Little did authorities know that a small clique of New Yorkers with ideals of their own were preparing to step outside the circle and exploit a loophole. Worlds turned on minor details, and one can only imagine the bitter controversy ignited by a few wealthy women who violated an unwritten code and began a rebellion. Bat ears were being worn in some of the most prominent mansions along Fifth Avenue, and imposing matrons with names like Cooper-Hewitt, Neilson, Haddon, Ronalds, Watrous, and Kernochan happened to have dogs that wore them. These influential figures wanted their pets to win at Westminster, and they were firmly committed to social change. This was surprising behavior. It wasn’t like Americans to go against foreign tastes when it came to dogs, or anything else. The English had created most of the breeds that brought cachet upon their owners. Dog shows and official standards were also importations that civilized folk had learned to respect and revere as models of propriety. In a rare event for the fledgling fancy, the typically insecure, unquestioning, tail-between-the-legs attitude of newly monied Americans toward British role models was turning into something like national character. These women had the impudence to challenge the opinion of no less than an English show ring judge who had declared their dogs’ ears to be unorthodox. The venerable judge George Raper must have been taken off guard. English authorities, like the dogs they were paid to visually dissect, were often shipped over and treated like royalty. High-born British dog owners were wasting no less time themselves rushing to American shows, where hefty prizes awaited. Their presence lent an air of class to these events, which, admittedly, they’d invented in the first place. Now a group of ambitious wives-of-so-and-so were suddenly taking it upon themselves to go against their better judgment, to question an English judge’s authority and throw the final verdict back in his face. In the opinion of these contrarians, the only acceptable ear should bring to mind a winged nocturnal bloodsucker, not a fading flower.
Bitter infighting was not uncommon, as the pedigree dog cult struggled to define itself in the final hours of the Gilded Age. Breed clubs fought with kennel clubs and with each other, and just about everyone locked horns at one time or another with judges in the ring. Disgruntled players left in a huff and pulled their dogs out of events in shows of disdain. Until the American Kennel Club incorporated in 1909 and then consolidated its authority in 1929 by assuming control over all breed standards, competitions were more spirited than they are today. Dogdom wasn’t centralized, and it was still possible to break with the powers that were, then return a few years later once everyone had cooled off. The events of 1897 were extreme. When the prize was awarded to a rose-eared Frenchie at Madison Square Garden, the tightly corseted gang of sharp-toothed biddies snapped their Chinese fans shut like dragon jaws and arose from their plush velvet seats. They threw luxuriant animal skins on their backs and stormed out of the exhibition hall, the plumage on their headdresses bristling with rage. Followed sheepishly by mogul husbands who’d come along for the ride and probably preferred a more sporting breed, they set about the difficult task of promoting their version of the Frenchie, the one born with the mutation they planned to perpetuate. A meeting was held later that day in the same hall. Angry voices demanded not only that any animal with rose ears be disqualified from all future competitions, but that the judge’s decision be reversed and the silver cup returned. The howls were not heeded, so these women had their husbands create a club for them—that was how it was done in those days—and using their combined weight, they got in on the ground floor of the breed.
The French Bull Dog Club of America was formed one evening at Delmonico’s restaurant, and a standard was hastily published in the New York Times, as if there had been no real news on April 7, 1897. “The ear shall hereafter be known as the ‘bat’ ear,” read the ruling in defiance of international opinion, bringing fierce attacks from the foreign press, which was no less attuned to trivia, and inviting jabs from British loyalists at home.11 How dare those upstart Americans take a dog that wasn’t even their idea and butcher it beyond recognition? This was seen as a wanton act of barbarism, an affront to tradition, and perhaps an early warning that cultural dominance was beginning to flow in a new direction. The Yanks had pirated a status symbol. Then they had the audacity to hold an opulent victory bash at the Waldorf Astoria where only dogs with the wrong ears were displayed! Against a backdrop of marble columns, palm trees, and chandeliers that rivaled any European palace, New York aristocracy and its version of the perfect pet had emerged as a force with which to reckon. Pictured in an engraving in the New York Herald were rows of caged Frenchies wearing bat ears without shame.12 They had fur collars and frilly names like Richelieu, Gamin, Babot, Ninette, Petite Fée, and Ange Pitou. The New York Times coverage of the event explained the central importance of the ears: “In order that the public may have a perfect idea of this distinctive quality special attention is called to the reproduction of the head of Schutto, to whom was awarded a magnificent cup as special prize for ‘dog or bitch having the best ears, both in point of shape and carriage,’ and he possesses this attribute in a most remarkable degree.”13
As the new ear slowly gained social acceptance, resentment lingered. The usual donations for trophies were withheld when contests featured unsympathetic judges, and there were petty squabbles over details and tiffs about wording. Watson recalled in 1906 that “after a great deal of trouble the supporters of the bat-eared dog have received recognition and a classification has been made for the Boule-Dogue Français. This we think is a better title for the dog than that what we know it by, the propriety of translating it into English and thus making a bulldog of it being questionable.”14 Such were the preoccupations of society’s elite of which kennel clubs like the AKC were very much a creation. Style was everything in the Land of Fancy, and the experts were determined to get this canine calibrated. Rules were set and every feature covered, from the length of its tail to the tip of its nose. The bat ear became the universal standard and the breed’s most distinguishing characteristic. Rose ears like Winnie’s became instant grounds for disqualification. The new, Americanized Frenchies went on to attract idle matrons of the charity circuit with majestic names like Whitney, Belmont, Roosevelt, Vanderbilt, and Bennett, “for if there is anything the feminine heart dearly loves it is the one thing which no one else has, or, at best, that which but very few have,” the Times explained. “Their grotesque appearance makes them also very striking either at walk or in the reception room.”15 As a result of the frivolous example set by a clique of socialites, these strange, half-crippled critters with monstrous skulls and bulging eyes were soon considered perfectly normal. For better or worse, peace was restored to dogdom. Never again would the war of the rose and bat ears rear its ugly head.
“We all love Winnie just the same,” said her mom, praising her pooch’s unique personality and many good qualities despite some terrible flaw. Substandard ears were the cross this dog’s owners would have to bear with heads held high. Winnie’s own head was a heavier burden still, not because it broke any of the rules, but because it fit the breed standard too well for her own wellness. Her breed club had decided on a proper cranium size back in the 1890s, leaving dogs like Winnie with special needs. This dog was so top-heavy that if her walker didn’t hold the leash securely and guide her down the stairs, she’d go tumbling and could be seriously injured. No more aerodynamic was the precariously planar design of a Frenchie’s face, doomed to further leveling over the years as judges interpreted a standard to further extremes, as it is their tendency to do. Freakish flatness became such an unhealthy preoccupation that fanciers forgot another “essential” called breathing. To this day, Frenchies, bulldogs, pugs, griffons, and many other dish-faced breeds have mouths so shallow that they can’t cool themselves and have frequent heart attacks. Soft palate reduction is a surgery commonly performed on dogs with the misfortune of being born too perfect. Joint disease is another problem for Frenchies, thanks to the odd posture prescribed in their standard, and chronic e
ye infections due to those excess skin folds on the face. The whole mess of a cut-and-pasted cannibalized head is connected to an esophagus so malformed that frequent vomiting leads to pneumonia and death. Many “correct” specimens need spinal surgery due to the unnaturally arched back that’s also a must. More incisions are on the horizon if dogs like Winnie are to survive as a breed. As with English bulls and many similar types with those skinny hips and hulky heads, Cesarean birth is the only way out. The French Bull Dog Club of America was founded, first and foremost, for a suitable ear style and was “the first organization in the world formed to promote the interests of French bulldogs.”16 But whose interests, exactly, were being promoted?
Breed standards are really no more than this: old recipes for the perfect dog that have little or nothing to do with health or sound construction, and everything to do with personal whim and a competitive spirit. How these curious criteria came about is a familiar story for many breeds. People in need of a hobby decided they liked a particular shape, size, and color of canine, something new and different from other dogs, something that would get them noticed and win them prizes. They formed their own breed club to promote themselves and their dogs, sometimes even before they had an exact breed whose interests they could further. Mixing and matching by trial and error—and sacrificing many puppies for not making the grade—they found a look to tickle their collective fancy. Generating animals that could be relied upon to breed “true,” that is, with the limited set of arbitrary features they wanted to exaggerate—and allowing many unhealthy side effects to hitch a ride in the process—they mass-produced their genetically compromised ideal of perfection for consumers to buy. Sponsors waved their magic wand and voilà! A breed was born.
There’s no mystery to any of this, nor should there be. Each time fans spot a particular breed on the street, rather than praise a thing of beauty, they might think back on the untold numbers destroyed to get this type. They might also consider the many mortalities to come when pups aren’t born with idealized features, not to mention the price these dogs often pay in poor health if they’re “correct.” Once a dog of a pleasing aspect has been “stabilized,” sponsors have their list of specifications enshrined among the other sacred texts guarded by an organization like the AKC or England’s Kennel Club. Show ring judges, whose opinions are no less erratic than the breed’s creators, refer to these documents when explaining random responses and justifying personal tastes in prestigious canine beauty pageants. Judges are the interpreters of the standards, the high priests of the fancy who ultimately decide which dogs approach their unseen ideals, which ones don’t, and how each breed needs to be “improved” in the future, a self-sustaining process ensuring puppy sales will go on forever.
As the French bulldog’s path to perfection illustrates, and contrary to popular knowledge, breed standards weren’t passed down by the ancients from times immemorial. They’re not steeped in tradition but were written very recently, often not more than a century ago.17 Breeds as we know them are also new inventions, because you can’t have a breed without a standard. Nor can you put on a dog show without both. Contrary to the huge backlog of misinformation passed down in history books and the sales pitches of commercial breeders, breed clubs, and registries, we now know from DNA that the vast majority of recognized breeds have only been walking sidewalks and show rings for a short while.18 The sad truth is that scientific findings weren’t really needed as proof. All anyone had to do was go back and look at the dates on breed standards to cast doubt on the fancy’s claims to tradition. All it ever took was the daring to see beyond social and psychological barriers that made myth look like fact. The main appeal behind breeds has been the reassuring thought of delving into the distant past and digging up some authentic artifact. By safeguarding a relic, people feel they’re part of something greater than themselves, as though they’re preserving some rare species from extinction, rather than a simple commodity from failure. Judges are respected for upholding strange habits and protecting prototypes, and dog owners feel special for helping out by buying only animals resembling the latest champion, which was decided just yesterday.
In fact, the closest this whole process actually comes to anything antique is yet another myth. According to the Greeks, a meticulous fellow named Procrustes, aka “the stretcher,” tied mortal humans to a rectangular iron frame to make them meet his own private standards. Procrustes sawed his victims’ heads and legs until their torsos fit, or pulled them on a rack for falling short of expectations. This detail-oriented perfectionist was bent on improvement and would have gone on improving forever but for Theseus, slayer of the Minotaur, who cut off his head and ended this unhealthy obsession with the equiangular quadrilateral.
A breed standard might be seen as a “Procrustean bed,” the expression used to describe an arbitrary and often archaic model to which a flawless fit is forced in some ruthless fashion. Throwing dogs into a ring and expecting them to conform to half-cocked calculations and color codes, imposing exaggerated styles severe enough to be identified on sight—forcing living, breathing, sentient creatures to fill molds cast for reasons nobody can remember but which everyone just assumes were good—is how pooches are kept “pure.” No one needs to tell Winnie the French bulldog that Procrustean doggy beds aren’t lined with satin or velvet.
Another inelegant fact from a no-frills history of dog breeds: no matter how you slice them, or how many blue ribbons and official papers you pile upon them, they’re all mutts at the end of the day. In their misguided mission to preserve “perfect” types or keep working until they get one, fanciers conveniently forget that their cherished favorites were made by mating various dogs, often mongrels, that happened to have certain features someone wanted to enhance. Brief periods of rapid hybridization are what gave us the confusing catalog selection of types we’ve come to consider natural today. Many breeds were assembled by crossing already existent breeds. Either way, they’re all mixed results because there was no pure dog in the first place. “It is a habit, if we can use the word,” wrote Edward Ash in the 1930s, “for dog breeders to cover up the tracks which would show how a breed is made. Today it is a matter of self-protection. If breeders said that their high prices breed of dog were merely an Alsatian-Sealyham-Spaniel cross, who would give high prices?”19 Purists cringe at the thought that prior to what they deemed purification by closing stud books and restricting gene pools—after an ideal type was produced more or less uniformly—their brands of choice were forged from impure unions. Pet owners who’ve invested in today’s costly new “designer dogs,” official breeds combined into blends like marriages arranged between royal families, are also due for a letdown. The “purebred” parents used to produce these hybrids have ancestors that were themselves the products of crossbreeding. This latest novelty is nothing new, except for the fact that designer dogs might stand a better chance of being healthy, and manufacturers haven’t had the time to make up elaborate stories about previous owners who lived in castles.
An even less romantic, cut-rate version of many a breed’s genesis reads as follows: some city people visiting the country one day spotted a farm dog that looked striking. They bought the nameless mongrel and returned to town where the dog and its progeny underwent the same grueling process as those mutilated Frenchies. Uniformity was the goal, and any dogs surviving the ordeal were designated purebreds by the local kennel club—when all along the founding father’s social background was obscure, at best, and hardly worth writing home about. Breeds are no more than makeovers. At the risk of offending millions who’ve invested so much of their identities in purebred dogs, and spoiling fairy tales about princes and palaces, let it be finally said: Never has there been such a thing as pure blood. No such liquid exists, not in dogs or their owners—not unless, of course, royalty is for real, a belief still popular among those very same English who gave us the breeds, standards, and show rings we know and love today, and among Anglophiles the world over.
Not onl
y is there no such liquid as pure blood, and though today’s dogs are sufficiently inbred to account for vast numbers of health defects, the pedigrees that add to their market value are often worthless, even for purely snobbish purposes. An investigator for the Humane Society, Robert Baker, conducted an experiment in 1980 by successfully registering and receiving official AKC papers for several nonexistent Labrador retriever puppies to show just how easy it would be.20 Likewise, no questions were asked in 2000 when NBC’s Dateline registered eight golden retriever puppies—after mating a deceased male with a spayed female.21 Considering the tens of thousands of puppy-mill dogs whose registration fees represent as much as 40 percent of the AKC’s annual income, the potential numbers of fraudulent pedigrees (for either new dogs or their ancestors, whose origins were no more carefully scrutinized) should be sufficient to shatter any lingering illusions of pure blood and unbroken lineage in dogs.22
Yet pedigree prejudice is as old as history because people believe what they want to believe. John Caius, the unchallenged voice of dogdom for centuries—owing in no small part to his position as personal physician to two queens and a king—had no more use for “curres of the mungrell and rascal sort” than did his highnesses. “Of such dogges as keep not their kinde,” he wrote in 1570, “of such as are mingled out of sundry sortes not imitating the conditions of some one certaine spice, because they resemble no notable shape, nor exercise any worthy property of the true perfect and gentle kind, it is not necessarye that I write any more of them, but to banishe them as unprofitable implements, out of the boundes of my Booke.”23
A Matter of Breeding Page 5