Flyball, if you've never seen it, is a relay race for dogs.
Two teams race on parallel tracks through an electronic gate, over four hurdles to a Flyball Box, from whence they must retrieve a ball and return lickety split...
without missing a jump and without dropping the ball.
On paper I suspect it sounds rather pedestrian.
But did I mention the timer? The whole round trip might take...
say, four or five seconds per dog.
Last weekend I spent two rollicking days at the Fresno Fairgrounds with a local flyball club called Mutts in Motion who are hosting their first tournament.
The action is already at full throttle by 8:30am.
Amid the bedlam, teams with names like Mad Dogs, Leap of Faith and Gold Coast Flyers are going neck and neck over the jumps.
More than 100 dogs have come to compete and I realize I should have brought earplugs.
Flydogs do have the most magnificent vocabulary of woofs and howls and yowls, but then, so do their owners.
At the starting lineup, the dogs bark insults at the team across the way, rowdy as all get out, and straining to be off.
I am watching Touch N Go, the team from Las Vegas who are currently the world record holders.
Their dogs are sleek and sinewy...
staffy-borders someone says, a serendipitous combining of Staffordshire Terriers and Border Collies.
They are specially bred for flyball, and they redefine fast.
To watch the champions, it must be said, is as exciting as flyball ever gets.
All dogs run for the joy of speed, the stretch, the physical delight of wind in their ears.
But these dogs race.
There's a difference.
The body sinks low, ears flatten, and the whole dog becomes an aerodynamic muscle, undulating over the jumps at heart stopping pace.
The precision of a really good flyball team is impressive to say the least.
The first dog's return starts the time for dog two.
The art in the sport is in knowing when to release the next dog so that the incoming dog has passed the sensor, a nose hair before the outgoing dog bolts through.
On Sunday morning Touch N Go come within a fraction of a second of breaking their own record and the place goes wild.
They miss it by a whisker.
Breaking records is nice, but winning, as some wise person once said, isn't all.
The roster of the Mutts in Motion flyball club is as varied and diverse as the Ben & Jerry's section of your grocer's freezer.
From mystery mutts, to Jack Russells, to cattle dogs and herding dogs, their lineup includes a Dalmatian, a Portuguese Podengo, a Pomeranian and, surprisingly, a couple of Bouviers des Flandres.
If the dogs themselves are a motley crew, their owners are motlier.
The youngest handler is Victoria Neufeld, age 16, running Roxy, an Australian Shepherd so pretty she looks like a beauty queen.
On the other end of the spectrum are a couple of senior citizens with such an astounding amount of energy one might be forgiven for pronouncing flyball the secret of eternal youth.
The oldest dog on the team is Lizzy, an 11 year old Staff Bull Terrier, owned and loved by Loren Fleming.
Lizzy and Loren may not be speed demons but they exemplify what Mutts in Motion is all about.
These are predominantly rescue dogs.
In previous lives they have been unwelcome and unwanted, abandoned, cut loose, dropped off, left behind.
Nancy Chauncey's Toby was a drug store giveaway.
Lavada Montgomery who is one of the original founders of the club, currently has five four-legged family members including Jack who came from a rescue group, Riddle who was left as a four month old pup when his owners moved, and Chammy, for whom Lavada is the fifth and absolutely, positively last port of call.
The members of Mutts in Motion know first hand the healing power of a sport that can channel one's natural exuberance.
Both dog and handler must become highly trained, responsive, cooperative members of the team.
And that doesn't happen overnight.
Everyone commits to the training, everyone shows up and does their best, everyone belongs.
The dogs haven't just found a home, they have found a life, and that life has purpose.
A singles run brings a little Pomeranian to run against a young Boston Terrier.
Both are still learning, easily distracted by barking dogs on the sidelines and red flags which flutter up to indicate a fault.
They lose their way.
The handlers yell and wave, stand on their heads if it will bring them back on track.
After a comical minute or two the dogs finally complete the run, each crossing the finish line to a hero's welcome.
This is a benign universe where those who go astray get second chances, and everyone gets lavish praise for being just who they are, whoever they are.
If that's not grace I don't know what is.
In fact, in the flyball universe, the divisions are not determined by the size of the dog but by its speed.
Hence Retrievers and Rat Terriers can be team mates and the height of the hurdles will be set for the smallest dog.
It's the universe we all wish we lived in, where what we have in common would so far outweigh our extraordinary differences we could all play on the same team.
When the races are run and the dust has settled, Mutts in Motion's first tournament is declared a success.
At the end of the tournament there is an awards ceremony with plenty of categories to ensure that no team goes home empty handed.
A pot luck supper follows, and no one goes home hungry either.
Two teams race on parallel tracks through an electronic gate, over four hurdles to a Flyball Box, from whence they must retrieve a ball and return lickety split...
without missing a jump and without dropping the ball.
On paper I suspect it sounds rather pedestrian.
But did I mention the timer? The whole round trip might take...
say, four or five seconds per dog.
Last weekend I spent two rollicking days at the Fresno Fairgrounds with a local flyball club called Mutts in Motion who are hosting their first tournament.
The action is already at full throttle by 8:30am.
Amid the bedlam, teams with names like Mad Dogs, Leap of Faith and Gold Coast Flyers are going neck and neck over the jumps.
More than 100 dogs have come to compete and I realize I should have brought earplugs.
Flydogs do have the most magnificent vocabulary of woofs and howls and yowls, but then, so do their owners.
At the starting lineup, the dogs bark insults at the team across the way, rowdy as all get out, and straining to be off.
I am watching Touch N Go, the team from Las Vegas who are currently the world record holders.
Their dogs are sleek and sinewy...
staffy-borders someone says, a serendipitous combining of Staffordshire Terriers and Border Collies.
They are specially bred for flyball, and they redefine fast.
To watch the champions, it must be said, is as exciting as flyball ever gets.
All dogs run for the joy of speed, the stretch, the physical delight of wind in their ears.
But these dogs race.
There's a difference.
The body sinks low, ears flatten, and the whole dog becomes an aerodynamic muscle, undulating over the jumps at heart stopping pace.
The precision of a really good flyball team is impressive to say the least.
The first dog's return starts the time for dog two.
The art in the sport is in knowing when to release the next dog so that the incoming dog has passed the sensor, a nose hair before the outgoing dog bolts through.
On Sunday morning Touch N Go come within a fraction of a second of breaking their own record and the place goes wild.
They miss it by a whisker.
Breaking records is nice, but winning, as some wise person once said, isn't all.
The roster of the Mutts in Motion flyball club is as varied and diverse as the Ben & Jerry's section of your grocer's freezer.
From mystery mutts, to Jack Russells, to cattle dogs and herding dogs, their lineup includes a Dalmatian, a Portuguese Podengo, a Pomeranian and, surprisingly, a couple of Bouviers des Flandres.
If the dogs themselves are a motley crew, their owners are motlier.
The youngest handler is Victoria Neufeld, age 16, running Roxy, an Australian Shepherd so pretty she looks like a beauty queen.
On the other end of the spectrum are a couple of senior citizens with such an astounding amount of energy one might be forgiven for pronouncing flyball the secret of eternal youth.
The oldest dog on the team is Lizzy, an 11 year old Staff Bull Terrier, owned and loved by Loren Fleming.
Lizzy and Loren may not be speed demons but they exemplify what Mutts in Motion is all about.
These are predominantly rescue dogs.
In previous lives they have been unwelcome and unwanted, abandoned, cut loose, dropped off, left behind.
Nancy Chauncey's Toby was a drug store giveaway.
Lavada Montgomery who is one of the original founders of the club, currently has five four-legged family members including Jack who came from a rescue group, Riddle who was left as a four month old pup when his owners moved, and Chammy, for whom Lavada is the fifth and absolutely, positively last port of call.
The members of Mutts in Motion know first hand the healing power of a sport that can channel one's natural exuberance.
Both dog and handler must become highly trained, responsive, cooperative members of the team.
And that doesn't happen overnight.
Everyone commits to the training, everyone shows up and does their best, everyone belongs.
The dogs haven't just found a home, they have found a life, and that life has purpose.
A singles run brings a little Pomeranian to run against a young Boston Terrier.
Both are still learning, easily distracted by barking dogs on the sidelines and red flags which flutter up to indicate a fault.
They lose their way.
The handlers yell and wave, stand on their heads if it will bring them back on track.
After a comical minute or two the dogs finally complete the run, each crossing the finish line to a hero's welcome.
This is a benign universe where those who go astray get second chances, and everyone gets lavish praise for being just who they are, whoever they are.
If that's not grace I don't know what is.
In fact, in the flyball universe, the divisions are not determined by the size of the dog but by its speed.
Hence Retrievers and Rat Terriers can be team mates and the height of the hurdles will be set for the smallest dog.
It's the universe we all wish we lived in, where what we have in common would so far outweigh our extraordinary differences we could all play on the same team.
When the races are run and the dust has settled, Mutts in Motion's first tournament is declared a success.
At the end of the tournament there is an awards ceremony with plenty of categories to ensure that no team goes home empty handed.
A pot luck supper follows, and no one goes home hungry either.
Source...