Before every dog agility event, the human handlers walk the course as a group – without the dogs – wandering slowly round the ring with one hand or the other outstretched. It’s an eerie thing to watch, like a crowd of bleary eyed tourists wearily progressing through an airport.
But it’s important: the dogs don’t get to try the course beforehand, so their handlers have to formulate a strategy to guide their pets from jump to tunnel to seesaw in the correct order.
There’s a late-March chill in the air inside the Easton College Equestrian Centre near Norwich, but events are already well under way, across three separate rings, by 9am. First-place finishers occasionally approach the organiser, Melanie Wright, to claim their prizes.
“Wine glass, tumbler or voucher?” she asks. Some competitors have won so many prizes over the years that they’ve got no room for another tumbler. The vouchers – for agility training – are a popular option.
Dog agility was first introduced at Crufts in 1978, as a demonstration to fill a gap in the schedule. There are now 5,500 registered handlers and 9,000 dogs competing in Kennel Club events, including this one, the Agility Ability open show, where 260 dogs are signed up to take part.
There are two types of course: jumping (jumps, tunnels and closely planted weaving poles) and agility (which adds “contact” obstacles including seesaws and high walkways). For the top grades – six and seven – the judges set more confounding courses: dogs must circle round jumps to take them from the other side, or double back towards a previous obstacle when a tunnel is right in front of them. Take the wrong route, and you’re eliminated.
This show is open to all skill levels – there are beginners as well as champions. Dogs are sorted by size and grade. No pedigree is required – crossbreeds are welcome – but border collies dominate the sport. Most of the handlers are over 40, although the age range is considerable. Pam Mayhew and her dog Danica will be competing in Portugal in July as part of the Kennel Club’s Senior Open Agility Team GB (66 and over). Danica is a stabyhoun, a rare Dutch breed whose name roughly translates as “stand by me dog”.
“They’re sort of national dogs,” says Pam. “There are statues of these up in Friesland [in the north of the Netherlands].”
Demi Wright – Melanie’s 18-year-old daughter – is also going to Portugal this summer, for her first international competition as an adult.
“I went to Belgium last year to compete in the junior world championships, and she had two silvers,” Demi says, nodding toward Shelby, a border-papillon cross who is, essentially, a tiny collie with enormous ears. Demi has been doing agility training since she was three.
Agility handlers are mostly women. On today’s showing, I would guess the proportion at 80% or higher, but it’s hard to be sure, since many of the men in attendance are what Melanie calls “agility husbands” – just there to hold a lead, fetch a toy or drive home.
I find Laurence Blake in the queue for ring two, feeding his dog Indie a tube of Primula – the squeezy cheese is meant to calm him down. “Otherwise, he’s a little bit crazy at the start line,” he says. Indie – a 20-month-old working golden retriever – is new to agility; this is only his second show. But Laurence has been doing it for 15 years. “I got a dog that was very quick, very motivated, and I just fell into it,” he says. He has no idea why more men don’t go in for agility training, but he says the age range is definitely widening. “There are a lot of young handlers coming along, and that’s improved the sport, it’s got a lot quicker.” Laurence and Indie step into the ring and are promptly eliminated; Laurence’s disappointment is palpable.
Hayley Gilbert, 27, has been competing in agility shows since she was seven, but today she’s the judge for ring three. She arrived at 7am to set up the first course of a dozen, with about 20 dogs on average running in each. Judges, I am told, have reputations – some handlers won’t compete if they hear a particular judge is setting the course.
“That’s very true,” says Hayley, “although I’m fortunate in that a lot of people will come to me and say: ‘Oh, I came today because you’re judging.’ That’s really nice.”
During a run, the judge stands at a vantage point and signs – an open hand for a fault, a closed hand for a refusal, crossed arms for elimination – to a “scrime” (the positions of scribe and timer, amalgamated) who records everything. Elimination-worthy offences can include, well, elimination. “I’ve had two dogs this morning that have pooed in the ring,” says Hayley.
Tunnels shudder as the animals fly through them. Dogs of every size barrel up the seesaw and then pause on the descending end (the dog must still be in contact with the seesaw when it hits the ground); they slalom through the weaving poles with astonishing skill.
Watching dog after dog bound through the course, clearly having the time of their lives, I am reminded of a line from the philosopher Mark Rowlands’ book The Happiness of Dogs: “Meaning in life exists wherever happiness erupts from nature,” he wrote. “If you want to know the meaning of life, get a dog.” These animals are wholly absorbed in the joyous, headlong pursuit of lolloping around the course. I feel guilty that I don’t do this with my own dog.
No commensurate agility is required from the handlers. “This lady here, she’s on a knee replacement,” says Melanie Wright, directing my attention to ring three. All you really need to do is issue clear instructions. And, anyway, the dogs all seem to know what they’re doing. How hard can it be?
To demonstrate, Melanie lets me have a go during the lunch break with her own dog, a blue-eyed border collie called Beat (competition name: Magilitas the Beat Goes on). Beat has an all-consuming enthusiasm for the agility course, which can sometimes make him erratic (“He’s an idiot,” is how Melanie puts it).
Melanie and I walk the course in ring two – each obstacle is numbered on the side you must approach it from; some are numbered more than once. There are commands, specific to each dog, for every obstacle. Some are easy – the tunnel, for Beat, is “through” – but I get confused over the commands for wrapping left or right round the jumps, and where to put my hands.
I take Beat into the ring. Almost as soon as I let go of him, he’s over the first jump. At my direction, he wraps left round jump two and takes it backwards. “Through!” I shout, and he hits the tunnel at speed.
After that, things fall apart quickly. Thanks to my poor signalling, Beat vaults a jump the wrong way and must be led back to take it again. Then I get confused – I can’t remember where obstacle 10 is. At the lowest point, I lose the dog altogether, spinning 360 degrees in search of him while he negotiates the far end of the course on his own. If there were a judge in the ring, I would have been disqualified before the halfway mark.
Beat doesn’t fare much better during the real thing – he actually is sort of an idiot – but Demi and Shelby score an impressive win in the small agility combined grades six and seven, with no faults and a time of 36.182 seconds. I never found out whether she chose the wine glass or tumbler.
