It's better than Crack. Don't tell the DEA

I walked into the arena, Zipper tucked into my right elbow. His little feet rested on my hip. I snapped off his leash and handed it to the leash runner then sauntered slowly out toward the first jump. The ring crew was still changing heights from 16" down to 12". Zipper was the first 12" dog. Fine dust hung in the air. The rings had been well wet down at the beginning of the weekend but now, on the third and last day, the surface was drying up and loosening. I had tasted dust all morning. I kept cleaning my glasses off in a vain attempt to see more sharply through the haze.

I was doing my best to appear relaxed, but my knees were trembling a bit. Okay. What's the course again. I mentally went through it one last time. Two big imposing wing jumps straight out. There was a third big heavy wing straight ahead, but it was a trap. Jump three was actually a small, nondescript non-wing jump on a hard left turn from jump 2. A lot of teams were having trouble with the turn to jump 3, with dogs going over the trap jump or circling wide and losing a lot of time. The course then swept away and up, turning right and right again and coming back toward the start before a left turn that went to a long tunnel, then out across the back of the arena to weaves and a final two jumps and out. All this was swirling through my mind. Oh shoot. Wait. I want Zipper to be on my left at the start. I shifted Zipper from my right arm to my left. The ring crew was still fiddling with the last jump. Time was stretching. My stomach jumped and Zipper yawned; a big, jaw-cracking effort, his tongue curling stiffly. He was feeling my nerves and trying to calm both of us.

It looked like they finally had the timer done and I set Zipper gently on the ground, my index finger in his green and navy greek-key patterned collar. It almost glowed against his deep russet coat. I pointed to the first jump with my right hand, my finger trembling just a little. "Look Zip, it's Jump-jump" I whispered.

GO! said the mechanical timer voice. I took a breath and stood up, releasing Zipper and starting forward, my legs feeling like jelly, my left hand gesturing. "Jump!" I said, and he took off.

Over the first jump and I switched to my right hand, turning my shoulders left. He flew in front of me and reading my signal took jump 2 at an angle and headed straight left to jump 3, totally ignoring the trap jump. And suddenly we were both in the zone. My focus narrowed to Zipper's body, stretching and gathering. All sound vanished. The dust, the watching crowd, the judge in the ring all disappeared. I could feel Zipper's thoughts and hear his happy huffs as he hit the ground with each stride. We turned right as one and went up the curve of jumps, then right again. Zipper was running 10 feet ahead. A casual gesture with my right hand and another shoulder turn to the left and he responded immediately, not even head checking as he sliced a wing jump and disappeared briefly from sight behind the wooden palisade, ignoring another trap to fly into the tunnel.

"Good boy!" I told him when he was in the tunnel, and he came out even faster, at a dead run now. Now I just said, "Go!" and he was over the next two jumps. I checked my stride and said "Weave!" Zipper, who still doesn't really understand weave poles, flew past the weaves and went to see what the number in the ground was. I called him back and asked him to weave again. He started, but then ducked out.

"Okay buddy, let's try one more time." This time he did three weaves. We were qualifying. Should I keep trying? No. I came out of the zone enough to remember that I was only allowing myself two tries at the weaves.

"Good try, let's go!" and off we went, flying over the last two jumps.

"Good boy, what a good boy!" Zipper wiggled around my feet, panting happily, tail wagging so fast it was vibrating. I swept him up and grabbed his leash from the pole by the exit. "Let's go get some treats. You are the best boy ever."

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And that, folks, is why we do it. It's those few magical seconds of time when person and dog move and think as one entity, flying around the ring in perfect sync. It doesn't happen every run. I've had clean runs that felt awful. And I've had runs like yesterday's that were so good I'll remember that high forever. Who cares about the Q. Being in the zone is the Crack of agility.