At first I think it’s the heavy humidity making me feel nauseated.  It hangs in the stagnant air, mixing with the thick smell of cut grass.  Each short nervous breath I take makes me feel worse. It's only 9 a.m. and the August sun is barely above the eucalyptus trees at the edge of the field but I’m already sweating.

I look down at Mia pressed against my leg. Sweet Mia.  For a golden retriever, she’s small – just fifty-two pounds. Today, waiting our turn in this novice agility ring, she looks even tinier. She's not nearly as anxious as I am on our very first run of our very first agility trial.

The border collie in front of us and his handler are given the “Go” signal from the mechanical, recorded voice. The dog shoots off with the joy and enthusiasm of a herding dog– clearing the first red jump in a horizontal blur of black and white fur.

Scanning the course of twelve colorful obstacles, I try to repeat the sequence in my head: red jump, A-frame, yellow jump, green tunnel, weave poles… My mind locks up. Shaking my head to clear it, I search the crowd for the reassuring face of my husband.

That only serves to remind me that hundreds of people are watching us make our debut run on the dog agility course. Shade canopies crowd the novice ring like a linear gypsy village. Dogs lie panting in metal pens, their handlers chatting and watching the ring. My stomach is NOT doing well.  Near the intermediate ring I can see a dark green building: RESTROOMS.  But it's too late now. Mia and I are up next.

As the border collie in front of us clears obstacle number six, the course volunteer gestures me to the start line.  The START LINE. No turning back. I warily eye the silver timer-poles positioned in front of Mia as though they're going to zap her.

The crowd woo-hoos and claps for the border collie’s completed clean run, as the dog leaps into the arms of its happy handler and departs the ring.

Kneeling beside Mia to remove her leash, I notice the long, silky hairs on her chest are blowing slightly  in a tiny breeze—a cool breath of a breeze coming off the lagoon at the far end of the park. Mia senses it too and her wet black nostrils flare.

“Well Mia, this is it,” I tell her quietly. “Remember, this is for fun.” That last part is more to remind me, since all she hears is: "Whaa whaa whaa Mia,  whaa whaa."

“GO,” the recorded voice orders, without compassion. 

Everyone is waiting, watching. My husband.  My instructor.  My classmates. The crowd of strangers. The judge stands in the middle of the ring waiting– his face stern.

My heart pounds in my throat as I walk into the ring and turn back to look at Mia. My sweet, dear girl is sitting calmly behind the start poles--just as she's been taught. She's panting in the sun but her grinning face and dark brown eyes are focused on me. Neither the crowd nor the heat seems to bother her. I give her the start command: “Break!”

And she’s off!  We’re running together—she’s over the red jump and turned toward the

A-frame, following the direction of my out-stretched hand.  A definite breeze has picked up, and we’re running cool and fast.  This isn’t so scary, I realize.

Suddenly, Mia is off course, headed for the wrong obstacle.  Then she misses that one and is making a bee-line for the edge of the ring. I hear the judge’s whistle and know that we’ve been DQ’ed.  Disqualification on our debut run is the least of my worries. Mia has now left the ring and is loping across the park.  Picnickers lean toward each other to avoid the charging dog on a mission.

To the edge of the lagoon she flies, and with a running leap, sails out into a flock of startled ducks who squawk and stumble into flight.

My golden is wet, cool and happy.  I’m laughing so hard my stomach hurts again, but this time I don't care as I wade out to join my wonderful dog.

Remember, this is for fun, she reminds me.