Last time on the Pug That Always Finished Second, we heard a very cocky Rascal claim that "victory was all but assured". Will this statement prove true? Will Trinket trip over a corncob? All that and more on the Pug That Always Finished Second.
March 26, 2006
It was the day. March 26, 2006. That morning, the Dogpalooza website released the official bracket for the competition. I didn't know the dog I would be facing in the first round, a Scottie named Molly. The only dog I had researched about and cared about was Rascal. Everything else was mere details in the final report. And how was I feeling? Thanks for asking. I felt great. I had a good night's sleep under my belt and I was ready to go. That morning, I lay in my bed thinking (a dangerous habit, I might add). I felt like I should get some good old Rocky music following me. All I got was a pug snoaring.
Dad walked in and let me out of my crate. "Trinket, I don't know how Bucky is going to take this. Remember, he doesn't know you will be competing. And he won't know. He isn't coming." I was shocked. Even moral support from a crazed pug is still moral support. Then I decided it didn't matter. I had trained to hard to let the pug come in the way. "Trinket, it's just about time to go. Grab your training toys, as there may be time to practice, and let's hit the road, jack." Finally. The time approached.
Later that day
Dogpalooza was packed. Dogs of all shapes and sizes were scattered all over, from Scotties to Jack Russells to Frenchies. I felt mightly out of place, like a parakeet in a pack of ravens. I stuck close to Dad as he navigated the floor. The judges were on three highly raised podiums. They had the sign-in papers and had the scoring card, to, well, ya know, score. Dad walked over and started signing me in. Once he had finished, the judges looked me over. "You have fun," one said, cracking an evil grin. I walked away, sulking.
The competitions before mine passed in a blur. Oh, there was singing, and agility, and even a race, but I didn't care for them. I spent the time walking around, trying to remember my gameplan and convince myself I wasn't nervous. Finally, the PA announcer stepped to the microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen, dogs and humans, I give you the tug-of-war contest!" FINALLY! It was my time to shine!
I got in the cue to begin. I would have the third match. In a short time, I was hustled into the ring. My opponent, the Scottie Molly, was ready to begin. I won the match easily. Despite having great strength and power, she lacked a true sense of tug-of-war. I won it with a simple trick. I let her lead me towards a corner, then, as she charged, I spun out, forcing her to adjust her grip. I then spun again, then again, and with a simple tug, won my first match.
The second match was against a dachshund named Cali. She was quick, but had no good gripping skills. I found this weakness and kept her from running and cornered her. I kept up some heavy tugging, wearing down her defense, and eventually put a second win under my belt. It was time for the semi-finals.
In the semi-finals, I faced my toughest opponent yet, a terrier mix named Betty. She was quick, and possessed incredible talent. But there was no brains behind the talent. She had no strategy, just relied on her high level of talent. And so I beat her with loops, spins, twirls, jumps, and slides. She kept up with me, but lost ground and grip. I beat her with a fake tug-spin-slide-jump-fake tug-spin-yank combination and breathed a sigh of relief. It was time for Rascal.
I faced him down. He gave me a calm look. And then it began. We dodged around, feeling each other out. He had the grip, and the tenacity. He was ferocious. His form was superb. I might not be able to beat him, but I wasn't ready to give up. I tried everything. Jumping did nothing, as did spinning and twirling and sliding. He was smart and he was ready. Finally, we met up in the middle of the ring.
Tug after tug after tug. Neither of us gave up any ground. Then his pure power gave him an advantage. Then a larger advantage. I tried my best, I really did. But he was too much. I gave a final charge. He handled it easily. And then he picked me apart. Tug after tug after tug. A final spin-tug and the match was over.
As I lay on the ground, recovering, I knew I had done my best. I had given up everything to win. And I hadn't. As I lay there, I imagined that I had won. But that was pure imagination. I had done nothing.
Trinket's Journal
March 26, 2006
It was the day. March 26, 2006. That morning, the Dogpalooza website released the official bracket for the competition. I didn't know the dog I would be facing in the first round, a Scottie named Molly. The only dog I had researched about and cared about was Rascal. Everything else was mere details in the final report. And how was I feeling? Thanks for asking. I felt great. I had a good night's sleep under my belt and I was ready to go. That morning, I lay in my bed thinking (a dangerous habit, I might add). I felt like I should get some good old Rocky music following me. All I got was a pug snoaring.
Dad walked in and let me out of my crate. "Trinket, I don't know how Bucky is going to take this. Remember, he doesn't know you will be competing. And he won't know. He isn't coming." I was shocked. Even moral support from a crazed pug is still moral support. Then I decided it didn't matter. I had trained to hard to let the pug come in the way. "Trinket, it's just about time to go. Grab your training toys, as there may be time to practice, and let's hit the road, jack." Finally. The time approached.
Later that day
Dogpalooza was packed. Dogs of all shapes and sizes were scattered all over, from Scotties to Jack Russells to Frenchies. I felt mightly out of place, like a parakeet in a pack of ravens. I stuck close to Dad as he navigated the floor. The judges were on three highly raised podiums. They had the sign-in papers and had the scoring card, to, well, ya know, score. Dad walked over and started signing me in. Once he had finished, the judges looked me over. "You have fun," one said, cracking an evil grin. I walked away, sulking.
The competitions before mine passed in a blur. Oh, there was singing, and agility, and even a race, but I didn't care for them. I spent the time walking around, trying to remember my gameplan and convince myself I wasn't nervous. Finally, the PA announcer stepped to the microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen, dogs and humans, I give you the tug-of-war contest!" FINALLY! It was my time to shine!
I got in the cue to begin. I would have the third match. In a short time, I was hustled into the ring. My opponent, the Scottie Molly, was ready to begin. I won the match easily. Despite having great strength and power, she lacked a true sense of tug-of-war. I won it with a simple trick. I let her lead me towards a corner, then, as she charged, I spun out, forcing her to adjust her grip. I then spun again, then again, and with a simple tug, won my first match.
The second match was against a dachshund named Cali. She was quick, but had no good gripping skills. I found this weakness and kept her from running and cornered her. I kept up some heavy tugging, wearing down her defense, and eventually put a second win under my belt. It was time for the semi-finals.
In the semi-finals, I faced my toughest opponent yet, a terrier mix named Betty. She was quick, and possessed incredible talent. But there was no brains behind the talent. She had no strategy, just relied on her high level of talent. And so I beat her with loops, spins, twirls, jumps, and slides. She kept up with me, but lost ground and grip. I beat her with a fake tug-spin-slide-jump-fake tug-spin-yank combination and breathed a sigh of relief. It was time for Rascal.
I faced him down. He gave me a calm look. And then it began. We dodged around, feeling each other out. He had the grip, and the tenacity. He was ferocious. His form was superb. I might not be able to beat him, but I wasn't ready to give up. I tried everything. Jumping did nothing, as did spinning and twirling and sliding. He was smart and he was ready. Finally, we met up in the middle of the ring.
Tug after tug after tug. Neither of us gave up any ground. Then his pure power gave him an advantage. Then a larger advantage. I tried my best, I really did. But he was too much. I gave a final charge. He handled it easily. And then he picked me apart. Tug after tug after tug. A final spin-tug and the match was over.
As I lay on the ground, recovering, I knew I had done my best. I had given up everything to win. And I hadn't. As I lay there, I imagined that I had won. But that was pure imagination. I had done nothing.
Comments