The Fast and the Furriest (10 page)

Cromwell whined, then splayed his front paws outward, knocking over a pile of notebooks.

If we manage to not hurt anyone, that would be a big achievement
, thought Kevin.

I
t was a very good thing that winning wasn’t important. Because in their training runs during class the following week, Cromwell lost to everyone, including a deaf terrier with benign tumors on its rear paws.

“Splendid!” crowed Elka from her platform at the end of Cromwell’s run on Wednesday afternoon. He had toppled or otherwise misused every obstacle on the course.

Elka seemed particularly pleased with two things: one, Cromwell did, in fact, manage to contain himself until he and Kevin were supposed to begin—“You may interpret this as a sign that Cromwell would like to do well,” she said—and two, Kevin did not handle Cromwell halfheartedly.

Instead, he ran hard, directing his dog as best he could, almost exceeding Cromwell’s wild abandon.

“You appeared almost determined, Mr. Pugh,” said Elka.

He had been determined … not to look like an idiot. He was sure that he’d failed in that respect.

“Of course you were both technically
horrible
,” continued Elka, her voice rising on the adjective, “but this is what we expect. This is only the second week. Some dogs, they take years … and still they’re not so good.”

Cromwell had appeared to get lost in a long nylon tube, he missed or toppled most of the poles on what was supposed to be a weave, and his paws never made contact with any of the points he was supposed to touch along the course—these contact points were meant to be tests of discipline. Of which Cromwell seemed to have none. Kevin consistently positioned himself incorrectly and toppled one or two obstacles himself.

Classmates always nodded approvingly. A graying man named Mickael and his dog, a Chesapeake named Vladimir, delivered encouragement and sniffing. A middle-aged woman named Frances and her collie Willamina—this pair lent validity to the whole pets-look-like-their-owners thing—offered support to Kevin and to Cromwell, too.

Zach accompanied Kevin to each class, sitting just outside the training area. He cracked open the door occasionally and peeked inside. Elka must have noticed, though she allowed it. Zach was bubbling over with enthusiasm after the Wednesday session.

“That was excellent! Cromwell was a beast! A super-fast beast! He was total—”

“He was a spazzy goof,” said Kevin. “And so was I.”

Kevin shuffled along North Clark Street, past rock clubs and hot dog stands, Cromwell cheerfully wagging at his feet. Zach attempted progressively less-enthused words of encouragement, hoping to find something that Kevin would concur with.

“Well, as the investor behind all this,” he said, “I think I got my money’s worth. This was an important day for Team Cromwell.”

“You’re a nut,” said Kevin dourly.

“I’m the CEO!” declared Zach. “The CEO can’t be a nut. I have vision. And our little operation had a very good day. We should be celebrating. Like in televised sports. There should be specially made hats and shirts, people dousing each other with fizzy drinks … that sort of thing. We’re definitely not shutting down.”

“Technically horrible” is grounds for celebration
, Kevin thought.
That’s where expectations are set for me
.

They stopped at an intersection. They heard faint cheering from Wrigley Field, and a public address announcer’s muffled voice.

“Cubs mighta scored,” said Zach.

“Eh, not likely,” said Kevin, “but you never know.”

Cromwell licked Kevin’s leg.

“Gross, Cromwell,” he said.

Cromwell panted. Kevin sighed.

“Cromwell, it’s possible that you and I are maybe just a little too fat, too prone to underachievement, and just too unlikely to succeed at real-world competitions.”

“Oh, that’s crazy,” said Zach.

“
Overweight and Underachieving: My Life In and Out of Dog Shows
. By Kevin Leonard Pugh. Am I too young to write a memoir? Because I really think I have it in me to be a memoirist.”

“Shut up,” said Zach, shoving his friend.

Cromwell licked Kevin again.

“Gross. Seriously, Cromwell. I’m totally sweaty.”

Another lick.

The walk continued in this way, Zach’s enthusiasm beating against Kevin’s pessimism, punctuated by licking.

In spite of their many excessively praised failures, Kevin faithfully trained with Cromwell leading up to the Paw Patch Invitational. They fell into a comfortable
routine on off-days: sleep until late morning, then eat … walk with Cromwell, then eat … afternoon gaming … agility training in the evening, then more gaming. And perhaps more eating.

Gradually the walks with Cromwell became longer walks at faster speeds. Then they became slouching jogs. Eventually they became full-out runs, with iPods and reflective shoes. At Elka’s suggestion—and after training with her for a while, he obeyed all of her suggestions, which were actually polite commands—Kevin changed Cromwell’s diet, asking his mom to buy a yellowish dog gruel. He couldn’t actually pronounce the food’s name—it had a few “ü’s” and “ö’s”—but it really seemed exotic, and appropriate for a dog in training.

“It’s something like
Bloo-stoorppin-poofoogle
,” Kevin told his mom. “Definitely starts with a ‘B’ and ends with an ‘-oogle.’ I understand it’s very good. For hips and joints.”

“And I’m supposed to get it
where
?” his mom asked while writing
“B-oog-oogle”
on the dry-erase board. “I can’t just go to PETCO? Or Dominick’s? Or the Jewels?”

“Um … an organic pet food shop somewhere in Wicker Park,” Kevin said sheepishly. “On Damen, I think.”

“Organic pet food,” Maggie stated dryly.

“Yeah. And I think it’s actually a ‘boutique,’ not a shop.”

“Let’s not tell anyone that part,” said Howie.

“And why are we changing Cromwell’s food again, Kevin?” asked Maggie, smiling.

“I … um … I was talking to this lady at the park. About, you know … dogs. And food. Her pugs like the, um
… Boog-stooplip-noogle
. Or whatever it’s called.”

“Okay, honey,” said Kevin’s mom.

To Kevin’s surprise, Cromwell actually ate the new food—the first time it was served to him, and without hesitation.

Kevin still hadn’t told his parents that he was training with Cromwell at Paw Patch, and they hadn’t interrogated him about what he was doing with the time that was once devoted to camp, between the hours of 9:00 a.m. and noon on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. He realized that if he was out of sight, it was assumed that he was in the basement, on the couch. It was rare that anyone violated his domain. Izzy was about to qualify for some über-Olympic meta-intergalactic soccer thing—Kevin wasn’t entirely sure about the details there—and everyone in the house seemed focused on it. He just knew that Cromwell was getting a little better at jumping and avoiding things—not imperceptibly better, but legitimately better. He was proud of his dog.

No one seemed to noticed that Kevin was slowly weaning himself off the junkiest of the junk-food chips, too. When he left the house with Cromwell, he was sure that his family assumed he was going to Zach’s. Even though he took no gaming gear, ever. And he never took the usual stash of cheese-flavored snacks.

On a Sunday night in mid-July, just days before the competition at Paw Patch, Maggie burst into the house with five shopping bags full of clothes.

“Kids!” she yelled. “Time for a back-to-school runway show!”

“Woo!” said Izzy from upstairs.

“Eww,” said Kevin from the basement.

“Come on down here!” said Maggie, flinging her keys onto a table and plopping the bags on the carpet. “Or come up, as the case may be.”

“It’s way too early to think back-to-school, Mom,” groaned Kevin.

“It’s just two months away!” she replied.

Izzy and Kevin were each handed bags of clothes and dispatched to separate rooms to change, and to identify items that should be returned. The only thing rejected by Izzy was a grayish-blue sweater that “makes me look
exactly
like Aunt Connie! Eep!”

“Your aunt Connie is a lovely lady,” said Maggie. “Isn’t that right, Howie?”

Howie said nothing. His head was buried in a fantasy football draft guide. His eyes were narrowed, as if he were trying to read hieroglyphics by the light of a torch. Maggie ripped the magazine from his hands.

“Isn’t Aunt Connie lovely, dear?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I mean, she dresses like a fruitcup, but …”

Maggie threw the magazine into his lap.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll take that one back. Kevin, how are you doing, hon?”

Kevin stepped into the living room looking as if he were wearing drapes. Or a parachute.

“These clothes are kinda big, Mom. I don’t think I’m gonna grow into this, either. It’s like a tent with sleeves.”

“But, Kevin!” exclaimed Maggie. “I swear, that’s just one size bigger than what you wore at the end of last school year!”

Everything she’d bought for him was, in fact, oversized. Kevin pulled the waistband of his jeans forward, revealing at least three inches of space where his midsection used to be. Maggie lifted his shirt slightly and tapped his belly, looking for ripples.

“Mom!”
snapped Kevin, yanking the shirt down.

“Kevin,” said Maggie, “I believe you’ve lost some weight.” She turned toward Howie. “Howie …”

No response, so again she ripped the football magazine from his hands.

“Howie!” she said. “Look at your son.”

“Cripes’ sake, Kev,” he said. “Where’s the rest of you? When did you get so skinny?”

“Dad, I’m not exactly
skinny
,” said Kevin, grabbing two inches of belly. “I’ve just had, um … an active summer.”

His parents stared.

“It was all that football, maybe,” added Kevin.

“He’s gotten total exercise, Dad,” confirmed Izzy. “He leaves with the dog, and they come back stinky sometimes.”

“Hey!” said Kevin, though he wasn’t particularly displeased.

His dad smiled.

“Well, it looks like you’ve got a parasite or somethin’ in there. Maybe a … um, whatchamacallit … a heartworm.”

“Pretty sure those are for dogs, Dad.”

“Well, maybe you caught it from Cromwell,” said Howie. “He’s lookin’ pretty trim these days, too.”

The dog scampered up the basement steps at the mention of his name.

“So wait,” said Kevin. “You noticed that the dog had lost some weight, but not
me
?”

“Well, he’s made some dietary changes,” said Howie. “I’m attentive. Don’t think I’m not.”

Riiiight
, thought Kevin.

“Well, dear,” said his mom, “I think I’ll have to
take all those clothes back.” Maggie stared at her oldest child in clear disbelief. “Just when you think you know someone …” She shook her head.

You really have no idea, Mom
.

Kevin changed into workout attire and handed the giant clothes back to his mother. He went outside to stretch—he didn’t want his family to see him in agility-training mode. That would lead to questions, and questions would lead to either lies or uncomfortable truths. Kevin withdrew a sophisticated digital timer from his pocket, setting it to 0:00:00.000. Zach, in his capacity as financier, had insisted on a timing device for Cromwell that would be accurate to within a thousandth of a second. Kevin had begun to use it to time his treks to Paw Patch—he no longer took the bike stroller—as well as neighborhood jogs.

“Okay, Cromwell,” he said, then pressed a button to start the clock.

It beeped once, and Kevin and Cromwell broke into a run.

K
evin and Cromwell always ran the exact same path through Welles Park—this was essential, according to Zach, for accurate timing. They jogged past the same serious-looking lawn bowlers; past the tennis courts, where errant shots distracted Cromwell; past the soccer field, where adults played; and past a small, hunched-over ice cream man who persistently tempted Kevin with snow cones.

But Kevin averted his eyes and kept running.

Not fast, exactly. Other runners passed him, and he rarely passed anyone. He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, then wiped the back of his hand on his T-shirt. Cromwell galloped, his tongue flopping. Kevin was singing along (badly, like an English-speaking sheep) to a random selection of songs on his iPod.

Park-goers stared. Some smiled. Others laughed. Kevin kept running.

He checked his timer.

0:10:36.007 …

The fractions of seconds ticked by, way too fast to follow. Kevin liked the meaningless precision. He checked again.

0:10:38.198 …

Kevin soon arrived at the south end of the park, emerging from the grass-lined path and onto an intersection at a side street that would lead east to North Clark. His head swiveled, checking for traffic, and then he urged Cromwell to cross.

But the dog had stopped.

Kevin looked down at Cromwell, who was barking—rather cheerfully—toward the street.

Looking up, Kevin saw his sister’s grinning face poking out of the Bears-branded Tahoe. She waved. Kevin waved back. Then he saw his father chuckling behind the wheel, and his mom seated on the passenger side, a mixture of horror and amazement playing on her face.

Kevin shut off the iPod.

Seconds later, becoming acutely self-aware, he stopped singing. Cromwell kept woofing away.

“Oh, um … hey,” said Kevin.

“Hey, yourself!” said his dad, somewhat mockingly. “Where are you in such a hurry to get to?”

“Nowhere,” said Kevin. “Just running.” He discreetly turned off the timer.

“You need to take it easy on this exercise, kid,” said Howie. “It’s critical to maintain your weight for football. We’ll get you playin’ again in the fall!”

Maggie slapped his arm.

“It’s lovely that you’re running, dear,” she said. “We’re all going to Water Tower right now so that I can return four hundred dollars’ worth of clothes that won’t fit you. And one nice—if somewhat old-fashioned—blue sweater. Would you like to join us?”

“C’mon!” Howie said. “Hop in, kid.”