The sun pokes its head through the dew-drenched cabin windows at Camp Kirk, a grassy children's retreat ringed by towering maple trees and patches of poison ivy 150 kilometres north of Toronto. Outside, a miniature schnauzer is yipping like a demented yahoo as campers bang in and out of the bathroom next door. The Australian shepherd caged on the other side of the room growls menacingly. Across the road, someone clangs a bell to announce that breakfast is ready when Fritz, my beloved 16-month-old pug, pounds on top of me and frantically starts scratching my armpit. It's 8 a.m. on a shivery Saturday morning in September. Groaning, I pull the sleeping bag over my head and silently curse the day I decided dog camp would make a fun weekend away for me and my pooch.
Dog owners are a strange breed. Best in Show,a new Christopher Guest "mockumentary" opening in theatres today, portrays us as an obsessive society of eccentrics who compose little ditties about our furry friends and drag them to psychotherapists. Take a stroll through your local dog park and you'll realize that this bizarre world is no exaggeration. And I am no exception.
Fritz, you see, doesn't actually live with me anymore. He belongs to my ex, who was kind enough to allow informal visitation rights after our human relationship fell apart. I've recently acquired a cat, however. And she's a bit of a princess. So to keep the peace at home and avoid the ugly consequences of cross-species rivalry, I've taken to travelling with Fritz on our weekends together. Yes, I know. I really do have to let go.
In the meantime, I console myself in the knowledge that vacationing with your pet is an increasingly popular concept. For the growing ranks of devoted dog owners who can't leave home without Fido, the CAA now publishes Traveling With Your Pet, a guide that lists more than 10,000 pet-friendly lodgings across North America. Eileen Barish has written a similar series of directories that cover specific U.S. regions, with titles such as Doin' California and Doin' New York. Type "pet travel" into your favourite Internet search engine and you'll come up with hundreds of relevant Web sites. Or try subscribing to the Florida-based newsletter, Dog Gone, which delivers in-depth reviews of hotels, inns and resorts that offer luxury pet pampering amenenites. At Las Ventanas al Paraiso in Los Cabos, Mexico, for instance, dogs enjoy in-room massages, room service and the use of a poolside pet cabana.
Camp Dogwould (thus named because "Your dog would love it") is not a doggy daycare. It's a regular camp in the great outdoors for you, your best friend and 79 like-minded oddballs. Founded six years ago, the annual hound-dog hideaway will set you back $275, a modest fee considering that it includes shared accommodation, home-cooked meals and two full days of intensive training. The fees are kept low in order to attract "regular" dog people like me. But it doesn't take long to figure out that my detachment issues don't quite measure up on the Camp Dogwould scale of dependency. THE CHECK-IN We pull up to the campground check-in on Friday afternoon, our vehicle piled high with flea spray, plastic baggies, kibble, treats, dog dishes, extra towels, an assortment of collars and leashes, rain gear, sleeping bags, pillows, Fritz's favourite stuffed gorilla that shrieks "Eeee-eeee-eeee-eeee" when squeezed and a big bottle of Scotch stashed in the bottom of our suitcase. In less than five minutes -- the time it takes Fritz to wiggle out of his doggy seat belt, escape from the car and eagerly snort his way into the nether regions of a startled golden setter -- I am completely transported back to the nightmarish memories of my tweens; those long weeks of exile at summer camp and their brutal lessons about heirarchy and power inequities.
There is a distinct difference, though. While 12-year-olds tend to judge one's worth by the goodies sent in a care package from Mom, here at dog camp, it all comes down to breeding.
"He's just a really friendly dog," I appeal to the owner of the setter, who is now frantically tugging her pooch away. "Oh, so is mine," she replies with a weak smile and a condescending huff. "But they're much different dogs." INITIATION The Camp Dogwould experience begins with, yikes, a test. With much trepidation, I walk him over to the Canine Good Citizen testing area.
It doesn't take long for my fellow campmates to recognize that we're not one of them. "So, how did you hear about Camp Dogwould?" one camper asks suspiciously as we stumble through the Walk In a Crowd portion of the test.
"Never had any obedience training before, huh?" another observes as I wait around the corner during the Supervised Separation, praying that Fritz won't bounce after me (a feeling which quickly turns into anxiety when I consider that maybe it's been too long between visits).
"I thought about getting a pug," the owner of a frisky Boston terrier tells me. "But I really wanted a dog that could do agility. Pugs are cute, but their legs are too short." THE CABIN MATES There are five of us in the A-frame cedar cabin. And even though the child-size beds are only about 60 centimetres wide, we're soon crowded out by the dog crates.
I unfortunately barge in on Linda Barton, the friendly owner of an merle Australian shepherd named Spice, in a moment of sorrow. "I trained the herding instincts right out of him," she laments. Spice failed his test. I try to offer my condolences without gloating over the fact that Fritz miraculously passed his.
Spice and Fritz get on quite well. Fritz doesn't even mind when Spice steals his gorilla (though Barton almost has a heart attack when the toy begins squawking). This is Barton's first year at camp. I figure that our shared outsider status might make us fast friends. Then I realize Camp Dogwoulders -- even first timers -- always travel in packs. Barton's friend from Kitchener (who also has an Australian Shepherd) will arrive in the morning. Sigh. MESS HALL Fritz cries like a banshee when I tie him to the bed and leave him behind in the cabin. Dogs aren't allowed in the dining hall. There are no seats at Barton's table so I sit down with a bunch of strangers and nod with feigned interest as the conversation trots along from the cost of kennels to the merits of choke collars.
After the chicken Kiev and carrot cake, an animal chiropractor regales us with stories of her barnyard clients, repeatedly stressing the life-and-death urgency of not getting flustered while bent over the bottom of a flatulent horse.
Then it's time for the meet-and-greet and a special surprise. "It had better not be games," a woman at the next table grumbles. "I don't do games." I think I may have found myself a kindred spirit.
The surprise turns out to be wine and cheese. Or is it the announcement of a second Camp Dogwould in Ottawa next year? Hmm. Guess it depends on one's priorities. I meet Elena West over a platter of smoked gouda crudités. She's only 13, the youngest camper here, and thus refraining from the wine.
West has never been to camp with kids her own age. Doesn't she feel she's missing out on something? "Nah," she says, shrugging cooly. "I'm pretty into dogs."
I realize that we've been separated from our significant others for three hours now. So much for quality time. LIGHTS OUT I'm extremely grateful when my cabin mates agree that cooping Fritz up in his pen really won't work. "He's an only child, isn't he?" Gail Giles observes, when Fritz finally stops barking and snuggles into the crook of my neck. How did she know? "Goodnight Paisley," she trills after the lights go out. "Goodnight Shady Lane. Goodnight Spice. Goodnight Fritz."
Woof.
3 a.m.: Barton gets up, fumbles for her flashlight and tip-toes to the door. Fritz barks. I scream. Giles and Welbourn bolt up in their bed. Fritz keeps them awake all night with his snoring. I don't think we're very popular anymore. THE GAMES BEGIN "Okay, ladies. Clutch your hearts. This class is going to be entirely off leash." A collective gasp rises up from the field. I smile down at Fritz. Hey, buddy. We might excel at something after all.
Steve Smith, one of our fun-gility instructors, wants to break some of the owners out of the habits they've acquired in "that stodgy, uptight" obedience training.
Fritz, good Lord, is a natural. Though it certainly helps that my little rotund bottom-feeder is being trained with food. For the love of liver treats, he's the first one through the plastic tunnel. Toss a bacon strip through a tire hoop, I soon discover, and the snout will follow. HOOKY After the third training session of the day, I've decided that Fritz and I are having too much fun. We skip our last class and head over to the beaver-bogged pond to watch the working certificate group retrieve dead ducks out of the smelly muck. A stout, stern-faced drill segeant in dark aviator glasses and pink lipstick hollers: "Who's going to be my next victim?" Dawn Nickle's black lab paddles out to the bull rushes and just keeps on going. "You're so goddamn close," his owner screams. "Just pick it up. Don't step on it bonehead. Bring it in." As Jesse nears the shore, limp carcass in mouth, Nickle kicks up her heels (which takes some exertion) and bounces up and down. "Yes, yes, yeah . . . . I can see why people use shock collars," she later mutters. "I really can."
CORN ROAST The road is lit with candles and the corn is boiling. Everyone has gathered their lawn chairs around the campfire, but the only creatures singing are the crickets. My cabinmate Lori Welbourn has lost her "happy agility voice" after a day of shouting. She valiantly tries to rouse the troops, nevertheless, with a croaking rendition of How Much Is That Doggy In the Window. Nobody knows the words. On Top Of Spaghetti, He's Got the Whole World and Do the Hokey Pokey are all equally uninspired.
One of the organizers turns to his wife and whispers. "I don't think they've ever been to camp before."
Time to break out the scotch. SUNDAY AFTERNOON Just because we're camping doesn't mean the dogs need to suffer. After a full 45 minutes in the heat, George Moad's Kerry blue terrier is cooling down in the back seat of his red air-conditioned Cadillac.
Having fun?
"Why sure," Moad drawls, streching out in his fold-out lounger with foot rest. Moad's other terrier is sprawled out in a doggy-sized tent. They've just eaten their home-cooked lunch -- a Tupperware container of grilled lean hamburger, washed down with 26 different herbal nutraceuticals. The dogs are seasoned travellers who receive blood work twice a year from a holistic vet in Vermont.
"We're a little extreme, we know."
Do their friends in Toronto share their canine passion?
"What friends?" he shoots back blithely. "We have the dogs." VICTORY As Fritz waddles out onto the course for his run through the fun match, I pride myself in knowing that winning really doesn't mean anything to me. I'm not like them.
Then something happens. Fritz aces the course and earns himself a nearly perfect score -- 49/50. He's a champion!
But wait. There are two other nearly perfect scores. It's a three-way tie for first place and I can feel the pressure mounting.
Second time round Fritz falls off the teeter-totter. Oh, no. Keep going. He hesitates at the shoot -- and then backs right out. "Fritz!" I scold. "What happened? Why did you do that?"
He looks up at me with those big brown eyes and leaps up for a kiss -- or maybe a treat.
Flushed with shame, I scoop him up and feed him all the apple-oatmeal biscuits he wants. We still win second place.
Then Bosco arrives. The meddlesome chocolate lab bounds over the lawn chairs, knocks over the water dish and roots through everybody's bags. His owner, who can barely hold him down, tells me to keep Fritz away. Fame, I fear, has gone to my doggy's head. He fearlessly bounces over to Bosco once again.
"Bosco really doesn't like little dogs sniffing his bum," the petulant owner intones. "Will you keep him away?"
Enough. "This is the unleashed area," I frostily explain. "Fritz can do whatever he wants. And if you don't like it, I suggest you leave."
She stomps off in a snit. Good.
My classmates beam at me admiringly.
"Good response."
"We were seething."
"You're our hero."
Should have known. The one sure way to win the hearts of hard-core dog enthusiasts: Just be a bitch. Camp Dogwould will be held in Ottawa next June. A second camp may be offered near Toronto. For information, contact Judy Sauvé at (613) 632-6502, e-mail .
The organizers from this year's Kirkfield camp have decided to break away and relaunch next year under a new name. For information on the Kawartha Canine Camp, contact Esther McGee at (705) 693-4900 ( ) or Carol McEwan at (705) 324-7460
Alexandra Gill