Clean Run - June 2019 - 44

the agility. For this, instructors endure
lengthy airplane rides with complicated
schedules, sweaty runs through airports,
unknown freeways, overnight storage in
hotel rooms, and all day talking to people
expecting tidbits of true wisdom. The
teacher carries the weight of knowing
there's a group of eager learners out
there who are paying hard earned money
to get some help. Not to make things
worse. Not do nothing. Fix the agility,
hopefully in a lightbulb moment, extra
meaningful kind of way.
A burden to carry, knowing what's expected. This I learned first-hand. I'm not
an official seminar giver, but I've recently
played one now three times, the third held in the far-off land of
Ohio. When I was first invited, I assumed it was a mistake. The
host got the wrong Laura. There are quite a few of us in my part
of the country, and the others all more highly skilled than I. She
pressed on. I didn't need to be a medal-winning superstar. Didn't
need to be a famous coach or a world team member. The audience would be handlers trying to help their dogs gain more
confidence. She thought I was exactly the person for the job. I
asked if it snowed there, she said yes. I thought how marvelous,
to go to a far-off land to teach my favorite thing, and, holy green
grail, Batman, to make some actual money for doing this.
Days before leaving, I began to understand the reality of the
land of ice and snow. My agility students fixed this by bringing a
selection of long underwear to class. I arrived two hours early
to our balmy California airport rolled up in long underwear,
three shirts, a sweatshirt, a sweater, a down vest, a warm jacket,
plus heavy raincoat. And a scarf. And a hat. And mittens. Maybe
you always wear this, you people in polar vortexes where
below zero is an everyday thing. For me, completely uncharted
waters. I sweated surrounded by well-groomed men in fleece
vests bearing embroidered technology logos, all of us jockeying
for wall socket space to plug in our devices. They all seemed
to have the same haircut. Me, the bulkiest business traveler of
all, feeling smug that at least my roller bag was stuffed with dog
toys. We were all on business trips, but my business was helping
dogs feel happy, take that, Computer Guy. The guy I'm squeezed
next to on the plane glances over and immediately puts his
noise-canceling Bose earphones for the duration of our flight.
It was strangely relaxing, traveling minus a dog. I read my book
on the plane instead of worrying about my dog asphyxiating
under the seat. I only needed to find a place for me to potty,
muddy feet were irrelevant, so I stayed in a nice hotel with all
white bedding and non-contaminated rugs. I did have momentary panic attacks all weekend that I'd left a dog somewhere,
but the lovely dog trainer who shuttled me around Ohio
continually assured me that I arrived dogless. I felt very at
home in her van, crammed full of crates and weave poles and
leashes and jackets and dogs. She was always on time and
knew exactly where the sandwiches were easily located, and
brought me choices in fruits to enjoy and my fizzy waters. It
was like being treated like a queen, which made me even more
44

worried that when the seminar started,
I'd be exposed for having absolutely no
idea what I was doing.
All the agility in Ohio happens indoors.
My headquarters for the weekend was a
massive, windowless warehouse on the
edge of town, conveniently located to all
kinds of coffee. There was heat blasting inside, and snow falling outside. The
students filed in first thing in the morning.
They all looked pretty much like the agility people from California. Phew.
We went around the room. The Aussie,
he shuts down. The scruffy little dog hates
start lines when all eyes are on her. The
Border Collie gets the zoomies at trials. A giant dog named
Phoebe doesn't break out of the trot and is overcoming her
fear of tunnels. This was a seminar for dogs who can't always
go to seminars.
I dumped out my dog toys on the floor, greatly relieved the
airline didn't lose my bag when it was whisked out of my hands
on the overbooked connecting flight. The first handler to wave
a toy in her scared dog's face ended up on the floor with me,
sprawled in a pile of squeakies, and found herself snuggling her
dog on her lap. I start rambling on about Elton John. I look up
to blank stares from the participants. These Californians, maybe
they're thinking, they do things differently out there. I tried not
to panic.
"Does he like scritchies?" I ask. The little Cattle Dog flops onto
his back for a tummy rub. Which might not look like agility, per
se, but sure looks a lot better than the quaking and shaking dog
who didn't want to play with his toy.
Everyone complies to odd requests. I may be new to seminar
teaching, but I know sad dogs when I see them. I firmly believe
that agility should be happy, and if it has made any dogs sad, it's
my duty to help their people unsad them. I think that snuggles
and mousey games and cookies in Tupperwares frequently help.
Not always. Sometimes we get more creative. Squeakies in the
Tupperware. Flinging cookies around. Running across the room
dragging all the toys tied into a knot. Making it clear for the dog
that it's not too hard and he'll for sure get a reward.
I try to stay focused all weekend but occasionally ran outside to
take moody still life photos of piles of snow in the parking lot
and make snowballs.
"Snowballs! Who here needs a snowball?" A phenomenon I
found amazing. There was a reason I borrowed that long underwear. I learned not to throw snowballs around indoors. The
students weren't impressed; the dogs just stopped running and
lick up their meltiness. Snow for them is like our sun. I guess if
I was in a seminar and the teacher ran out and grabbed a leaf
and tried to get me to reward with it, I'd pass. Hits and misses,
for sure.
I tried to memorize everyone's names. I failed. I tried to
remember if on your last turn your dog liked the fuzzy thing
Clean Run | June 19

Clean Run - June 2019

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