“Your dog needs to drop 3-5 pounds.” So began our first-ever private agility lesson with a handler who has been on the AKC world team. I thought Lilly looked great at 39 pounds, so I must have made a face because the next thing she said, dropping her sunglasses just enough to make eye contact, “This is agility, not conformation.”
People who do not know better talk about agility as a sport only for dogs, like the dogs run and work alone, like they magically do all these advanced behaviors without any input. Even friends and family seem amused (at best) at our continual pursuit of canine learning. At our peak, we took three classes a week (one obedience, one rally, one agility). I call them all “puppy class” as a recognizable phrase for Lilly, and maybe that’s where I go wrong.
As our training saga went from days to weeks, weeks to months, months to (goodness help me) more than a year, people began asking me why I don’t just let Lilly stay home and get another agility dog to train and run competitively. It’s an interesting idea, which begs the question … Which came first, the dog or the sport?
Maybe all new handlers think the same thing, but I honestly imagined Lilly could be quite an agility dog. Her early learning curve and performance astounded me. As time went on and difficulties mounted, reality forced me to adjust my expectations. The question lately … “How low can I go?”
The first indications of trouble slid by me. I saw them, but I did not worry. Some I actually found endearing. Rather than stay by my side, she’d run to my coat like she was ready to leave, for example. It wasn’t until later that I realized my little sweetie, who is perfectly smart enough for agility, perfectly athletic enough for agility, might not be emotionally strong enough for the sport that captured my imagination.
Having a shy or fearful dog in public is a lot like walking around with a screaming 2-year-old. “Dog people” and even the general public make the same negative assumptions. Beyond the dirty looks come really mean comments disguised as helpful suggestions. Two, in particular, stand out because they are entirely untrue … and incredibly rude.
My rotator cuff hurts. Shooting pains when I work out. Razor-thin stabs when I sleep. I blamed a mistake during a workout, until the real cause crept to mind. My shoulder hurts because I play so much fetch with Lilly. And, here’s the thing … As a pup, Lilly hated fetch. So, it’s entirely my fault.
People stop me all the time to ask what kind of dog Lilly is. Some have guessed Canaan dog. Others think Kelpie. Both of which are not common at all. Those without a guess usually say, “What kind of dog is that? She looks like a fox.” And, when I say, she’s a smooth coated border collie, countless people (including those who work in pet businesses) say “border collie mix”? or “Really?” … like I’m making it up.
Canine medical drama stalks me. I’ve spent many thousands of dollars on veterinary care for every dog I’ve ever had. As a pup, Lilly was no different. Just 24 hours after she arrived at home, doctors admitted Lilly into intensive care.
The harvest moon rises as a young border collie follows a scent through a field, recently picked clean of its haul. Thinking, sniffing, poking along … she makes her way over the furrows, not realizing how far she’s wandered from home. As darkness settles, a growing chill shakes her focus. She can’t see or hear anything familiar. She spends a long, cold night alone and waits.
