The Champion
She was born into a litter sired by illustrious Champions. Her coat was blue-black and glossy, set off by a necklace and stockings of snowy white. She was beautiful, a study in grace and quality. Her movements were precise and effortless, her face expressive and intelligent. She was full of life and fire, with a keen sense of humor and an intense desire to please. Her pedigree was a marvel; her heritage should have been the excitement of the crowds, the glories of the show ring, and the honors to be won there. But Fate had different plans for this diminutive Staffordshire Terrier. And the series of events that followed ensured that, while she never took honors on the show bench, those who knew her will remember her always as a Champion.
The boy had always known there was something special about the tiny puppy. He loved all the dogs, of course, and he spared no care on any one of them. But from the very first, there had been a special bond between him and the littlest Staff.
For an eight year old, the boy had an uncanny skill with dogs. His sparkling brown eyes and black, curly hair were coupled with a drive and seriousness unusual in one so young. It was the seriousness that had convinced the breeder to take him on as an apprentice despite his age. She had been dubious at first, but he had proved himself with hard work. He readily accepted the less pleasant aspects of caring for a kennels of dogs, and was eager to learn anything she would teach him about the mysterious world of dog shows. She had grown to trust his care and consideration for the business, and it was a proud day for him the first time she had addressed him about "our dogs." He had floated, feeling as if he were part of something wonderful, and it seemed to him then that there could be no better life than that of a show breeder and handler. He soon found that he was allowed privileges with her valuable dogs that she extended to no one else.
One of the best benefits, to his mind, was permission to be present with her and the nervous mother when puppies were born. He would never forget the wonder of watching his first live birth. He had assisted the breeder at the tiny Staff's whelping. Proud to be entrusted with such a responsibility, he had fetched towels and water, and faithfully noted the time of each arrival, its size and sex and color, in the record book the breeder had given him.
The little one was the last to be born, and the boy thought he had never seen anything so beautiful. The breeder herself had remarked on the baby's perfection.
"Oh!" she had sighed, "isn't she pretty? And look how beautifully proportioned she is!" She had gone on to explain to the boy the relative merits of each of the newborns, but he had eyes only for the littlest.
He had expressed concern that the bigger pups would keep her from getting her fair share of the milk, but she had forced her way with a determination that would come to be her trademark, and the two had laughed at her eagerness.
"Look at that!" the breeder had chuckled. "She's certainly got the attitude of a top show dog: 'Me first!'" The boy laughed too, pleased to hear it, for this meant they might be keeping her. Perhaps then he would get to work with her too, as he did with the breeder's other dogs.
For his proudest privilege was that the breeder allowed him to work with her dogs, even permitting him to handle them while she was away. This was important to him, for he was in training for Junior Showmanship competition. Unlike many Juniors, he applied himself diligently to his training. Every evening after school, he performed the routine kennel chores cheerfully, then applied himself to his self-imposed daily regimen.
He drilled himself on the finer points of show ring etiquette for two hours daily. Often this would exasperate friends and family who were asked to play ?Judge.? He always wanted a critique, and would solemnly listen while some minor technicality was pointed out. Then back to practice, practice, and more practice.
He spent time training with each dog in the kennel every afternoon. He had been taught never to work any dog for more than fifteen minutes, so he spread his time evenly among them all. Never did he overwork any of the dogs. And always, before and after the work session, each dog would be taken for a playful romp.
After the puppies were born, he elected to take on the added responsibility of playing with them every day. The breeder called this ?socialization,? and told him it was very important that the puppies be handled, gently but frequently, so that they would develop trust and affection for people. The boy was happy to oblige. This could hardly be considered work!
If he spent more time with the littlest puppy, it was certainly understandable. She was, after all, the smallest and feistiest one, and her miniscule size made her seem all the more adorable. But there was soon another reason for his favoritism: he discovered that she was unwanted.
He had heard the breeder say so; had heard the disappointment in her voice when she spoke of his special, littlest one. Several weeks had gone by, and the puppy had grown-- but not enough.
"She is too small," he had heard the breeder sadly say. "She is lovely, but she will never make size. We will have to find her a pet home."
He was filled with dismay. She couldn't really mean it. Not his favorite! The cutest, the funniest, the brightest of them all? The sense of loss was almost more than he could bear.
He knew, too, how it was to be unwanted, to be the littlest. He too was small for his age, and had a speech impediment. This had made him the butt of many a schoolyard joke. How he had suffered at the taunts of neighbor children! He grimaced as he remembered catcalls of "Midget!" and "Hey, Shrimpy!"
The breeder didn't want her just because she was small. But she was the best, the prettiest of them all! He had even heard the breeder say so!
Even as he thought these things, defiance took hold of his young heart. His brown eyes smoldered as he considered. He would show her; he would show them all! She was small, but so was he. That didn't mean she was worthless!
And so he set about the task of proving her worth. Always serious about his show training, his new resolve brought a fierceness to his daily regimen. He rushed through his chores now, so he would have time to practice with his small one before the breeder returned home from work. He wanted no one to know of his endeavor. It was a secret, a delightful pact just between the two of them.
The little Staffordshire seemed to know, somehow, that it was serious business. There was an urgency in the boy that touched her, that forged an unshakeable bond between them. Each day, at the hurried completion of his work, he took her out, and they learned together.
First, how to stay out from under his feet. She tangled the leash hopelessly; patiently, he unwound it. She played tug-of-war with the unwanted restraint; he gently corrected her.
And so the time passed, and they both became more proficient. She learned how to trot on a lead, freely and effortlessly; how to glide into a turn; how to come to a stop, four-square and clean. She learned to hold a stacked pose for the longest of interminable time; how to manage an 'honor turn,' and the deft change of hands at the corners of the ring. And as they grew in knowledge, they grew together in the special love that is reserved for two unwanted, who have found in each other a friend.
For the boy, those weeks of secret training were a source of breathless excitement - and often of terror. He would sit, face tense, fists clenched, as people came to the breeder's home, and often left with a puppy. Powerless, he would sit and fiercely WILL that they would not choose his precious, smallest one.
And always, it was another puppy who would leave. Always, he breathed a sigh of relief as the happy people left, giggling over their new purchase. And illogically, he was always contemptuous that none of the silly people could see how much better she was than the rest!
When she was five months old, there came a day when the sky was that pure, Cerulean blue that poets so love to praise. The air was fresh, and a sweet breeze blew, laden with the scent of spring blossoms. The boy rejoiced in the beauty of the afternoon, and his growing pride in the competency of his young charge. She was doing it perfectly! They moved as one, she seeming to know his thought before he asked. Their movement was stately, elegant: a graceful dance of perfect harmony.
"That was nice; now do an 'L' pattern. And watch for lagging on the outside turn."
The intrusion of the voice shocked him, startling him out of his private reverie. He spun to face the voice - and saw the breeder standing there, placidly watching. He could not know, though he now suspected, that she had been watching him for some time.
"I didn't know you would be home so soon," he said awkwardly, half embarrassed, half defiant.
"Obviously," she replied with some amusement. "But you were doing well enough without my help. Please continue."
She wasn?t angry! A surge of hope came then, and was as quickly quelled. After all, she had allowed him to use her favorite Champion to compete in Junior Showmanship. Perhaps she would think of this as only another training exercise, performed as well with any of the other dogs. Perhaps she would not understand the significance, would not sense the special rapport between him and the tiny bitch.
He breathed deeply, raggedly, determined to regain a semblance of his earlier control. His hands, so sure only moments before, were trembling now with reaction to her sudden appearance. She HAD to see - just HAD to see how good, how special the little one was!
"Oh please," he breathed softly, pitched only for the ears of his friend. "Please, just this once - it has to be perfect."
And so, they began again, that special adagio of the show ring. But this time, with a difference: an edge of tension, a sense of quiet desperation about the boy. Working harder than he ever had for mere trophies, he spun his partner for a more demanding judge. He lifted a silent prayer, hoping that his nervousness would not unsettle the puppy, making her skittish.
He needn't have worried. The little Staff was breathtaking in her performance, never breaking stride, never faltering, keeping perfect pace and rhythm in the whirling display. She was dazzling, transcendent; she carried it off as if there was nothing and no one in her world but the boy and the silent, almost imperceptible signals on the leash. And when at last he brought her to a stop, she planted herself in a perfect square as she had been taught, and stood still, never moving, except for the furious lashing of her tail. There was no 'bait' to tease her to an eagerness of expression; there was no need. She stood, and she held her stance, with all the energy in that tiny body rigid, expectant. Stood with all the love in her small frame pouring through her fine dark eyes as she gazed at the boy, the only thing that mattered, her whole world compassed in that adoring gaze. Stood, and waited for his next command.
For a moment the tableau held. For an instant, a heartbeat, two. Then the boy was on his knees, with his arms around the puppy, as he told her over and over again how good she was, how perfect, heedless for the moment of the woman he had so wanted to impress. He could not know, did not see, the expression on her face: poignant, as she heard the unmistakable love and pride in the boy's voice. Did not know the tempest he had stirred in her soul. How she was remembering, oh so long ago and far away it seemed, another lonely child who found solace in the unbridled love in a dog's eyes. He was oblivious; as with the little dog, at that moment there was nothing else in his world but her.
When he finally finished telling the puppy how precious she was, how perfectly she had performed, he looked up triumphantly - to notice that no one was standing there. He looked around, crestfallen, drained now of the energy that had so recently flushed his cheeks. He had hoped for some form of praise from the breeder, some recognition of their skill. He thought now that his earlier surmise had been correct, that she had seen this as a routine exercise, of no special significance. Feeling let down, he bent to unfasten the leash from his companion's collar - and froze.
For the breeder was coming back, walking towards him from the open door of the kennel building. And in her hands? A dog's traveling kennel: a new one, brand new, and smaller than any of the others. A show lead as well, and a jewel collar! He could not read the expression in her eyes. She regarded him for a long moment, and when she spoke, her voice had an oddly quiet tone.
"Your birthday is in three days," she said, "and I had intended this as a surprise. But if you are taking her to the show with you in two weeks, she had best get used to her crate."
He looked at her, thunderstruck, his mouth gaping in astonishment. He had hoped only to spare his favorite from a home far from him. That she would make him a present of the littlest Staff had never crossed his mind. He knew what show dogs cost, even the pet quality ones; he had stood by while many a puppy had been purchased.
She saw the disbelief, the wild hope, the rising tide of joy in his eyes as he stood, open mouthed, still not quite able to grasp the enormity of the gift. To spare them both the embarrassment of a young man's tears, she spoke then, a return to her earlier amusement.
"And I'll tell you, if you plan on taking her on a circuit with ME, you'd better do something about that disgusting fuzz on the back of her ears! It's nothing short of disgraceful!"
Oh, how to tell of the months that followed? How to describe the breathless glory of the two of them? It seemed so short a time! Their first time out together was a fiasco. Though she had been schooled so carefully, she was a puppy still, and the noise and bustle of the show grounds delighted and excited her. There was no hint of the flawless performance she turned out at home. Instead, she bounced, wriggled, barked hysterically. She wended her way, nose to the ground, intent on tracking every delicious scent to its source.
And the boy, though disappointed, was too far gone in love with her to be angry. She WAS an embarrassment; after all, he had won many a Best Junior trophy while squiring her Champion sister. But the spectacle she made was not lost on him, and in the end, despairing of ever getting her to stand still, he gathered her up in his arms and sat down in the large class, giving over all hope of a placement. His gesture said, more eloquently than words ever could, that he loved her in spite of her naughtiness. And there would be other shows, after all.
And to be sure, there were. She quickly learned to dampen her early enthusiasm, and they became a formidable team. Ribbons, trophies, numerous Best Junior honors, all were racked up by the stunning pair; the handsome boy impeccably dressed in his best suit, the little dog smart in her shiny black-and-white coat. They cut an elegant figure in the ring, and few exhibitors were so jaded by experience that the natural grace of the pair failed to register.
In time the boy developed an interest in obedience training. His pretty puppy had grown into a lovely young Staffordshire bitch, and he had a most pardonable pride in her. She was undoubtedly the prettiest thing he had ever seen, and the best Staff in the country. And if she was too small to compete in Conformation classes, she was nevertheless the smartest dog in the country as well. Never one to shy from lofty goals, he determined to make her the first Staff in history to be an obedience trial Champion.
And so they embarked on a new adventure. It seemed to the boy that she had been born for this. Always attentive and eager to please, she came into her own in Obedience. She was brilliant; she learned every exercise with little need for correction. Her responses to command were snappy, almost military in their crisp precision. And her proud owner knew they would cut a swath in Obedience, as they already had in Junior Showmanship.
They were working one day on the lunge line. The boy was teaching her a new exercise; the 'Drop on Recall' where the dog must assume a 'down' position, on command, from however far away. She was performing perfectly, and the boy was walking forward to praise her and release her from the tether to try it again off-lead, when he heard something he had never before heard: the sound of the little Staff growling, rumbling deep in her chest. Then she belled a challenge - once, twice, and again. He whirled about to see what could cause such a reaction from the gentle bitch - and froze. There, not ten feet away, stood a huge black hound, teeth bared in an ugly grimace. He was stalking the boy, stiff-legged, menacing, snarling his rage. What caused his anger was a mystery, but there was no doubting his intent. He sidled forward, hackles raised, then suddenly launched his giant frame straight at the terrified boy's face.
He never got there. Three feet from his intended victim, he was met by a small fury. Met, and held. Astounded at the little dog's presumption, he turned the full force of his attack on her. The boy would wait. First, he intended to destroy this intrusive annoyance. Savagely, he lunged at his small aggressor, jaws agape, and snapped...
And his teeth clashed on air. Small she was, certainly, and not as strong as he, but her ancestry had the measure of him, and she knew no fear. For a hundred, hundred years, her ancestors had fought, and won, and lived to fight yet again. Warriors long dead whispered to her, bequeathing the secrets that were the heritage of her blood. And she listened, listened; finding that her innate grace had an awesome purpose outside its simple beauty. Again and again she eluded his clumsy rushes, and whirled with breathtaking speed to punish him anew. He could not touch her; she was liquid fire. Wherever he turned to slash, she was gone, her movements quicksilver. She scored the giant's flank, now the belly, now the hamstring. She was everywhere at once, yet nowhere he could find.
The grim elegance of the deadly dance was lost on the boy. He could only watch helplessly; he had no weapon, nothing with which to fend off the monster. His brave defender was a whirlwind of grace, but she was so small next to that hulking beast! He knew it would take only one wrong step, one small miscalculation, and the huge brute would overpower her. He could not let that happen! Screaming rage and defiance, he rushed upon the combatants and began pounding the attacker with his small fists.
The hound turned to face this new threat, viciously slashing. The Staff threw herself at the face of her enemy, trying to stay between him and her beloved master - and her hind feet caught in the lunge line. Missing her hold, she fell heavily to the ground.
It was all the opening the big dog needed. Triumphantly, he pounced, seized her, and shook her like a rag doll. When he finally released her, she dropped limply to her belly, tried to rise, and fell again - for her back had been broken by the cruel jaws. Once more, the hound turned to face the boy, bared his fangs, and prepared to make his final leap.
The little Staff saw this, and knew that the boy's feeble strength would never be enough. Broken, dying, she was yet alive, and she was a Staffordshire! The courage of her race pulled her erect. Dragging her useless hindquarters, she flung herself at the hound with all the strength in her twisted body - and the skill of her ancestors was given to her as a last gift. Her jaws locked in a deadly embrace on the hound's snarling throat. Locked, and held fast.
Desperately, the big dog lunged, fighting for air, but the grip of his tiny assailant was inexorable. His thrashing whipped her small, pain-wracked form from side to side; still, she did not release. And the boy was upon him again, helping her, kicking the dog again and again, stamping on his heaving ribs, trying his best to crush the hound under his feet. The frantic scrabbling grew weaker; the boy pressed the advantage, drumming ceaselessly with his heels; the Staff ground her jaws tighter, ever tighter.
Slowly, the hound's struggles grew less, then stopped altogether. Slowly, the crazed light in his eyes grew dimmer, yet dimmer, and went out. The boy fell to his knees beside his friend, a groan of anguish escaping him, in time to see the last look of love and pride and accomplishment cross her face. She knew; knew that she had won, that her boy, her precious master, was unharmed. Knew that she had done well, and that her task was ended.
With a sigh of relief, she at last released her hold, and turned her head so that she might regard that beloved face one last time. In the bittersweet joy of that moment, she went to join the ancestors whose prowess she had inherited full measure, to bring her a glorious victory in defense of her best friend.
She was small; too small to ever compete on the bench. But in that small body beat a heart the size of the world. And no one who knew her will ever call her less than a Champion.
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In Loving Memory of Rakasha, "CHAMPION" Sooner's Delightfully Demonic
as a Gift to "her boy," Patrick
