Free Black Ribbon by Susan Conant

that happy phrase, I’m not ashamed anymore. I’d still like to float, of course, and I keep checking up to find out whether my valence has changed, but, until it does, I make the best of my negativity, which is to say that I swim almost exclusively underwater.
    Far away, the kind of little outboard favored by fishermen put-putted. Then a Jet Ski whizzed along, drowned it out, and probably scared the fish, too. Or maybe not. In late August, the fish had probably descended to the icy depths, where they could ignore the surface noise and avoid being caught by any method except deep trolling. Deep trolling, I might mention, is perfectly legal but not quite respectable. My father, a Salmosalar snob, regards most lake fishing with the eye of Jacques Pepin contemplating a Fluffernutter. Because of some quirky loophole embedded in the arcane laws that regulate social hierarchies among Maine anglers, however, he makes an exception in the case of salmon and trout fishing in the Rangeley lakes, provided, as should go without saying, that it is fly fishing only, preferably for Salmosebago, landlocked salmon, but also for trout, especially if the angler is accompanied by young children. Nothing could persuade Buck to stoop to bass fishing and he harbors a terrible prejudice against anyone who uses a minnowlike lure in fresh water. The buzz of the Jet Ski faded, and I heard the little put-put motor again. It occurred to me that if Eva Spitteler took up fishing, she’d favor the unspeakable: live bait.
    After my swim, I fought off incipient hypothermia by taking a hot shower and drying my hair. Then, for once, I worried about what to wear. Ordinarily, I rely on the L.L. Bean catalog’s autocratic decrees about what may appropriately be worn when, where, and for what purpose. Unfortunately, I couldn’t recall any specific recommendations for dining at a luxury dog camp. Floundering around on my own, I chose khaki pants (“casual” comfort, one Bean-step up from “at-home”) and a short-sleeved cotton sweater described, I thought, as “versatile.” Neither item, if I remembered correctly, would shame me by having been Bean-relegated to suitability for some ignominious task like cleaning the bam on a cool fall afternoon.
    By the time I was dressed, Rowdy was dancing in circles and bounding up and down, and when I opened the closet where I'd stashed his bowl of moistened kibble, he’d reached a state of salivating frenzy. Ever watched a malamute eat? Magic. Truly, ladies and gentlemen, the jaw is quicker than the eye. Nanoseconds after that dish hit the floor, it was empty. Then I took Rowdy for the kind of brief postprandial outing politely known as “exercise.” After dutifully cleaning up after him and depositing what I guess ought to be called his aerobic benefit in one of the trash cans, I returned to the cabin, checked my watch, and realized that I had ten minutes in which to look over the material in my registration packet. I upended the big manila envelope over the bed. With the exception of the calendar of events at Waggin’ Tail, the contents that tumbled out consisted of a map of the region, brochures advertising local attractions, fliers for restaurants, and other printed matter that Maxine McGuire must have seized in a raid on the Rangeley tourist bureau. The collection bewildered me. Why welcome people who’d just shelled out for Waggin’ Tail by hinting that they spend most of the week and a ton of extra money elsewhere? Missing from the packet were what I'd been told were the usual souvenirs and favors provided by
    Dog Days and the other competing camps: no penknife embossed with the camp name, no gift certificate for the camp store, no Waggin’ Tail ID tag for Rowdy’s collar, not even a bumper sticker.
    With only a few minutes left before dinner, I skimmed the red legal-size sheet that showed the schedule of activities and quickly picked out agility, advanced obedience, and a workshop on flawless heeling for