threw on her casual work clothes (I know, I smelled them), and headed downstairs. �Sailor,� she said as she tossed two large bottles of partially frozen water into my backpack, �Today we are going to our first dog show.� �I knew it,� I said to myself. I had figured out that something was up when Mom rushed home last night from work and gave me a three-hour bath. �This is an obedience fun match,� she elaborated. �We are going to have fun and you are going to schlepp your own water.� �Are you going to be obedient?� I asked. Mom smiled and stuffed her backpack with my water bowl, brush, string cheese and leash. I waited by the door to see what would happen next. What happened was a car ride longer than any ride I can remember, except maybe the ride to the duck debacle. �Mom, do we live in a car now?� I finally asked. �Sailor, we�re just traveling to a dog show,� she answered. �We�ll be there shortly.� �How shortly?� I asked. �When are we going to get there?� Mom didn�t answer because she was changing lanes and driving onto a bridge. I turned in my crate and faced Mom. �When are we going to get there?� Mom smelled patient. She said helpful things like, �in a little while,� �in the time it takes us to walk 4 miles,� and �we�re almost there.� But this wasn�t helpful. Were we talking in dog years here or people years? How long would it a actually take? I stood up and whined again, �WHEN ARE WE GOING TO GET THERE?� In exasperation, Mom turned her head half way around and told me in no uncertain terms, �Sailor, you will know when we are there because the car will stop and everybody will get out!� Oh. She rolled down the window on my side of the car so I could smell the bridge, the Bay and the tidal marsh. She turned a knob on the car wall. �We�ll listen to Mozart,� she said. �It will calm both of us down.� Obediently, I downed. �What�s Mozart?� I asked. �Amadeus Mozart,� Mom explained. �He�s a big composer.� I sniffed out the window, sure that one of my more composed Leonberger friends was about to appear. But instead of a giant breed, giant music blared out of the speaker. Mom turned the volume down from a Leonberger level to a collie level. The music worked. I groaned my collie groan and relaxed. Finally we stopped. And we got out. Mom saddled me up with my backpack and filled the side bags with my water bottles. She climbed into her backpack and slung her chair and my tent over her shoulders. Then, evenly balanced, we proceeded out of the car corral and up a hill to� a dog show. Dogs were everywhere. Big dogs, small dogs, everywhere dogs. Lean dogs, fluffy dogs, even dogs with chicken pox (well, no, no Chinese crested here). I fit right in. We parked ourselves under a tree, Mom whooshed open my pup tent and grunted open her chair. We sat. I was petted admired by lots of Mom�s friends and loved that. Their pockets smelled like cheese. Then, Mom looked at her watch and started to smell nervous. Very nervous. She stood and gathered up my leash. Her smell made me nervous. I looked around, trying to discover what was so scary. We trotted over to a distant patch of grass with a tent in front and poles along the sides. I kept an eye out for whatever was unsettling Mom. I had a job to do. In true collie fashion, I guarded her and kept all other dogs away, but politely, of course. I body-blocked a black dog and a yellow dog, and when I met my flat-coated friend from Dog School, I sniffed noses with her politely but kept myself between her and Mom. I didn�t even think about sniffing butts (to be continued) |
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