The Fast and the Furriest (2 page)

“Looks like my schedule has been enhanced,” said Howie, shaking his head and grinning. Kevin rolled his eyes again.

Howie Pugh loved
—loved—
being a former professional athlete generally, and an ex-Bear specifically. It meant adulation at random store appearances; it meant getting paid to discuss the Bears on TV; it meant that grown men nervously approached him for autographs in restaurants.

Howie had been a sometimes-starting linebacker who had lasted seven seasons, all with the Bears. He was beloved in Chicago. Howie was the last player in NFL history to have played every snap of a game, both offense and defense. This happened almost accidentally in his final season, after several Bears had been ejected during a late December game against the Vikings. After a staggering loss, Howie breathlessly told a TV reporter, “We might be last in the NFC, but we’re first in
trying…
.” Then he wobbled, collapsed, and flopped to the turf with a sickening
oomph
. The camera zoomed in on his closed eyes and drooling mouth. That image—slobbering, unconscious Howie Pugh—was emblazoned on T-shirts throughout the city, beneath three words:

FIRST IN TRYING

It was an impossible legacy for Kevin to live up to.

Howie idly brushed his walrus-like mustache and sighed, turning to Izzy. But she had escaped to the backyard, where she was robotically rifling soccer balls into the upper left corner of a practice net.

“That’s my girl,” said Howie, glancing out the window. “Always working. Always trying.” He turned to face Kevin. “And that’s my boy. Usually eating.”

Kevin kept crunching.

“We’ll make a mean lineman outta you, Kev,” said Howie. “Or maybe a nose tackle—those guys are huge. Like three hundred forty, three hundred fifty.”

Kevin glanced down the length of his flabby arms. He licked orange cheese powder from his fingertips, then looked toward his father.

“Mom says that you were chubby at my age, too. It’s genetic.”

“I was
not
chubby!” snapped Howie. “I was
husky
. They’re completely different metabolic states. It’s basic science.”

Kevin shrugged.

“Anyway,” continued his dad, “you’ve got a good base, but we should get you in the weight room. I could already bench-press 180 when I was your age. Think what you could do with a little training, Kev.”

“Yeah,” said Kevin, standing. “So that I can attain kickball glory and vanquish the Ainsworths.”

Howie shook his head. “No, so that you can start feeling good about yourself.”

Kevin dumped the half-melted ice into the sink.

“So
who
can start feeling good about me, Dad?”

Kevin opened the door to the basement and lumbered downstairs to watch TV, certain that he’d feel just fine about himself if he could manage to go the rest of his life without playing another game of kickball.

N
estled in a nest of Bears-themed blankets on the basement sofa, Cromwell Pugh looked like a dog-shaped throw pillow. Howie liked to say that the mutt was part beagle, part potato chip.

Kevin plopped down beside the dog, sinking into a well-worn cushion. He couldn’t tell anymore if Cromwell smelled like the plaid couch or the couch smelled like Cromwell. The pair had morphed into one creature, really. One musty, doggish-smelling beast.

To say that Cromwell was lazy was an insult to dogs who were merely lazy. He was inert. Most of his experiences with motion ended in epic disaster. A yellow Lab had once rescued him from the surf at the doggie beach. He had passed out while chasing a
squirrel. He failed obedience school—not for disobeying anyone, but because he could
only
sit and stay.

Kevin propped his feet up on the coffee table.

“It’s really best you weren’t there today, Cromwell,” he said. “I sucked.” Kevin sagged a bit lower on the plaid couch. “And it was hot enough to melt anything with fur.”

Kevin grabbed the TV remote from atop a mound of gamer magazines and pointed it in the direction of an absurdly large wall-mounted TV.

Click
.

“… Nicholson has his opponent dazed, flat on the mat! Every fan of mixed martial arts knows
exactly
what that means!”

“Stepover toehold facelock. Duh,” said Kevin, yawning and leaning against Cromwell. The dog lifted his head, blinked, and closed his eyes again.

Click
.

“… that is perhaps the most precise run that I’ve seen from any dog since I began broadcasting these competitions! This dog is a legend, Bill. An agility champion in the truest sense!”

Kevin laughed and nudged Cromwell. “Check this out, dude.”

A small black terrier zoomed above the Animal Planet logo, almost too fast for the camera to keep up. It leapt over small white hurdles and large pools of
water; it whipped around cones and hopped through tires. A flashing yellow graphic on the screen read
SHASTA AND JODY
, 00:40.008.

“Bill, that’s a new course record here at the Purina Incredible Dog Challenge!” an excited, nasal voice was half screaming. “It’s like there’s every other dog in the world, and then there’s her. Wow, Bill. Just … wow. The divine walk among us—on paws.”

Kevin laughed.

“It’s hard to believe that you and that dog are members of the same species, eh, Cromwell? That has got to be the craziest thing I’ve ever …”

But when Kevin glanced at Cromwell, the dog was sitting up on his overstuffed haunches, his fat belly spilling over them. His front legs were shaking in excitement. His round brown eyes blinked rapidly. He was actually … panting.

Kevin stared at his dog while his dog stared at the television.

“Cromwell?” Kevin poked the dog’s belly. “Dogs aren’t supposed to respond to TV. I’ve read this.”

Cromwell, apparently, had not read this. Because he kept staring.

“Nah, there’s no way …,” said Kevin. He snapped his fingers at Cromwell. The dog didn’t flinch.

The Purina Challenge had gone to commercial. A
collie appeared on-screen, moving in slow motion across a field of grass, its tongue flapping. It leapt over a fallen tree, then stopped abruptly at the side of a lanky woman in a babushka. The dog sat attentively. The woman nodded. She looked like a movie pirate, Kevin thought. Cromwell tilted his head slightly as a narrator spoke: “Whether you’re looking to train a champion or just trying to convince the family dog that shoes aren’t chew toys, Paw Patch can help. We’ve been training Chicago’s dogs for over …”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Kevin said, changing the channel.

Cromwell snapped his head toward his owner. It was the single fastest move the dog had ever attempted. Cromwell looked at Kevin for several seconds, then dipped his head, whined, and scraped the couch with his paws.

“Fine,”
said Kevin.

He switched back to Animal Planet. Cromwell whipped his head toward the screen. The commercial had ended, and highlights of the terrier and her trainer snaking through the cones were being replayed. Cromwell barked enthusiastically.

“Crom, you’re freaking me out.” Kevin patted his lap lightly. “C’mere, boy. Let’s chill. We’ll go get your squeaky duck. And maybe one of those gross dehydrated beef treats.”

A strand of drool hung from Cromwell’s mouth for a moment, then cascaded onto a couch pillow.

Kevin shut off the TV, hoping to release Cromwell from the bizarre hold of the Purina Challenge. Instead, the dog flew from the couch, raced to the TV, then whined and growled. He stopped, sniffed the air, and barked. Then Cromwell looked back at Kevin.

“No, Cromwell,” Kevin explained. “Those dogs weren’t
in
the TV. They were just, like,
on
TV. Just pictures, Cromwell. Little pictures that move.”

Cromwell whined again.

“Tele-vi-sion,” said Kevin slowly. “There are these little dot-things called pixels.”

Cromwell wasn’t listening. He tore off, a brown blur skittering across the tile floor.

“Cromwell!” yelped Kevin in a half-disciplinary, half-confused tone. “Careful, Cromwell!”

THWAAP!

The dog struck a leather ottoman, shook himself off, then kept running. He slithered between a floor lamp and a chair, then clipped a table leg, overturning a stack of CDs. He leapt over a rug, landed nose-first on the tile, slid, and crashed into the mini-fridge. Cromwell scampered away just before a pyramid of small glasses, multiple boxes of bacon-and-cheddar-flavored crackers, and two Mike Ditka collectible
plates tumbled to the floor like lemmings. Then the fridge itself tipped forward and fell. The sound was spectacular.

Kevin curled into a ball on the couch and braced himself.

Cromwell joined him, whimpering.

“KEVIN!!!”

His mom and dad had yelled in unison, which rarely happened. Normally Howie handled the yelling. Kevin heard their footsteps and lifted his face toward the basement stairs.

“It wasn’t me! It was totally Crom—” Kevin looked at the dog. Cromwell was panting. His tongue hung out. He looked winded yet enthused.

Cromwell woofed.

Howie stood at the foot of the stairs, his eyes sweeping across the tile. Broken glass and shards of pottery mixed with assorted flavors (mostly variations on a cheese theme) of snack chips. Cromwell hopped down to sniff the wreckage. Maggie, standing on the bottom step, peered over Howie’s shoulder. She rolled her eyes.

“The Ditka plates,” moaned Howie. “He was my old coach. Those were limited editions, Kev.”

“I had no idea, Dad.” Kevin paused. “I microwaved them a couple times, if that makes you feel better.”

Howie’s cheek twitched.

“Sorry,” Kevin said meekly. “Cromwell was just horsing around.”

Cromwell barked and licked the tile floor.

Maggie patted her husband’s back. “I’m sure Kevin didn’t mean to break anything. Maybe you should clean up the mess, Kevin,” she said as she headed back upstairs. “But get your sneakers on, and make sure Cromwell doesn’t step on any glass.”

Howie plodded upstairs, muttering, and closed the basement door.

Kevin hopped off the couch. Cromwell padded after him.

“Horsing around?” Maggie stared at her son. “You two don’t
horse
, Kev. You loaf. You’re chronic loafers.” She gently pushed Kevin’s sweaty bangs from his forehead.

“There are many sides to us, Mom. Cromwell is a complex animal.” Kevin wasn’t even sure he believed himself. “For example, did you know that he is inspired by televised dog agility competitions? Because I just learned that.”

They walked slowly upstairs together. Cromwell followed, almost sheepishly.

“What are you talking about?” asked Maggie, glancing out the window to where Izzy was practicing her pitch.

“I’m talkin’ about Cromwell and dogs on TV,” Kevin explained. “Some pooch on Animal Planet was running this crazy course and Crom just took off, like he was in the competition or something.”

“Kevin,” said Maggie, shaking her head. “Rough-housing in the basement with your dog is one thing, but trying to convince me that Cromwell watches television? Did he eat your homework, too?” She had already begun pecking at her BlackBerry by the time he reached the kitchen. “No more horsing around, please,” she called back with mock firmness.

“Tell that to my dog,” Kevin quietly muttered.

Cromwell stared up at Kevin.

“Crom, that was insane. You don’t move that much in a week.” The dog licked his hand. “I bet those Animal Planet dogs don’t decimate
their
owners’ basements.”

Kevin scanned the kitchen for a broom.

All those wasted bacon crackers
, he thought wistfully. He snapped back into action at the sound of his father yelling from the family room.

“Kevin, if there are any large pieces of the Ditka plates left—big, glueable pieces—don’t throw those out, please.”

“Right,” said Kevin, smirking at the thought of his dad lovingly gluing together pieces of Mike Ditka.

He grabbed his high-tops from the shoe pile near the door and turned toward the basement steps.
Cromwell stood in his way, tail wagging. And he had a leash in his mouth.

“Cromwell,” Kevin said softly, “what are you doing?”

Kevin and Cromwell looked at one another. Cromwell dropped the tattered blue leash on the floor.

“A
walk
?” stammered Kevin.

Izzy flung open the back door, hopped over Cromwell, and grabbed a greenish sports drink from atop the kitchen counter. The beverage looked like nuclear residue, Kevin thought. Izzy skipped off.

“Okay, something’s wrong.” Kevin bent down and began stroking the dog’s head.

Cromwell nudged the leash with a white paw.

Kevin pushed the decaying leash aside with his foot and walked downstairs. “
I’ve
still gotta clean up the aftermath of your last exercise experiment.”

Cromwell paced at the top of the steps while Kevin mopped and swept.

“My dog sleeps,” Kevin said quietly as he brushed cracker debris into a dustpan. “And eats. And sleeps and eats.” He dumped the last of the glass shards into a metal wastebasket. “He’s not a walker.”

Kevin tried to decide whether the dog had exercised more in the previous ten minutes than he had in his entire life.

“Woof!” Cromwell barked, nudging the leash with his black nose.

“Really?” Kevin asked. “Like, seriously?”

“Woof!” Cromwell answered.

Kevin climbed the stairs and picked up the ancient leash. Cromwell’s nails clacked excitedly on the wood floor.

“Just around the block,” he told the dog. “And let’s not make a habit of this.”

W
hen Kevin rolled out of bed the following morning, Cromwell was waiting, the blue leash clamped in his mouth.

“Incredible,” said Kevin groggily, shaking his head at his energetic dog.

The ringing phone that had woken Kevin was still ringing. Apparently no one else was going to pick it up.

“Hello?” he mumbled into the phone, resting his hand on Cromwell’s soft head.

“Dude,” said his friend, Zach Broder. “Get online! Let’s play Madden. I kind of own the Patriots defense at this point, if I do say so myself.”