I scanned the crowd. Handlers clustered near the rail. Spectators perched in the folding chairs.
No one lingering too close to the crating area, no one watching too intently without a dog of their own.
Still, I stayed alert. You never knew what might show up at the last second.
When the previous competitor exited the ring and I caught sight of Chris guiding Pampi toward the gate steward, my focus snapped back to them like a rubber band.
Pampi carried herself beautifully. Head up, tail relaxed but alert, eyes locked on Chris’s left hand.
Chris crouched briefly to adjust her collar, murmured something low to her. I couldn’t hear the words, but I saw the way she leaned into him.
He looked different out there. A faint trace of nerves lingered. I could scent it faintly even from where I stood.
But beneath that was a confidence that hadn’t been there the first day we trained. Not the reckless eagerness I’d braced for. He’d put in the hours, listened, adjusted. I felt a flicker of pride.
“Novice Agility, twenty-inch division!” the steward called.
A pair of Australian Shepherds ran clean, fast times before them. A Sheltie clipped a bar and had to circle back for a refusal. Applause rippled through the crowd after each run.
Then the steward called Chris’s number. He stepped to the start line. Pampi stood neatly at his side, eyes bright, weight balanced forward but waiting for release.
The judge raised her hand. “Ready?”
Chris nodded.
“Go.”
He released her with a sharp cue. Pampi launched over the first jump cleanly. Chris stayed slightly behind her shoulder, voice clear and measured. “Over! Good! Tunnel!”
She curved into the tunnel without hesitation, shot out the other end and drove toward the dog walk. He timed his approach well, not crowding her.
I knew I was supposed to be watching the crowd, looking for handlers lingering where they shouldn’t or for anyone paying too much attention to the wrong dog.
Instead, I tracked the flash of purple through every obstacle like it was the only thing in the ring.
Chris’ signals were clean. There was no extra flailing or mixed cues. He trusted Pampi’s lines.
Pampi hit the contact zone on the dog walk perfectly. Nailed the weave pole entry on the first try. Twelve poles, smooth rhythm.
Good girl. Good handler.
Then they approached the teeter. I felt my spine tighten.
The seesaw always required patience. Especially with a smaller dog. Pampi was quick, but she wasn’t heavy. The board wouldn’t tip as fast under her weight.
Chris sent her up with a confident “Teeter!”
She climbed. Reached the pivot point, and paused. The board hesitated before beginning its slow descent.
In practice, she’d waited it out without fuss. But the competition teeter was slightly stiffer. It took a fraction longer to drop.
Chris stepped forward half a beat too soon. “Go, go?—”
There was too much urgency in his tone. Pampi flicked her ears back. The board was still moving. The unfamiliar delay made her hesitate. Her paws shuffled.
And Chris hesitated too. I could see it in the way his shoulders tensed, the way his next cue came a hair late. His worried gaze snapped to me.
My own body reacted before my mind did. My claws pressed against my palms, itching to flex. Every instinct screamed to step in, to fix it.
