Going for the Blue (5 page)
O
ne of the most difficult points for a would-be dog person to grasp is the fact (and, yes, it is a fact) that dogs have to
really want to show and love to win if they are ever going to do very much of either. In a very real sense, showing off is
the dog’s call. The next time you watch a dog show, take note of how the winners behave, how they stand (when they are “stacked”
by their handlers or self-stacked), and especially how they move. Most standards specify each breed’s ideal movement. Here
are a few examples:
Pointer:
smooth, frictionless, with a powerful hindquarter’s drive
Golden Retriever:
gait is free, smooth, powerful, and well coordinated
Irish Setter:
at the trot the gait is big, very lively, graceful, and efficient
Basset Hound:
moves in a smooth, powerful, and effortless manner
Bloodhound:
elastic, swinging, and free
Borzoi:
front legs must reach well out in front, with pasterns strong and springy
The published standard for each of the breeds goes into far more detail, but these are summary descriptions of what judges
look for with their penetrating stare. The point is that the dog’s skeleton is 50 percent of the margin between victory and
obscurity. If the dog has a weak, malformed, under- or oversize skeleton, it just won’t cut it according to the standards.
You can hide a lot when a dog is standing still in a show pose ordered up by an expert handler, but you can hide very little
once the dog begins to move. Movement in the show ring is one of the most important factors. That’s what that moving to and
fro is all about. The dog is being judged as a combination of movement and conformation. The coat, often the color, the ears
and tail, those are all things to be judged on the outside of the dog. Movement tells you about the inside, the structure
of the dog, and each is at least as important as the other. The judge knows exactly what he is looking for. There is a certain
amount of hands-on activity that keeps the handler from hiding faults by clever stance or an overdone coat. Ultimately the
judge’s eyes and hands will pick up on substandard structure and gait, and that dog will be in trouble. I have seen lots of
dogs take ribbons I didn’t think they deserved for appearance, but I have never seen a klutz get off square one. Show dogs
don’t trip over their own feet. Handlers do, sometimes, and it is terribly embarrassing. The dogs seem confused when this
happens, confused but somehow amused. People at ringside try their best not to giggle.
Then there is the other 50 percent of winning, and that is the dog’s attitude and desire to win, that is, to attract attention
and be praised. The dog has to have fun, he must be enthusiastic, be excited, respond to applause, and be interested in what
is going on or his career will be short and without distinction. The story of our wonderful, sweet Lizzie comes readily to
mind. She was the ultimate princess and—oh, my! Didn’t she know it!
My wife, Jill, had been having great fun showing Bloodhounds. Ch. The Rectory’s Yankee Patriot was our son’s great companion
and show dog, and my wife was squiring the magnificent slobber-chops around to shows while Clay was in school. There is a
lot of standing around and waiting at dog shows, and Jill thought it would be nice to have a second breed to show. Not surprisingly,
we decided to find a really fine Basset—show-quality, of course. They are wonderfully amusing dogs; sweet, too. The Bassets
would typically be in the ring the same days as the Bloodhounds, in a different ring or, more often, at a different time.
Once launched, our search for a Basset was bound to lead us to Carl Redman, one of the best Basset people in the country.
He had a sixteen-month-old bitch he felt was one of the best examples of the breed he had seen in a long time. That was recommendation
enough. Carl had recently become a licensed judge and wouldn’t be showing anymore, so the incomparable Lizzie could be ours.
When we met her I couldn’t believe our luck. Lizzie had the Basset’s characteristically large head, but she was in that perfect
proportion required by her breed’s standards. Her coat was hard and smooth and she was a beautiful tricolor—black and white
and Hound brown—although in judging Bassets the distribution of color and markings is not taken into account. Her ears were
like soft brown velveteen scatter rugs. It seemed that Lizzie offered everything the standard called for: the deep chest,
the domed skull, the gaily waving tail, all of it. She was a classically beautiful animal and we couldn’t wait until she set
the dog world on fire. We were certain that was exactly what she was bound to do. Wait until they saw her out there! We showed
her to a couple of the best handlers around and they both said essentially the same thing: “Wow! A Best in Show Basset. I
have never seen one like her. This is as good as it gets.” Lizzie, although a bit self-centered, was charming with strangers
and so pleasant it is hard now to look back and find accurate words to describe her.
Regrettably, it was impossible for Jill and me to make it to her first show because of a prior engagement. So off Lizzie went
to the show with her handler and his assistants and several other dogs they would be handling that day. It was like taking
the Miss America Pageant on the road. Apparently, although not overly enthusiastic, Lizzie was a lady, until they reached
the show grounds, at least. She curled up in her crate and slept all the way there. But then they arrived!
“What in hell is this?” Lizzie seemed to say as strange dogs held on tight leads by strange people with numbers on their arms
moved past in a veritable parade. It was a Basset specialty, with a huge number of her kind being shown. To gain any kind
of recognition at a specialty show is considered an important happening in a dog’s career. Eventually, when she managed to
get her nerves under control, Lizzie half walked and was half dragged to the ring, where it was expected she would strut her
stuff. Strutting was not exactly what the beauty queen had in mind. She was resentful, disinterested, apparently homesick,
and determined to make her handler, whom she barely knew, work for everything he got. She didn’t show as much as she sought
revenge.
In the ring she went around like a salamander. She hated it, she apparently resented the other dogs and I suspect she gave
at least a passing thought to eating the judge’s arms when he examined her. I don’t think she liked what he did with his hands.
The handler said it was the most embarrassing thing that had ever happened to him at a dog show. He said that if he had been
judging, he would have given her BIS—not Best in Show but Best in Snake. In fact, to his amazement and ours, the judge did
give her a red ribbon, second place in her class. It was an astounding thing, considering her demeanor.
More amazing yet, a few days later we received a letter from the judge thanking us for the honor of judging a bitch of Lizzie’s
quality. He said he had seldom seen a dog like her, but he did point out what fun we would have when Lizzie got to like the
idea she was presently very busy hating. It was a gracious letter and I have never seen its like in the context of a dog show.
We were dubious about this rosy future of which we were being assured, but we were willing to give it our best shot if Lizzie
would, too. She wouldn’t. No way. Not by half!
We couldn’t make it to Lizzie’s second show either. Off the troops went again, but when they got to the show grounds, Lizzie
took one look around, obviously knew what to expect this time, and seemed to say to her handler: “You just don’t get it, do
you? The answer is NO! This whole thing is a stupid idea and I think it is yours. Wait until Jill and Roger hear what you
are up to. Take me home now, big shot, or I’ll show you what one show dog can do to your professional reputation in one afternoon.”
This time there was to be no walking and dragging. The poor handler had to carry her to the ring. On the off chance you haven’t
tried that yourself, carrying an adult Basset across a manicured lawn is like carrying a queen-size, half-filled water bed
and then getting it to stay on a towel rack. There is simply no center of gravity. Lizzie grunted and complained all the way
down to the ring. She acted more like a camel than a dog, from the reports we got. She did everything but spit. She slobbered
instead. The unkind gibing from other handlers and exhibitors did little to raise the handler’s spirits or his confidence.
Lizzie couldn’t have cared less. She was going to have it her way. It was that simple.
There was no letter from a gracious judge this time. Once she got into the ring, Lizzie promptly threw herself onto her back
with all four legs in the air and wiggled her hindside in the grass. A good back scratch was just the thing for a disgruntled
Basset. While ringsiders gleefully whispered and gossiped, Lizzie was dismissed—charged, I guess, with conduct unbecoming…
Lizzie’s show career was over, in two shows. She was so unhappy with the scene and so intent on letting us know it that it
really would have been cruel to force the issue. A showdown would not have served anyone’s purpose. But there was an alternative.
Although she would have no show record to boast of or even admit to, she was still a great beauty with impeccable bloodlines.
She could produce a litter or perhaps even two litters of beautiful, beautiful puppies from the finest male champion we could
find. Puppies such as she would produce would never contribute to the terrible surplus puppy statistics and the ghastly euthanasia
rate in this country. That is very important to us and it is something every dog person must always keep in mind. It is of
paramount importance. In the case of a fine purebred dog, there is very good reason to breed, as it is well known that people
are waiting in line for a puppy. To blame the dog fanciers for the terrible surplus is unfair and wrong. Look to impulse buyers
gazing longingly in a pet-shop window and to the pet shop’s suppliers, the puppy-mill trade.
The time came and we introduced Lizzie to a splendid male Basset who had been doing very nicely in the ring. He really was
an admirable fellow. They were, or at least could have been, a perfect match. He sniffed her and made it clear that he was
for the game. He obviously liked her. In fact he was smitten.
She
made it clear that one more jab with an exploring cold nose and she fully intended to eat his face on the spot. To put it
mildly, she was distinctly disinterested.
“You want me to do what with whom?”
A short time later we had Lizzie spayed. If the issue had been forced and artificial insemination had been done, Lizzie would
probably have been just about as good a mother as she was a show dog. As it was she lived a long, full, loving life on her
terms. No one could have wished for a sweeter companion dog than Lizzie. After she was gathered, went on ahead, her slot was
taken by another Basset, Pearl, who was so malformed with genetic defects that the veterinarian wanted to put her down. She
is making out just fine even though her front legs are more like walrus flippers than dog parts and her tail has a strange
sharp-angled bend in it. We have eleven dogs at the moment, eight of which are rescues. Pearl is one of the eight and will
never have to worry about showing or whelping. One surgical procedure took care of both concerns. (Spayed and neutered dogs
are not shown in conformation competition. Since you are seeking super specimens to further their breeds with superior puppies,
there would hardly be any point.)
Lizzie, in retrospect, was a perfect example of that truth we spoke of. Dogs have to not only like to show but crave it. They
have to really want to show off and earn praise. You can’t force a dog to perform out there in the ring, nor will it play
to the crowd or the judge unless the whole scene pleases it. And it isn’t just the bait the handler uses—most often bits of
liver baked in the oven on a cookie sheet until hard. (Liver is both the beluga caviar and the Godiva truffles of the hydrant
set.) No, it is the liver and the encouraging words and the thumping pats and the people shouting and the chance to interact
with the handler, someone the show dog is certain to come to admire. It is a team effort between a dog and its owner or handler.
It is a happy time, and a very positive experience has been shared.
People with little experience sometimes think of the dog show as a cruel spectator sport, something like rodeos or diving
mules or the Roman arena. Not so, not so at all. Just the opposite is true. Typically, these are dogs that are dearly beloved
as pampered family members; for many owners, perhaps most, the showing part is on the second level of importance. First there
is the dog and then all the things that follow, including showing, but the displaying and even the pride will always be second
on the list for most people. It is the special bond both seek.
Before moving on to other people’s dogs, and as a counterpoint to Lizzie, a few words about Yankee are in order. As indicated
earlier, Ch. The Rectory’s Yankee Patriot was not just a Bloodhound, he was a truly magnificent Bloodhound. I am certain that
had his genes been those of a human being, he would have led nations. He weighed about 120 pounds, he was massive and handsome
and had incredible place-mat-size ears … well, nearly. His disposition left absolutely nothing to be desired. He was wise
and gentle and loving. Is it a little goofy to say a dog is
wise?
Maybe. But although that isn’t what this book is about, Yankee was wise and showed it in many ways.
On one occasion I recall, a beautiful female Bloodhound named Penny (in fact she was Yankee’s daughter) growled a halfhearted
warning when my wife nudged her food dish away from the front of the refrigerator. Yankee was standing in the kitchen doorway.
He came through the arch like a bolt out of a crossbow and slammed into Penny’s side, smashing her against the refrigerator,
actually knocking her out. When Penny came to she moved out of the kitchen gingerly, never to growl at anybody again. Yankee
went over to the corner and plopped down for a nap. He hadn’t made a sound, but he wasn’t going to have dogs growling at his
people, not on his watch. Not even his own daughter! (A concept, by the way, that he couldn’t grasp. Dogs don’t comprehend
such relationships. They don’t need to.)
