How Old is Old?

I have been reluctant to post a blog spotlighting Kaylee, as I fear I cannot sum her up that way. I may come to this eventually, but for now I will just say that she has been such an integral part of my life for almost nine years, I truly cannot remember what it was like before she came along. I choose not to imagine my day to day once she is no longer in it. Thankfully, as she approaches her ninth birthday, she constantly reminds me that she is far from old and frail.

Yesterday the gang and I drove to Daytona for one day of agility competition. I really enjoy this, as Buster and I were free to socialize with fellow human beings on Friday and Saturday night, he was able to go to class on Saturday afternoon while I got some chores done at home, and then Sunday was spent enjoying the company of agility friends and a day outside with the dogs. I only entered the boys, as I have limited financial resources and want to focus on trialing with them right now. Having briefly considered leaving Kaylee home for the day, she refused to accept that and so came along as well. When she was younger, Kaylee competed quite a lot. We attended between one and three shows a month on average for a period of time, and then tapered off when she earned her first MACH. She has been around trials since she was very young and is excited when she recognizes that’s where we are going. As an old pro, she really did not understand why she was at a competition and did not get her turn on course. Sure, she was able to come out and walk around the grounds, find some delightful stinky piles to roll in (one of her favorite things in life), and bark at the other dogs. But for her, this seemed to not be enough. I have worked hard at keeping both my corgis thin and fit so they can remain active and healthy, and Kaylee constantly demonstrates that she has the ability AND the desire to run and play.

After returning home from the competition, which was so well run, we were done by 1pm, the boys immediately parked themselves on the couch. They were tired. I was tired. Kaylee, on the other hand, was not tired. One of the toys that I had picked up as a prize from the show was a little blue stuffed chicken, perfectly corgi sized. Kaylee generally has a brief attention span when it comes to playing with anything that doesn’t involve food, so typically when she gets a wild hair, she will tug and retrieve for a minute or two and then quickly loses interest. Yesterday, however, she must have had so much pent up enthusiasm from having not been allowed to compete, that she tugged and fetched and played with me for over twenty minutes! What was even more hysterical was the mischievous grin she was displaying that lit up her eyes the entire time. She had me laughing and smiling so profoundly, just from a simple game of tug and fetch; a basic interaction we sometimes lack now that my focus has been shifted to the younger two. The boys both had their special time with me while competing today; Kaylee had to remind me to pay her the same attention.

Being my first real agility partner, Kaylee and I spent countless hours, just the two of us, training and practicing. We have a bond that was born through working to understand one another, which we have done effortlessly for so many years that I often forget she is a dog. There were special games such as “catch me if you can,” her reward for a successful practice which involved my trying to catch her as she dashed about like an untamed hare. I have never seen a dog experience such a pure, unadulterated joy from just running as fast as she could. She will still do this whenever the opportunity arises. She is virtually flawless now when I ask her to run any sequence, as we seem to always know what the other one is thinking.

Given that she still has an obvious love for agility; it is difficult to refrain from entering her. Aside from the cost, she is older, and I do not want to add undue stress to her body. Incredibly fast, even at almost nine, she still delights in running, climbing, and weaving. She runs almost as quickly as Kirby when we go to the park and will playfully steal the Frisbee from Xander and scamper away before diverting her interest to something else. Kaylee makes it easy to forget that she is not in her prime anymore. Then again, who is to say she won’t live to be eighteen years old, as one of her corgi relatives once did? If she is only middle aged, is it fair to treat her as an old lady if she does not act like one? Am I protecting her, or depriving her? These are the questions we struggle with, when we share our lives so closely with our dogs.

A Brief Update

Weekend wrap-up:
Kirby-Jumped on the coffee table four times. Spilled and or drank two glasses of Mountain Dew and knocked over two glasses of water. Ate a chunk of horse poop. Also earned his Open JWW title with a first place and got an Open Standard leg with first place. Go figure.

A Different Perspective

I decided recently that in the interest of being a better instructor as well as a better handler, I needed to experience class from the perspective of a student, rather than a teacher. It’s been roughly fifteen years since I participated in a true agility class, so I was both excited and a little nervous when Lauren graciously allowed me to join her Thursday evening class. Lauren runs a pair of rock-star Belgian Tervurens, and used to run corgis, so she knows exactly what it’s like to transition from running a small dog to running a large dog. I am new to the world of striding, collection, and controlled contacts. Corgis run at one speed, and for the most part, I can outrun them. I most certainly CANNOT outrun Xander.

Having never actually seen Lauren teaching, I was not completely sure what to expect, although I had talked to one of her other students and heard that her teaching style was similar to my own. I was pleased with the flow of the class and the challenging nature of the sequences she presented. The other students in the class are people I have been around for years, so it was awesome to hang out and watch them run as well.

At times, Xander had trouble with the concept of “waiting his turn” considering that when I practice on my own, he comes out of the car, immediately goes to work, and continues until it is time for a break. I loved the fact that a class setting helped simulate the trial environment of keeping your dog occupied and focused in between runs. This situation also had the desired effect of recreating some of the nervous excitement we experience in competition where essentially our brains short circuit and certain criteria can fall apart. Training alone with no one watching, or even training casually with a friend who is not really judging your performance does not elicit the same behaviors as being actively watched and evaluated.

As a student of behavior modification, I also understand the importance of receiving feedback “in the moment” instead of after the fact. When I am being videotaped and watch myself hours later, it is much less likely to make an impact on my handling moves in the future. We learn the same way our dogs do; if you come home to a mess on the floor and yell at your dog, this will certainly have no effect on the likelihood of them having an accident in the future, as they will not connect the delayed correction with the problem behavior. While fortunately I do not have any potty training issues personally, being corrected for stopping in my tracks and grinding my dog to a halt should be corrected the moment it happens, and not considered on film hours later. Additionally, bending way over, pleading with my dog to execute a difficult front cross will have the effect of sending him FARTHER away from me, while alternatively, having someone point out that my body and shoulders should be facing the OTHER way, right as its happening, is far more effective. I left the class last night with more to think about than any training session I’ve had on my own in a long time.

Thus far in my life I’ve had this independent streak which insists I'm capable of doing everything on my own, but naturally, being human, I have a tendency to practice to my strengths and avoid leaving my comfort zone. However, the older I get, the more I realize that being able to accept help and criticism is a critical part of being successful in life. I am thrilled at being pushed to try different things, particularly exercises I had not come up with on my own with a built in idea of how to handle them. I also learned that in executing a wrap, my tendency to hang back in an effort to slow him down is actually far less effective than driving with him toward the target obstacle and then by making a sharp turn, effectively pull him with me in the correct direction. I have become aware recently that my love for handling at a distance has left us in need of learning more skills that involve working close together. The corgis were naturally comfortable running close by, Xander, with his much longer stride, is naturally more of a drifter. While I knew this and have tried to address it on my own, I am confident that Lauren’s feedback will speed up this process and help us sharpen our skills.

Overall, it was a fun, exciting, and refreshing experience to be the recipient of feedback, and I believe it will improve my ability to identify with my own students as well as the timing and nature of the feedback I provide to them.

After class, Lauren came to ask me, “How competitive do you want to be with him?” She wanted a feel for how critical she should be of our runs.

I considered this for a moment. While financially I may not be able to compete very often right now, I still would like our team to be the best it can be. Deep down, I knew the answer to this question, although my ego fought to protect me.

“Well, as much as I can afford to compete,” I said, knowing very well that wasn’t what she meant.

To compete is sometimes to battle with the nagging fear that I will never be as good as I want to be. That no matter how hard I work, I will never measure up to the handlers and instructors I hold in highest regard. To pretend to be casual about it, to act as though winning or losing doesn’t matter, is a protective mechanism. I can’t fail if no one knows I am trying. It is far more difficult to set a standard for yourself, and then work to achieve it.

“Be as critical as you can,” I told her.

Although I may never be the best, I will admit right now that I am damn sure going to try.

Don't Shoot the Corgi

My corgis eat poop.

There, I’ve said it. It’s disgusting. It’s repulsive. It’s a foul, unpleasant, apparently natural habit that drives me absolutely bonkers. Going for a walk has become a battle, one in which I have to remain constantly vigilant and prepared to react at a moment’s notice. I live in a warzone, and there are landmines everywhere.

The unfortunate side effect of living in an apartment community is that although you never have to mow the lawn, you do have to share the outdoors with everyone else. We were surprised to have found an apartment community that was so refreshingly pet-friendly it actually charged a low pet fee and even featured a little fenced in, off-leash “Pet Park.” Not surprisingly, ever other pet lover in Jacksonville found it as well. While some residents, myself included, are diligent in picking up their pet’s waste, many others are blatant offenders. “Poop bag stations” are strategically located in all grassy areas and provide residents with bags and a disposal bin. I am constantly astounded by the volume of waste that I find littered in virtually all areas of the community. Some piles are enormous, and some sit defiantly less than two feet from a clean-up station! I marvel at the audacity of someone who would allow their dog to eliminate and then refuse to take two extra steps in order to pick up the mess. I have witnessed some residents whose apartment homes back up to the woods, simply open their door, release their dog to run out and defecate, and then casually call them back inside. While I am no means a prude, this kind of rule breaking is not only rude, lazy, and irresponsible; it is also unacceptable and dangerous. I won’t even go into the several incidents that involved loose dogs running up to my reactive, leashed, dogs.

Since I am currently not in a position to move out of the apartment community, although though this is my ultimate goal, I must find ways to live within the parameters of my environment. Unfortunately this is not a new problem, as I have walked in many neighborhoods and front yards around town that are also plagued with poop. This is not a simple problem either, as my corgis seek out feces with the kind of tenacity exhibited by contestants on a game show trying to win large sums of cash. They are like pigs rooting for truffles, or a bloodhound on the trail of a murderer. Once they have picked up the scent of a precious nugget, they will pursue it with unparalleled determination.

Because I find this behavior to be not only disgusting, but also dangerous, as they could become sick from eating excrement, I have engaged in a number of different tactics to address the problem. Karen Pryor, in her incredibly insightful book, “Don’t Shoot the Dog,” outlines the essential eight methods for eliminating undesirable behavior.

Method 1: “Shoot the Animal” Despite the degree to which their behavior annoys me, this would be decidedly drastic, and I have yet to resort to this method. Yet.

Along these same lines, she describes physically preventing the animal from exhibiting the behavior. At a certain level of frustration, I resorted to purchasing muzzles. At first, this resulted in the most dramatic displays of flipping and rolling as they tried to remove the affronting devices. When this was not successful, I was given the most pathetic looks of indignation you could ever imagine. The way they looked at me, you would think that I had never done a single nice thing to them in their entire lives. Hating to feel that I was emotionally abusing them, I abandoned this strategy fairly quickly.

Method 2: “Punishment” Only when at my most frustrated and least patient have I resorted to this method and the resulting guilt is enough of a punishment for me to avoid employing this tactic very often. Besides, it doesn’t work. Apparently kicking your corgi in the butt will not discourage it from gulping down the treasure it has found. In fact, punishment will only increase the speed of consumption, as the corgi tries desperately to gulp down its prize before being yanked away by its leash.

Method 3: “Negative Reinforcement” I tried this tactic years ago by filling a metal can with pennies and bringing it on our walk. Each time a corgi would attempt to lunge at a mound, I would either violently shake or throw the loud and scary can down on the ground near them. What happened as a result was that Kirby simply refused to walk. I would attach his leash, pick up the can, and he would immediately put on the brakes and refuse to budge. While this was essentially effective in eliminating the poop eating behavior, it also eliminated the walking behavior. Method 3 was therefore a failure.

Method 4: “Extinction” When you do not give attention to a behavior, it will disappear. Ha. Can anyone tell me why this wouldn’t work? Somehow, although I’ve used denial to cope with the problem myself, ignoring the poop eating will not make it go away. They don’t do it for attention; they do it because they think poo is delicious.

Method 5: “Train an incompatible behavior” This one is feasible, although difficult, as my corgis completely lose the ability for rational thought in the presence of food, and poop, since it was formerly food. In order to capture non-poop-eating behavior, I was forced to carry a massive number of highly valuable treats in an effort to reward behaviors that didn’t involve eating poop. Our walks consisted of taking one step, tripping over the two small dogs that are dancing and twirling while trying to solicit the treats from me, getting up, and attempting to take another step. They didn’t eat poop, because they were too busy to look for it, but they also didn’t walk, and couldn’t go to the bathroom themselves for fear they would miss out on a treat. This was a counterproductive endeavor.

Method 6: “Put the behavior on cue” The methodology here suggests that if you put an undesirable behavior on cue, reward it, and then cease to ever give the cue, the animal will discontinue the behavior due to lack of reinforcement. Well, this would be the easiest trick I could ever teach them. Unfortunately, they would engage in the behavior in spite of me never giving the cue again. It is again a matter of crap= awesome and delicious corgi delicacy.

Method 7: “Shape the absence” My corgis work for food. It is their only true motivation. Their entire reason for existence is to eat, and to eat as much as possible. As I mentioned before, I have attempted to bring treats on walks (this time hidden in my pocket) in order to reward poo-avoidance behaviors. Unfortunately, since they view fecal matter to be the highest form of culinary delight, no treat imaginable is worth more to them. The food I whip out of my pocket in an attempt to lure them away is no match for the value of the magical treats they find littered on the ground for free.

Method 8: “Change the motivation” The theory here is that when your animal, or child, or spouse, is engaging in an undesirable behavior, it means they are deficient in some basic need. When that need is met, it should help alleviate the problem behavior. For instance, if your children throw temper tantrums in the grocery store because they are hungry, feed them a full meal beforehand. Without hunger driving the bad behavior, the temper tantrums will disappear. Sadly, if I fed my corgis as much as they desired to no longer be hungry, I would have two fat little walking ottomans with heart disease and diabetes; if they could still walk at all, or breathe for that matter.

So there we are, eight methods later, and still no solution. But perhaps I am looking at this wrong. The underlying problem in all of this is not just the corgis’ behavior, but the negligent attitudes of my neighbors. Perhaps I should target THEIR behavior. Is there a book called “Don’t Shoot Your Neighbors”?

Can You Feel the Vibe?

vibe  (vaɪb)
— n
slang  a feeling or flavour of the kind specified: a 1970s vibe
[from vibration ]

From the outside, my 2003 Pontiac Vibe didn't look like much, but people were always amazed at how much room it actually had on the inside.  It was classified as a "sport wagon" which means it looked like a cross between a small sedan and either a station wagon or SUV. The Vibe had four doors and a hatch back as well rear seats that were backed with a hard plastic akin to a truck bed liner, so that when laid flat, formed a very tough and utilitarian cargo area.My two previous vehicles had been a 1990 Pontiac GrandAm and a 1998 Ford Escort.

The Pontiac was purchased used for my mom by her short-term second husband, and given to me when I left for college after graduating high school. He did not appreciate this, and I believe may have cursed the car with a voodoo hex. The brakes got so bad that I almost had to employ a Fred Flinstone-esq method of sticking my feet out the sides to slow it down. We had a lifetime warranty with Allied Tires, which meant that every time I took it in, they told me my brakes were fine. They were lying. Their lifetime alignment guarantee also meant I ended up with five blown out tires, all on the front right. I got really good at changing a tire. The headliner inexplicably fell down and after I got frustrated enough to rip it out, the air conditioning died as well. This resulted in little yellow puffs of insulation being blown into your eyes and hair while traveling with the windows down. Finally, the driver side window ceased to function at all (even though it rolled down manually), which left me with A. no means of cooling myself off while sitting in traffic in Southern Florida during the summer and B. the inability to utilize drive thru windows, ATMs, or to comply with the nice policeman when he pulled me over for speeding. Luckily, I was eventually rear-ended and the resulting insurance was used to purchase my next vehicle.

The 1998 Ford Escort was found in the paper by my mother. It had been used as the fleet vehicle for the Church of Jesus Christ and Latter Day Saints. Somehow, they forgot to bless it. Within a month, the radiator died and had to be replaced. For over a week beforehand, I drove through the Florida summer with my heater blasting in order to keep it from overheating. A useful trick, although difficult on your sweat glands. The air conditioner died once or twice, and had its windows broken out one week after a new CD system was installed as a Christmas present. The Escort met the same fate as the GrandAm, although when I was rear-ended this time, it was by a young kid in a large pickup truck. It was raining, the roads were wet, and the traffic was heavy. Kaylee was in her crate in the backseat when I felt myself losing control. We spun around and hit the guardrail, and the last thing I remember was telling Kaylee to hold on. I woke up in the hospital with staples in my head and a neck brace on. Miraculously, although the trunk was mostly in the back seat, Kaylee survived unharmed. She was understandably reluctant to get in the car for a long time afterwards.

The insurance settlement this time purchased a 2003 Pontiac Vibe at auction. Nearly new when it came to me with only 23,000 miles, I marveled at its power windows and doors, upgraded sound system, and power sunroof. Even at 2 yrs old, this was the closest I had ever come to a new car. My family had only driven a series of hand-me-downs from generous aunts, uncles, and grandparents which were already on their last wheels, so to speak. My parents would drive them until they no longer functioned, at which time we would receive another "donation". I grew up in terror of the inevitable breakdowns, panicked strandings on the side of the highway in the dark of night, and the very real potential for car fires. The Vibe was therefore a luxury vehicle in my eyes. It was fast, fun to drive, comfortable, and got awesome gas mileage.

Sadly, having never been taught to care for something, given that we had never owned anything worth caring for, I took the Vibe for granted. She endured being driven hard, stopped suddenly, and forced to haul an unimaginable amount of stuff. My friend recently referred to it as the "rolling sack of crap." He was convinced that I was going to be decapitated by my set of metal weave poles should I ever in get into an accident (which was likely given my aggressive driving tendencies and history of being rear ended). He also thought that if I gained even one extra pound, I would no longer fit into it amidst the tunnels, jumps, extra clothes and shoes, dog crates, towels, grooming equipment, loose paperwork, and food at various stages of decay. He would marvel at the bi-annual occasion during which I shoveled it all out and reorganized it. This generally only happened when the smell become overpowering, or I had some new piece of equipment I desired to puzzle in there. Over the five years we were together, I washed her two, perhaps three times. The passenger seat was used maybe a dozen times, after being excavated from the mountain of assorted trash, and the back seats were probably only upright half a dozen times. It belonged on an episode of "Hoarders."

Before we reached 150,000 miles, I had burned through a few sets of tires, realizing for the first time in my life that tires would go bald and needed to be replaced as a "set" and not just individually as they went flat. On one occasion, just before replacing my balding tires, I slid into a young man's trailer hitch in the rain. I thought he was going to turn. He did not. With only cosmetic damage to my car, I drove away with a dent and no insurance was involved.

At some point, all four door handles cracked. Three of them broke off completely, leaving me no access to the passenger side of the vehicle. Luckily, the driver door was left with a small nub, which when used carefully, allowed me to enter without having to climb in through the hatchback. Which would have been impossible anyway given the amount of crap back there. I had to beg service people to be careful when leaving it for an oil change, as replacement handles would have cost $200 each.

Later, my brother backed his enormous Dodge Ram into my front left fender and left me unable to open the door. In sympathy, I did not report him to my insurance, and he skipped town a week later. We were able to bang it out so the door could be used, but it wasn't pretty.

Finally last year, during one of the hottest summers I can remember, the air conditioner stopped working. The replacement part was on national back-order, and might never have been located. I suffered two weeks in the sweltering heat, determined to avoid car payments until I found myself in a heat induced delirium at the Honda lot.

With a cold A/C, working door handles, and enough cargo room to accommodate an army of dogs and gear, I love my 2010 Honda Element. But if you happen to see an old, dented Vibe with no door handles, give it a wave. She was a good car.

My Dogs: Spotlight Xander

Xander is like a marshmallow: he's soft, fluffy, sweet, and when he's on fire, he runs fast.
Ok, that last bit was maybe a stretch unless you've recently made S'mores over an open flame and know how runny marshmallows get when they are hot. And that Xander is a giant weenie in every capacity unless he is doing agility or playing frisbee, in which case he is on fire and runs crazy fast.
So perhaps not the clearest metaphor, but marshmallow is really what I think of when I look at him. He is a mush. He is a love. He gives you this look as you pet him that is complete, undeniable adoration. And most of the time he tries to pet you back.

But I am getting ahead of myself. Let me start at the beginning.

I had finally made it to a stable, self-sufficient stage in my life, in my own apartment, just myself and my two grown corgis, when I decided that life was entirely too boring. What's a good way to remedy this situation? Get a border collie puppy! I'd heard for many, many, many years that border collies could only be owned by those with acreage, livestock, and an endless supply of patience. The horror stories on the internet and word of mouth painted these intelligent dogs as willfully destructive when given anything less than optimal exercise and mental stimulation. However, they were also tauted for their intelligence, trainability, tireless work ethic, and reknowned as agility and frisbee dogs. Having only owned and trained small dogs, I was eager to try my hand at a "big dog," even though at 20 and a quarter inches and 39 pounds, I consider him a very good and moderate size.

At first, I was only toying with the idea, and still had cold feet about actually making the switch to the "dark side" (as border collie owners are referred to). I looked online at dogs available for rescue and was captivated by a small, red and white female named Bella. She had prick ears, which I love, and was only about 25 pounds and roughly 6 months old. I took Kirby with me to see her, as finding a playmate for him was also a large part of my motivation. Sadly, she had the same temperment as so many intelligent dogs who have had a rocky start in life. She had virtually no interest in me or Kirby, and was keen on trying to get out of the little yard and into the bigger one nearby. Given the time and motivation, I know she could have been rehabilitated, but I did not want this to be my first experience with the breed. At this point, I was told that there was also a litter of 3 week old puppies, kept a secret at this point but for a select few. Although I had been looking at older dogs, my eyes lit up at the mention of puppies.

I melted at the sight of a trio of three week old pups: 2 females and a male. One female was a striking black and white, while the other two had freckles to augment their black and white coloration. Jerri, who has been rescuing border collies for 25 years, decided to give me pick of the litter based on my history and interest in performace sports, and the fact that I was the first one to express interest in the litter. I made the trip to Daytona weekly after that in order to visit with the puppies, watch them grow, and make the difficult decision of which puppy to choose. From my very first trip, I was taken by the big, freckled boy and his comically loud vocalizations when it came time for dinner. I was also enamoured by the beautifully marked black and white female. In my weekly visits, I grew more and more fond of the boy, who was by far the most interested in visiting with me. He would plant himself across my lap as I sat on the floor, and in spite of being picked up and encouraged to play outside with his sisters, he would return to cuddle with me. How could I not fall in love? I never really had a choice, as the puppy had made it for me.

Although I continued to admire the striking female, my focus turned to the boy, and by five weeks, my decision was made. The poor dog probably spent the first two months of his life thinking that I had a camera for a hand, as it was constantly attached to me and aimed at his face. It's no wonder he manages to look tortured in every picture I've attempted to take in his adult life.

At eight weeks old, after five weekly trips to Daytona to visit, I was able to take him home with me. It had been over 6 years since I'd raised a baby puppy, given that Kirby was already almost five months old when I brought him home. The next few months cured me of my "puppy fever" as my time was spent with this little creature who knew nothing, had to potty constantly, wanted to chew everything, and LOVED to bark. However, he also loved to give hugs, was a champion snuggler, extremely adorable, smart, fast learning, and eager to please. We made it through the toughest parts of puppyhood without any major casualties or property damage (save a couple spots of carpet). He came to work with me everyday, learned lots of cute tricks, and EVENTUALLY was potty trained.

Along the way I taught him to love the frisbee, and finally, having wanted one since being a small child myself, I now have a certified frisbee nut. Even though we've only competed a few times and I am the weak half of the team, I LOVE playing frisbee with him and delight in his enthusiasm and athleticism in catching and chasing the disc.

He also learned to love agility. I am proud that I knew enough to never correct him for mistakes, as he is naturally inclined to be a "soft dog" and would have been easily discouraged. Instead, I have focused entirely on having a party when he is correct, and as a result, he is fast, driven, and happy. We have had extreme success in our first handful of competitions, and I continue to learn more from him about handling a "big dog." Running a corgi and running a border collie are indeed two VERY different things! I feel that at a little over two years old, I finally know who he is and we have developed a wonderful relationship with each other. I am excited that our partnership and teamwork will only continue to improve.

So although he lets Kirby boss him around, will roll over and submit if you look at him sternly, and barks like a fool at nothing, he never fails to keep me company in the bathroom, greet me with more enthusiasm than I thought possible (even if I've only been gone 5 minutes), give 150% at anything I ask of him, and make me smile everyday. Although there were times when I questioned my sanity at choosing a border collie, I adore him and have absolutely no regrets. He gets me out of bed in the mornings, keeps me active when I don't feel like getting off the couch, and is the perfect buddy for any adventure I could ever choose. I am so lucky to have him!

A Tribute to Good Friends

It was brought to my attention that in my recent blog about agility, I mentioned the small hatchback which was crammed full of my agility equipment. My good friend Chris feels that I have not done justice to the legend which was the "Vibe." I believe he is right, and will therefor dedicate an entire post to sharing with you the history and adventures of this little car. However, before I do that, I must pay tribute to a couple of friends who were also part of that story, as well as my agility history. These friends should also have made a cameo in my blog entitled "The Rarity of Awesomeness," as they too posses that rare and wonderful quality.

I met Chris and Carol at the first agility trial I attended with Kaylee, circa September 2003, when I was new to trialing and traveling and all of the adventures that go with it. We were competing in Orlando, inside a building at the fairgrounds, which was crowded but popular due to its air conditioning. Although running on mats is not every one's ideal surface, the appeal of air conditioning is especially strong when you live in Florida. Summer here tends to extend from March or April until late October, or even November at times.

We happened to set up next to one another in the crating area and began talking. They were very friendly, and I soon found out that they were also members of our local agility club in spite of living nearly an hour away on Amelia Island. After that, we ran into each other at other local trials, and began talking and crating next to each other more frequently. At that time, Carol was running a Jack Russell terrier who was also in the same height class as Kaylee. The pair had once lived in Kansas and regaled me with stories of "Jack Russell trials" which were very prevalent in that area and involved such activities as "go to ground,"" Jack Russell racing," as well as agility. These trials sounded like tremendous fun, and I often think she wishes she could go back to Jacks as well as those activities. In spite of this, Carol decided to make the switch to Shelties, and purchased a relative of the famous Neil, whom she named Kansas in honor of their past home.

I remember meeting the young Kansas as a puppy during a trial in Daytona, and have seen her go from rambunctious puppyhood, to the lovely little lady she has grown up to be. Sadly, during that time, life took me away from agility, and I basically "dropped off the radar." I was a rotten person, and too wrapped up in my own drama to realize that I would be missed, and that perhaps I should let Chris and Carol know that I was still alive. I am sorry that I was not grown up enough to do that, but in my experience, people came and went and that was just the way of things. I had learned never to really get attached to people, and that often people would let you down. In this case, I was the one doing the letting down.

At any rate, I reappeared a couple of years later to a local trial, and was taken aback by the warm reception I received, particularly from Chris and Carol. I was both embraced and admonished for my disappearing act, and immediately welcomed back as a friend. I remain thankful that I wasn't simply written off, and given the cold shoulder I might have deserved upon my return.

Since then, I continue to be pleasantly surprised by the quality of my friendship with this pair. If life gave you a choice in who would be your parents, I would certainly have chosen them. Carol values my opinion in dog training, and even invited me along when she ventured to pick up her newest challenge, a border-collie-look-a-like, who is actually a bi-black sheltie named Wicked. Again, I have watched him grow from a fuzzy little ball of fluff, to the sleek, handsome, fast little devil that he is. I am also excited to watch them grow as a team, since she is beginning his agility training. Chris is the devoted chauffeur of the pair, and provided he has a book or two to read, never fails to come along to every practice, training opportunity, and trial that Carol chooses to attend. His devotion to her, and their relationship with each other, is a tribute to what every relationship should be. I can only hope that Buster and I will remain such good friends for as long a time as they have. They have a great balance, wherein Carol knows how things should be done, and Chris provides the comic relief ;) I think Buster and I have a similar dynamic.

Our weekend practices have become the highlight of my week, as I not only get to play with my dogs, but get to visit with them as well. They have pleasantly surprised me with birthday and Christmas gifts, in addition to the out-of-the-blue homemade tug toys Carol presented me this morning (carefully made with a Xander complimenting black and white pattern). They have listened with interest to all my various pursuits, genuinely cared about me and offered advice at my lowest lows, and rejoiced with me at all my triumphs. Chris has provided video services when Buster was not present, and Carol doesn't get mad when I tell her to give Wicked more treats while he is learning the teeter. I look forward to sharing the day with them at trials, and they help remind me that agility is more than just the titles you earn or the courses you run, it is the friends you can make along the way.

I hope they know how much I love them both. And that I promise to never disappear again.