I truly adore my golden retriever. If ever there was an angel on earth, such a divine being must inhabit that dog’s body. She is everything a dog should be: loyal, gentle, giving…but she is not agility material.

Years ago, my friend Karen and I decided we would take our two dogs to obedience school. It was fun and we learned something. I’m a great believer that if you come away from any experience a little smarter, it was worth the effort.

Once it ended, I missed it. It was an opportunity to be with other dog lovers and a regular time where Karen and I could get together and do what we do so well…gossip. Cricket did reasonably well. In fact, her affable personality won most of the people over and I came away proud of myself for having such a well mannered dog. I got greedy.

Looking for something else that Karen and I could do with our dogs, I stumbled upon agility. I’ve seen it on television many times. Brilliant teams of dogs and handlers racing around a course, weaving intricate patterns and finishing with hugs and doggy kisses. It seemed like the perfect thing and I was certain Cricket would be a natural. As is human nature, I ignored the fact that all the dogs I saw on television were of three varieties: Australian Sheppards, Border Collies or Shelties. I believe in equal rights, so I told myself there was no law that said a Golden Retriever couldn’t be a Grand Master.

Well, they can’t. I’m convinced of this. Cricket is a disaster. Worse still, she is comic relief.

Karen and I have a good-natured rivalry about our dogs. It was present in obedience and it’s present now. We each want our dogs to be the star, to outshine the other just that little amount. We tease each other about cheating and practicing behind the other’s back. But now it just isn’t fair. We both know who is master here.

Chance looks like an agility dog. He bounces between the weave poles with vigor and purpose. He tears through the tunnel and comes out, ready to take the next obstacle. And when he slams into that tire and sends it dancing on its chains, you feel the power in the pit of your stomach. He is out there to compete. He is out there to win. And each time he strings together the ridiculously complicated tasks, Karen turns to me and smirks.

Imagine Lance Armstrong racing a toddler on a tricycle. That is Cricket and I.
Cricket takes the weave poles as if she’s afraid she might chip her manicure. When she makes it to the other side, she pauses to look around and see if everyone is adoring her flowing golden coat. When she goes through the tunnel, she pops out and waits for someone to bring her her reward.

And then there are the times when she just…she just…well, loses it. During one incident, we were supposed to take the weave poles, cross behind the dogs, and send them into the tunnel. I watched everyone else go and I knew it wasn’t going to happen. Of course, Chance aced the entire sequence and came out of the tunnel fully prepared to do whatever else they asked of him.

I could feel my shoulders droop. It was my turn. I managed to stuff her into the weave poles, then walked along beside her as she meandered through. I could already tell her mind wasn’t on this. She had her head up and was looking both ways, scoping out her adoring public. She came out of the weave and I motioned her to the tunnel, crossing around behind her.

I had seen everyone else hit that obstacle and go through it. Not Cricket. She breezed right on by. In frustration, I turned to look at the instructor, hoping for some pearl of wisdom, or at least commiseration. The trainer wasn’t looking at me. Her eyes went beyond me outside the arena. In a calm as you please voice, she said, “Cricket has left the building.”

I whipped back around and saw my son racing after Cricket. She was going up and down the line of waiting dogs, wagging her tail and kissing them on the muzzles. I swear I could just hear her saying, “Hi, dog, welcome to my arena. How are you, dog?”

My son and I talked with her sternly after that and jerry-rigged some obstacles in the backyard to practice upon, but I had little confidence in their success. We also took her to the dog park and practiced some jumps with her, hoping to get an edge on the competition.

Her next escapade was epic. Once again, we were supposed to go through multiple obstacles. This time she was supposed to do a jump, then go into the tunnel. As always, I positioned myself at the back of the line, feeling that familiar sinking in my stomach.

Chance was perfect, reminding me of the quarterback of the football team, confident and secure in his superiority. Then came Cricket. We made the jump and surprisingly, we went into the tunnel. From there it was mayhem.

She blazed out of the tunnel and zipped past me. She took off running around the perimeter of the arena, going full tilt, her butt tucked down and her head thrown back, ears flapping in the wind. Once again my son chased after her, but there was no stopping this madness. Another spin around the arena, dust flying from beneath her paws, over a jump, and then inexplicably, back into the tunnel for a second go-round.

Not even the instructors could help me. Everyone was standing in an amazed cluster, laughing so hard it was a miracle they remained standing. After a third pass around the arena, she came to us, panting and smiling as if she had stolen the show, which she had. As she and I moved back to our spot at the end of the line, Karen looked over at me, tears of laughter in her eyes, and said, “She seems so flighty.”

Seems? Ain’t no seems about it.

Odds are she and I will not be advancing at the end of this class. Her crazy antics have most likely sealed our fate, but I can’t be too upset about it. She is so darn happy with her failure that I have to be happy about it too. It is so much more important to greet every dog coming into the arena and act like the prom queen garnering votes, or turn even the most dedicated handler into a mass of giggles.

Mostly I enjoy being with her and watching her prance her way around as Karen puts it, “like Paris Hilton.” She makes me laugh and for a while, I don’t take myself so seriously. That’s enough.
So we’ll never don an agility medal and we’ll never have a Grand Master Championship, but there isn’t a single other dog in that ring that fails with such panache.