by cheri block
Animal heroes were my heroes back in the days when I was knee-high to a donut.
Lassie the collie—who could signal for help in Jeff’s mashed potatoes—evoked in me such deep respect, I would sit in front of our TV for hours, stunned by her cleverness and loyalty. I ached for a companion like her.
Rin Tin Tin the German Shepherd—who could speak English (with a German accent)— provided a startling foil to my own mundane German Shepherd Dickens, who could only sit, heel, stay, and roll over.
So you will understand why I leaped at the opportunity to witness a field trial and watch highly trained hunting dogs work in perfect synchronicity with their masters.
I am not Artemis, Goddess of the Hunt, but I do revere the forests and hills (and a well trained animal), so I accepted the invitation to Brown Dog Day.
Guess what Dinah? Auntie Alex has invited us to Brown Dog Day next Saturday. And you get to compete in the novice class! Just think, when they catapult that frozen mallard duck into the air, followed by the crack of the pistol, you Dinah, will have a once-in-a-short-lifetime opportunity to retrieve it from a pond.
Will there be an audience? Dinah replied.
Oh yes, about 200 people and their Chesapeake Bay Retrievers will all be watching, I encouraged.
OK, I’ll go, Dinah nodded, but don’t feed me ahead of time. I want my natural hunting skills, evolved from the blustery shores of frigid Labrador, to kick into my performance.
She added, Labrador is a more ancient and cold place than the Chesapeake Bay, right? I will give those curly coated, homely (but talented) dogs a schooling.
And then she laid her blond head with those overly made-up eyes into her donut bed and went to sleep, dreaming of her own daily hunting for wild turkey poop, cat poop, tennis balls, paper towels, acorns and Lego pieces.
The big day arrived.
As we drove up the road to the trial, small signs taped to the trees directed us to our destination: BROWN DOGS Ahead—5 miles, then 3 miles, then 50 feet, then YOU ARE HERE.
We went directly to the pond behind a big shoulder of an East Bay hill.
People in flannel shirts were milling about.
Dog crates stacked in the back of pick-up trucks held barking Chesapeakes.
Card tables covered with plastic red and white table clothes provided a stable ledge for coffee cups and donuts.
Dinah eyed the donuts.
I whispered to her, Get your eyes off that food and begin your meditation about ducks.
A big curly coated unneutered male walked by her, sniffing her private parts.
Dinah seemed to like the attention from a big guy.
Refocus, my dear, I whispered again.
The man from across the pond with the pistol called out on his bullhorn: All novice dogs be ready. We will start with Number One, the yellow Labrador. Are you ready over there?
Not really, I thought.
Absolutely, I barked.
I walked down and among the clods of earth and snapped a 50 yard yellow rope to her collar. As suggested, I put on heavy gloves to avoid a rope burn when she took off for the retrieve. I told Dinah to sit and wait. She looked back at the donuts.
In an almost Celtic Games scenario, a big man from behind a rock launched a dead mallard duck into the air.
Craaacckk, snapped the pistol.
Down the duck plummeted, down into the pond.
The next thing I knew, the yellow rope was unraveling fast. Dinah was on her instinctual way, heading for the pond, the duck, the ultimate retrieve.
Her ears flattened out on the surface of the water as her shoulders pumped and pushed her body along. She circled the duck and then, as her genetics dictated, she bit the duck and began her swim back to the shore.
Applause from the crowd. A few whoops of encouragement.
Good Dog, I praised her as she emerged from Lake Alcyonian.
Come, Dinah, I commanded.
Just a minute, she said.
Now, I ordered.
Just a minute, she said, in a dilatory move.
First, let me eat the feet off this duck.
The hunting crowd on the hill stopped eating the donuts and drinking the coffee and cheering the Labrador.
Dinah likes Dim Sum, I said, amused at my own wit.
