Black Ribbon (9 page)

Far away, the kind of little outboard favored by fishermen
put-putted.
Then a Jet Ski whizzed along, drowned it out, and probably scared the fish, too. Or maybe not. In late August, the fish had probably descended to the icy depths, where they could ignore the surface noise and avoid being caught by any method except deep trolling. Deep trolling, I might mention, is perfectly legal but not quite respectable. My father, a
Salmo salar
snob, regards most lake fishing with the eye of Jacques Pepin contemplating a Fluffernutter. Because of some quirky loophole embedded in the arcane laws that regulate social hierarchies among Maine anglers, however, he makes an exception in the case of salmon and trout fishing in the Rangeley lakes, provided, as should go without saying, that it is fly fishing only, preferably for
Salmo sebago
, landlocked salmon, but also for trout, especially if the angler is accompanied by young children. Nothing could persuade Buck to stoop to bass fishing, and he harbors a terrible prejudice against anyone who uses a minnowlike lure in fresh water. The buzz of the Jet Ski faded, and I heard the little
put-put
motor again. It occurred to me that if Eva Spitteler took up fishing, she’d favor the unspeakable: live bait.

After my swim, I fought off incipient hypothermia by taking a hot shower and drying my hair. Then, for once, I worried about what to wear. Ordinarily, I rely on the L.L. Bean catalog’s autocratic decrees about what may appropriately be worn when, where, and for what purpose. Unfortunately, I couldn’t recall any specific recommendations for dining at a luxury dog camp. Floundering around on my own, I chose khaki pants (“casual” comfort, one Bean-step up from “at-home”) and a short-sleeved cotton sweater described, I thought, as “versatile.” Neither item, if I remembered correctly, would shame me by having been Bean-relegated to suitability for some ignominious task like cleaning the barn on a cool fall afternoon.

By the time I was dressed, Rowdy was dancing in circles and bounding up and down, and when I opened the closet where I’d stashed his bowl of moistened kibble, he’d reached a state of salivating frenzy. Ever watched a malamute eat? Magic. Truly, ladies and gentlemen, the jaw is quicker than the eye. Nanoseconds after that dish hit the floor, it was empty. Then I took Rowdy for the kind of brief postprandial outing politely known as “exercise.” After dutifully cleaning up after him and depositing what I guess ought to be called his aerobic benefit in one of the trash cans, I returned to the cabin, checked my watch, and realized that I had ten minutes in which to look over the material in my registration packet. I upended the big manila envelope over the bed. With the exception of the calendar of events at Waggin’ Tail, the contents that tumbled out consisted of a map of the region, brochures advertising local attractions, fliers for restaurants, and other printed matter that Maxine McGuire must have seized in a raid on the Rangeley tourist bureau. The collection bewildered me. Why welcome people who’d just shelled out for Waggin’ Tail by hinting that they spend most of the week and a ton of extra money elsewhere? Missing from the packet were what I’d been told were the usual souvenirs and favors provided by
Dog Days and the other competing camps: no penknife embossed with the camp name, no gift certificate for the camp store, no Waggin’ Tail ID tag for Rowdy’s collar, not even a bumper sticker.

With only a few minutes left before dinner, I skimmed the red legal-size sheet that showed the schedule of activities and quickly picked out agility, advanced obedience, and a workshop on flawless heeling for the competition dog. I intended to take the course on canine first aid and CPR, and I thought I’d let Rowdy try flyball and maybe lure coursing, too. He’d hate nothing more than the daily swimming lessons and the workshop on water rescue, and I’d keep him as far away as possible from herding, which would obviously involve sheep,
live sheep
, of course, unless Rowdy got them first. Hunting was also out. If there’d been any seals around, Rowdy might have located their blow holes, but I couldn’t imagine his learning to point to birds for someone else to kill or bringing them back for someone else to eat. Doggy square dancing? Breed handling? Dog tricks? Carting, yes. And definitely the Friday workshop on sled-dogging. No tattoo, though. Rowdy had his AKC registration number on one inner thigh and my social security number on the other. Even my protectiveness had limits.

I’d lost track of the time. I hustled Rowdy into his crate, took off for the lodge, and had the bad luck to arrive at the stairs just behind Eva Spitteler, to whom Joy was babbling about Lucky. “He swam! And he really loved it! I held him, and then Craig called to him, and he swam right to Craig!” Joy’s dainty hands mimed the Cairn’s accomplishment. Her childish face glowed. “And you could tell Lucky was kind of scared at first, because he wasn’t used to it, but he went right ahead! And he was
so
proud of himself! Wasn’t he, Craig?” At Joy’s side, beaming at his wife exactly as she had beamed at her dog, was Craig, who had the general appearance that Hollywood has persuaded me to associate with F.B.I. agents: the
crew-cut blond hair, the cheeks slightly reddened from over-close shaving, the babyish features, and a body that looked artificially enlarged by persistent work with free weights. Craig’s head seemed to have been grafted to a big man’s neck, and the neck to a giant’s body. Joy wore a skirt and her husband wore pants, but their blue-and-rose-red madras plaid shirts were identical. On second thought, maybe it wasn’t a razor that explained Craig’s red face.

The upper half of Eva Spitteler’s compact bulk was shrouded in an unironed man’s dress shirt, and as she lumbered up the stairs, I got a close-up opportunity to realize why no one who weighs well over a hundred and fifty pounds should ever wear Bermuda shorts. On her feet were clunky leather sandals evidently fashioned from recycled bits of harness or dog leash.

“Well,” Eva told Joy loudly, “at Dog Days, you’d’ve got a tag for his collar for that. The first time your dog swims, you get a tag. It’s got a picture on it, and it says he’s a certified swimmer, and it’s really cute. You didn’t get one, did you?”

Joy’s face fell. “No. Should we have?”

“Not here,” Eva pronounced. “Too cheap to pay for them.”

I felt irked at Eva, who’d succeeded in transforming Joy’s pride to a sense of having been shortchanged. The too-cheap crack did, however, point to a unifying theme in the contents of the registration packet: Nothing in it had cost Maxine a dime.

“And,” Eva relentlessly continued, “at Dog Days, there’s something going on every minute. Here, take tonight. After dinner, there’s nothing. We drive all the way here to the middle of nowhere, and then we wait all this time for something to eat, and then afterwards all there is to do is sort of hang around and twiddle our thumbs.”

Rangeley was, admittedly, a long drive from New York or New Jersey or wherever it was Eva came from, but it actually was what most other tourist areas merely tried to be: a yearround
resort where you could hunt, bird watch, swim, water ski, canoe, sail, sit and enjoy the mountains, hike the Appalachian Trail, or even pan for gold. In winter, Rangeley had sled dog racing and skiing, downhill and cross-country. Spring did, of course, bring black flies, but it also brought fish, and the fall foliage was as good as anything in New Hampshire and Vermont. And the town itself was a beautiful place with a wild streak, rugged and a little rough, not cutesied up, but naturally lovely, set between Rangeley Lake and Haley’s Pond. The middle of nowhere, indeed! Furthermore, since dog people are undoubtedly the most gregarious individuals in the world, we do not think of after-dinner socializing as hanging around and twiddling our thumbs because there’s nothing to do.

As if to illustrate the sociability of our breed, the people who packed the lodge’s reception area and the adjoining bar were all talking and introducing everyone to everyone else. Even without our dogs, by the way, we are often so obviously interconnected as to be recognizable as members of a fraternal and sororal society, but when we’re dressed for dinner and not wearing our usual breed-loyal T-shirts and such, you’d have to examine us closely to discover our precise identity. I, of course, have a practiced eye. The designs knitted into Maxine McGuire’s cardigan sweater depicted a high jump, a dumbbell, trophies, and other dog-societal symbols, and almost every pair of earrings in the room would, I felt certain, turn out to be a miniature brace of dogs. We were well-groomed and dolled-up. By definition, we love a show, and we sure do know how to put on the dog.

Ahead of me, Eva shoved through the crowd, thus breaking track for Joy and Craig. As they trailed off after her, I squeezed into the only floor space available nearby, a gap between a side table and one of the couches that faced the fireplace. As I was glancing around trying to locate Cam or
Ginny, one of the women seated on the couch suddenly shrieked, “What’s
this
doing here?”

From my refuge, I looked almost directly down at her brown curls. I leaned forward to peer at the object of her consternation, which I at first mistook for a tourist brochure like the ones in the registration packet.

The woman next to her said, “It’s just another one of those—”

“No, it isn’t! What’s wrong with you?
Look
at it!” The first woman thrust the shiny folder at her neighbor, who made a noise of disgust and said, “This is gross! Where did you get this?”

“From right there, right on the coffee table. It was sticking out from one of the magazines, and it caught my eye because of the picture of the dog, so I reached for it. And then when I ever saw what it was!”

Well
, I wanted to shout,
so what was it?

As if in answer, the neighbor opened the brochure on her lap and thrust it up to display a brilliantly colored, superglossy photograph of three small satin-lined, lace-trimmed caskets, baby blue on the left, baby pink on the right, and, in the middle, virgin white. Each casket rested on a trestle, and in front of the trestles, three little stands supported ornately embossed grave markers. Before I could focus on the inscriptions, the woman who held the brochure began to read the text at the bottom of the page: “ ‘Lasting Security and an Eternal Tribute to Your Beloved Pet.’ ”

“Betty, stop!” ordered the woman who’d found the brochure.

“This really
is
gross,” Betty commented. “Katy, listen to this. It says, ‘A fitting last resting place for the little one who warmed your heart. The Manson Family understands—’ ”

“What!”

“That’s what it says. It’s the name of the company.” Betty
flipped over the brochure and pointed. “See? ‘The Manson Family, Inc. Loving Attention to Final Needs Since Nineteen Forty-Six.’ But listen. This is worse.” She turned back to the passage she’d started before. “Where was I? Oh. ‘The Manson Family understands the grief of losing the beloved little one whose passing presence here on earth brightened each precious moment. Here at Manson, we, too, have lost small ones—’ ” Betty broke off. “Don’t you get it? Yuck.”

“Get what?” Katy demanded.

“Katy, look at the picture! I mean, really look at it. Look at these, uh, whatever they’re called. Coffins. Caskets. And that business about small ones and little ones? Just what do you think these are really meant for? And down here, it doesn’t even say they’re
for
pets; it says
‘suitable
for pets.’ Right?”

Katy launched herself backward. The couch lurched. She blew out her breath and whispered, “Oh, my God!”

“You see?” Betty said. “Like I said. It really is gross. Pets or babies.”

A man sitting in a nearby armchair spoke up. “There’s lots more where that came from.” He pointed to a magazine rack. “This thing’s full of them.”

Now that he’d made the conversation general, I joined in. “Are they all, uh …” I fumbled for the right phrase. “Are they all the same? All copies of the same brochure?”

“Naw. They’re all different,” he replied. “Tombstones. Pet cemeteries. Coffins. Urns. All kinds of stuff. You want to see?”

“Not particularly,” I answered. “But—”

Before I could finish, the lodge door swung open so forcefully that I had to squish myself against the couch to get out of the way. Brandishing a large greeting card in her hand, Phyllis Abbott strode in and immediately silenced the crowd, less by speaking than by radiating judicial authority. “May I have
your attention!” Mrs. Abbott began. Having already obtained it, she lowered the greeting card and, before I could get a look at the picture on the front, gave the card the kind of merciless shakedown that Rowdy administers to play-prey dog toys when he’s pretending to break their necks. When she’d finished rendering the card lifeless, she held it in front of her and intoned, “With deepest sympathy on the loss of your pet.” Opening the card, she read the following verse:

Mrs. Abbott whipped the card through the air and deposited it in the hand of her blank-faced husband, who stood a few feet away, as if to disassociate himself from her or perhaps from her performance.

“I have
not
lost a pet,” Mrs. Abbott proclaimed, “and furthermore, let me announce to whatever
vile
excuse for a human being has perpetrated this prank that I have no intention whatsoever of losing a pet for a great many years to come! Nigel and Edwina are both young and in perfect health, and if this filthy, vicious act is someone’s misguided idea of a joke, I want to make it clear that, far from being funny, it is of the utmost seriousness. The person responsible evidently fails to understand that a judge is a judge is a judge, every minute of every day, no matter where she goes or what she does, and no insult directed toward a judge is
ever
a strictly personal matter,
but constitutes a direct affront to the dignity and authority of the AKC.
This,”
she added, “will be so treated.”