Black Ribbon (8 page)

So I should have crated Rowdy in the cabin and gone for a swim by myself. Instead, I’d put on my bathing suit, leashed Rowdy, and led him to the edge of the lake, where he’d moistened the pads of his feet, sniffed, and, having perhaps detected the odor of fish, ventured in up to his pasterns. At that point, when I should have given him the chance to paddle around, I’d stupidly waded out beyond him and tried to sweet-talk him into following me. And Eva Spitteler had listened in.

“The big scaredy-cat,” Eva taunted.

Sticks and stones. The shore of the lake offered a great many. I longed to ram every one down Eva Spitteler’s ugly throat. But dog people are the best people on earth. No one laughed. No one even smiled. Cam White looked from Eva to Rowdy to me, and moved her head back and forth as if vetoing Eva’s existence. Phyllis Abbott, who’d been splashing around with two Pomeranians, one red, one sable, spoke with the same tone of authority she used in addressing the spectators just before she handed out the ribbons: “It’s a survival characteristic. In Arctic waters, a dog can die in seconds. It’s adaptive behavior.” Turning to me, she said, “What a beautiful dog.”

I thanked her. Rowdy backed up and shook himself all over. “He blew coat in July,” I said. “He’s just starting to look like himself again.”

“Haven’t I seen you in the ring?” Mrs. Abbott asked. She wore a heavily shirred, pastel-print bathing suit with those low-cut leg openings that the L.L. Bean catalog always promises will “provide good coverage in the seat.” It’s so interesting to see people undressed or even half undressed. At the edge of the lake in her good-coverage maillot with her admirable Pomeranians bouncing around her small feet, Mrs. Abbott remained one of the fancy’s perfect types: the great big woman with little tiny dogs. It could truly be said, as the expression goes, that she was “big in toys.”

“I stewarded for you a couple of years ago,” I replied. “At Cambridge.” The Cambridge Dog Training Club’s annual trial. Mrs. Abbott knew that. “And I used to have goldens.” Before Mrs. Abbott could start encouraging me to train Rowdy, I said, “I still show a little in obedience. Rowdy just got his CDX.”

“A CDX malamute!” Although I always try to memorize the heeling pattern a judge is using, I still like to hear the
commands ring out clearly. Mrs. Abbott’s New York accent somehow helped to project her voice.

His attention drawn to Rowdy, Eric Grimaldi gave me a nod of congratulations, took a second look at Rowdy, and said, “Good-looking dog.”

Eric, I might point out, was a conformation judge, and he didn’t judge just one or two breeds, either. As I’d learned from Cam and Ginny, he was a Sporting Group judge. Admiring
my
dog. Brag, brag. That the Alaskan malamute belongs to the Working Group is incidental.

I returned Eric’s compliment. “Beautiful Chesapeake. I love watching her in the water.”

The Adam and Eve of the breed, Sailor and Canton, arrived in this country in 1807 when an English brig went aground on the shores of Maryland. The American ship Canton rescued the passengers, the drunken crew, and the two presumably sober puppies. Ever since, the Chesapeake Bay retriever has been striving to return to the oceanic womb from which it sprang. A good all-around hunting dog and handsome, versatile companion, the Chesapeake is the ultimate breed for hunting waterfowl, and a unitary breed, not split into bench and field lines.

Eric’s face showed pride and chagrin. “Once Elsa hits the water, she doesn’t come out until she’s good and ready.” He paused before finishing the Chesapeake-person joke that must date from the arrival of Sailor and Canton. “And,” he said, “she’s never ready.”

When I’d seen Eric at the meeting earlier that day, he’d reminded me vaguely of some old-time Hollywood leading man. Now that he was knee-deep in the lake, I realized that the association wasn’t vague at all: Eric Grimaldi looked like an age-ripened Johnnie Weissmuller, Olympic swimmer turned movie star. Weissmuller wasn’t much of an actor, but it didn’t matter because as Tarzan he usually appeared either half-submerged or swimming a silver-screen version of what
my grandmother still calls “the Australian crawl.” Like Weissmuller, Eric was a strapping guy with hard, prominent lats, traps, and pecs, and he had Weissmuller’s healthy, friendly face and big features, too.

“I could watch her forever,” I told him.

Phyllis Abbott’s face lit up. “Oh, Eric has!” she commented. “Frequently.”

Eva Spitteler had been standing in the shallow water a few yards away from the rest of us. She was alone. Moored to a tree on the bank above the cove, Bingo was barking and yelping. Next to Eva on the edge of the dock lay one of the resort’s thick red towels and what I assumed was a bottle of sunscreen. Beach towels were one luxury that we campers were expected to provide ourselves; we’d been asked to bring them, and a politely worded sign in my bathroom had reminded me that the towels there were not for use in the swimming area. I’d complied. So had almost everyone else. The red towel on the dock was the only one in sight. Eva Spitteler reached toward it, picked up the plastic bottle, and poured liquid into the palm of one hand. Instead of spreading the stuff on her skin, she rubbed it on her head and lathered her hair. When she dunked, the clear lake water turned cloudy. Bingo silenced himself. Foam rose, followed by Eva’s bulk. She took a deep breath and plunged back in.

“That’s disgusting,” someone muttered.

“I saw her carrying that bottle of shampoo,” someone else reported, “and I wondered if I should say something.…”

“Well, you should’ve.”

“Wouldn’t you think anyone’d know better?”

“And right here where the dogs are! I mean, it could get in their eyes, and they could all get conjunctivitis!”

Canine ecology.

When Eva surfaced, no one said a word to her. She grabbed the towel, blotted her face, and directed at me what felt like
the evil eye. “You ought to just haul that dog right in,” she decreed. “I wouldn’t put up with that for a minute.”

Stimulated perhaps by the sight and sound of Eva, Bingo had resumed his barking. I was tempted to tell Eva that
I
wouldn’t tolerate
that
for a minute. I really wouldn’t have put up with Bingo’s noise; I’d have taken him into the lake.

As placidly as I could, I said, “Rowdy’s happy doing what he’s doing.” Assured that I wasn’t going to drag him in, Rowdy was investigating pebbles, pawing at the water, watching people and dogs, eyeing the swimmers, and probably marveling at what fools they were.

“It’s very dangerous to allow one of
them
to defy you like that.” Eva had swung onto the dock and was dabbing at herself with the red towel.

During our exchange, Eric had used the water toy to lure Elsa toward the shore. I had the impression that the handsome man and his beautiful dog were playing a game that both enjoyed. Moving purposefully, one eye on Elsa, Eric climbed onto the dock, begged Eva’s pardon, politely warned her to make way, and called to Elsa. When he reached the end of the dock, he bent down to rap his fist on the wood. Elsa got the message. Her eyes glinting, she veered toward the dock, swam fast, sprang out, and shook off. A Chesapeake has a coat like a duck’s feathers, insulating, oily, and water-repellent. In seconds, Elsa looked dry. With a final shake, she became a chocolate-colored streak that sped down the dock past Eva and toward Eric, who was swinging the rubber water toy by a short piece of attached rope. “Elsa, go get it!” he called. He spun the toy and sent it sailing out into the lake. Seconds later, Elsa flew past him and made a spectacular water entry.

Applause broke out.

“Fantastic!” I yelled.

“Any retriever’ll do that,” Eva grumbled. “You just aren’t used to them.”

I nearly choked. Not used to them? My parents raised the
golden retrievers who raised me. I all but
am
one. “Oh?” I said. “Well, I haven’t seen any of the other dogs dive like that.”

Fully initiated member of the Order? Here’s a test. What’s the one true
diving
breed? Got it. PWD, especially for deep-water retrieves. But camp didn’t boast a single Portuguese Water Dog.

“Can’t keep Bingo out,” Eva told me.

You’re keeping him out right now
, I thought.

“You wanna see?” Eva asked.

The last thing I wanted to see was Bingo off leash in Rowdy’s vicinity. Before I could respond, Eva clambered up the nearby slope, set Bingo loose, then lumbered back to the lake and along the length of the dock. To my relief, Bingo trailed after her. To inspire Elsa’s dive, Eric had hurled a toy. To motivate Bingo, Eva shoved Eric aside and, standing at the end of the dock, gave a powerful upward and outward leap, curled her legs under her, held her nose, and executed a cannonball. Her heavy body hit the water as one solid mass that made a loud boom and sent water shooting high in the air. Despite the drama of Eva’s cannonball, Bingo stood at the end of the dock placidly regarding Eric Grimaldi and aimlessly wagging his tail.

Cannonballers usually resurface quickly. I watched the water. Maine is not a place where it’s safe to dive into unknown water. Submerged rocks hold still. Logs move. “Did someone check that area?” I asked Mrs. Abbott.

Entering the water feet first, Eva would have been unlikely to hit her head on a rock or a log. Still, I felt uncomfortable.

“Eric checked,” Mrs. Abbott said. “Before you got here.”

But Eva was fine. Instead of bobbing up immediately, she’d swum some distance underwater. Her head now appeared about twenty feet out from the dock. “Bingo!” she called sharply. She was treading water. The surface around her bubbled.

The big yellow Lab continued to stand where he was. In case he headed in, spotted Rowdy, and started trouble, I gathered up Rowdy’s lead, edged away from the lake, and prepared to bolt for my cabin. But Bingo just kept standing there.

“Bingo!” Eva yelled hoarsely.

The dog continued to do nothing at all.

I could make excuses for what Eva did next. She’d listened to Judge Phyllis Abbott and Judge Eric Grimaldi admire Rowdy. Bingo had been right nearby, and no one had said a word about him. When Eva had ridiculed Rowdy, Mrs. Abbott had defended him, and, in so doing, she’d given Eva a sharp correction. More excuses? It must be hideously painful to go through life looking exactly like a bulldog, unless, of course, you happen to be one, in which case, it’s delightful. But Eva wasn’t a bulldog. And Bingo had let her down, or that’s how she must have felt. Pride in a dog doesn’t have to be justified to be genuine. Eva had bragged about Bingo. She’d wanted him to show off. Treading water harder than ever, she forced her shoulders to break the surface and again shouted the dog’s name.

Bingo remained where he was.

Desperate to rouse him, I suppose, Eva kicked wildly, splashed, flailed her arms, and cried, “Bingo, help! Help! I’m drowning! Bingo, come save me!” With that, Eva disappeared beneath the surface. Her feet thrashed and vanished. A waving hand rose and sank. Planted on the dock with his tail drifting back and forth, Bingo regarded the performance with complaisant curiosity.

As I saw it, Eva wasn’t playing. Play is joyous. Eva was grim. Eva wasn’t practicing water rescue, either. She was lying to her dog. Maybe Bingo thought so, too. Maybe not. In either case, the impression the dog created was unmistakable. Several people commented. I noticed it myself. Bingo looked oddly content to watch Eva go under.

I HATE TO SEE anyone lose face, even someone cursed with a countenance like Eva Spitteler’s. To avoid the inevitable sight, I took Rowdy to our cabin, crated him with a chew toy, and, on returning to the pebble beach, headed directly into the lake. My entry was slow.
Pebble
is a bit of a euphemism, but I’ve avoided the blunt (or more accurately, the sharp) truth for fear of discouraging tourism. The beach consisted of toe-stubbing rocks and sole-jabbing stones. Wincing with every step, I made my way into the lake until the water came up almost to my waist. At that point, the prospect of the cold lake assaulting my bony rib cage seemed better than the present pain in the soles of my feet. I filled my lungs, plunged, and swam along the bottom. Snorkeling in turquoise waters among coral reefs might spoil me, but on a dog writer’s income, I’ll continue to love a yellow-green underwater haze seen through unmasked eyes. I even like the familiar shock of passing through the frigid springs that feed a Maine lake. Greater Boston suffers from a summer climate so tropical that displaced Haitians complain about the inescapable heat and
humidity. Submerged in the lake, my body felt like an overcharged heat-storage unit mercifully draining itself cell by cell. When the need for air forced me up, I faced the trees on the far shore. As on countless previous occasions, I tried to float. As always, I ended up having to kick my feet and wave my hands to keep from sinking. I used to be irrationally ashamed of my body’s rocklike refusal to hover effortlessly at the surface. Then a diver told me that my condition was so ordinary that it even had a name: negative buoyancy. Since I learned that happy phrase, I’m not ashamed anymore. I’d still like to float, of course, and I keep checking up to find out whether my valence has changed, but, until it does, I make the best of my negativity, which is to say that I swim almost exclusively underwater.