If only it were true that the larger a social club became, the less antisocial it would be. But aristocracy has been up for grabs in England longer than anyone cares to remember, and it’s just as snooty as it ever was. Heralds, or gatekeepers to distinction, were busy screening applicants at least two centuries before Richard III founded, in British bureaucratic fashion, a central office and badge dispensary in 1484. Since that time, what came to be called Heralds’ College has been deciding who has the right to be called special and who has not. Heraldic shields have been drawn and “pedigrees,” the same term used by England’s royal-backed Kennel Club for canine honors, have been bestowed. The official Stud Book—dogdom’s equivalent to a social register or a Peerage—was closed early on, unknowns were turned away, and the progeny of a spitz and spaniel was not supposed to be called “show quality.”
But humans, unlike hounds confined to closed registries, have always had the chance to “breed up,” provided they have cash in hand, a convincing case, and a nod from someone on the inside. Various degrees of nobility can still be negotiated, though only the highest of these are hereditary. Applicants undergo a rigorous examination before moving up in the world. Family trees are unearthed and roots dissected to make sure a person doesn’t come, as one herald told me, “from just any social background.”6 Those deemed worthy of titles are awarded custom-made armorial bearings suitable for framing.
The composition of shapes and shades is as crucial as the choice of a family pet to people wishing to make the right impression. The coat of arms is a blank slate where self-image is inscribed and where it will remain for generations. A sort of hand-painted billboard, or a thumbnail on the Internet, it incorporates any number of symbols or icons from the real world and fantasy. Animals and insects invested with meaning, significant trees and shrubbery, mythical lion beasts of the land and sea, weapons, winged dragons, crescent horns, ermine coats, and unicorns—heraldry draws from many sources. Artists have tried over the centuries to accommodate the newly noble by squeezing in whatever corresponding attributes are checked off on their wish lists. Bravery, wisdom, fidelity, generosity, patience, fortitude, constancy, artistic talent, technical skill, or leadership ability are suggested by emblems executed in pigments no less laden with meaning. Tinctures of high-minded gold, hopeful green, mighty red, and royal purple are applied to elements and backgrounds. Even black wolves—whose background is noble or not, depending on one’s personal taste—have made appearances on shields and standards, where they announce the bearers as fierce and vigilant protectors of underlings and who can be relied upon through thick and thin.
Dogs have figured far more frequently than wolves in heraldic design. They share the wild one’s characteristic courage, but with a reassuring emphasis on loyalty. Selecting the right style of canine to represent a newly written family history used to be easy. Traditionally, heraldic dogs came in a limited number of forms, and the lack of selection would disappoint any modern-day catalog shopper. Old insignias offered three rough types that might be called landraces because they only vaguely resembled our picture-perfect breeds. The triumvirate inscribed on arms was hard to miss on shields or atop helmets, where canines served as crests and crowning glories.
The first of these was the massive and foreboding alaunt, a mastiff-type dog used in battle. Considered extinct but never a “purebred” by today’s standards, alaunts were slapped on as heraldic emblems to signify characteristics like courage, strength, and fortitude. Remembered as dogs of war, they have a special appeal, and dogs billed as alaunts today are hokey recreations evoking romantic images of knightly battles and royal tournaments. They and their owners inhabit a geeky realm of Renaissance fairs and “Dungeons and Dragons.”
Another dog that may not have existed as an easily identified type except as a heraldic symbol is the Talbot. This very old and resonant name has been affixed to everything from the earls of Shrewsbury and a town crest, to a good many English pubs and inns, and even an American line of women’s clothing. The crudely depicted Talbot was, that same English herald tells me, a “half-imaginary hunting dog.”7 While dark knights of the order of the alaunt trace their pet bulldogs, boxers, Staffordshires, and mastiffs to a semifictional character, fans of foxhounds, beagles, and bloodhounds stretch their pooches’ pedigrees back as far as Talbots. In fact, fanciers tried to include a breed called the “Talbot” in early dog shows. As a heraldic symbol, this hound linked families to qualities like courage, strength, prowess, and adeptness at the hunt.
The final dog to wander onto old armature can confidently call itself the greyhound, a type that has been around for a very long time. The lean and wispy wanderer remains, despite crossbreeding over the centuries, recognizable today. As a symbol, the greyhound runs more ethereally toward elegance and flight than brute strength, and as a hunter, this hound has gone after what it wanted in ways that others couldn’t, snatching hare afoot and birds at wing and keeping royalty entertained along the way. Greyhounds coursed the noble stag with the equestrian class, as foxhounds did foxes so fashionably in years to come. They and their relations have been tied to the noblest families—even lesser aristocracy was once forbidden from keeping them around the castle, and for commoners they were out of the question—and the regal aura remains a major part of their appeal. “In its early days, only royalty with the rank of earl or higher were permitted to own the dogs” made social climbers drool when the New York Times announced that the Scottish Deerhound, a close cousin of the greyhound, had taken Westminster in 2011 despite a high rate of cancer.8
Canines continue making appearances in heraldic design, and in more ways than ever. Since the dawn of dog shows, breed clubs, and standardized pets—the very moment that human honorifics were also multiplying like rabbits—there’s been a dramatic rise in the use of dogs as heraldic emblems. As that holder of the ancient office of herald informed me, there’s been an “increase in dog imagery” since Victorian times, in fact “very much so.”9 The nineteenth century brought a much wider array of social honors, and the upwardly mobile decided they needed a better selection of animals to represent them. Crest-carrying members of the middle class needed distinctions of their own, and since there were so many of these, they needed more subdivisions to offset themselves from the hordes of fellow upstarts. Until that time, generations of social climbers had been content with tried and true symbols of pedigree. But a funny thing happened on the way to Madison Square Garden. The alaunt, the Talbot, and the greyhound no longer fit the bill, and the number of “good” dogs from which to choose grew by leaps and bounds. As our best friends were superficially diversified into easily identifiable commercial brands or breeds for show rings and front parlors of the newly rich, artists trained in the old techniques were suddenly being asked to master a broader range of canine shapes, sizes, and coat styles. The pure and classic art of heraldry became more complex as “heralds became more responsive to clients’ wishes.”10 Foxhounds, whippets, bassets, beagles, cockers, King Charleses, and even Chihuahuas were crowded onto shields and standards. In recent years, newbie knights have requested further specialization. They want dogs not only depicted as their brands of choice, but to resemble their own personal pets Rover or Rex—which would be the canine equivalent of trying to make heraldic lions look like Tabby or Boots. Officials have naturally had to draw the line somewhere, and clients are often “disappointed” at unveilings, the herald tells me, by the lack of family resemblance.11
Some stabs at accommodation have been taken of late. A drawing of armature brandished on the website of the College of Arms illustrates to what lengths this office is willing to go to help folks turn dogs into mirror images of themselves. “The Arms of Dr. F. G. Hardy” were granted in 2006. Depicted is a striped-and-polka-dot shield with some frilly bits running down the sides. A heavy-looking helmet balances precariously above. Sitting atop it all in the role of a crest is none other than a black Labrador retriever, whose coat is not as fashionable as the yellow these
days, but was the original shade worn by fetchers for the highest nobility ever since that breed was first conceived. It can be assumed in all safety that Dr. Hardy has at least one of these historically accurate status symbols curled up at his castle. That this heraldic dog is a Labrador is evident to anyone with eyes. What’s interesting is the way it is presented. The Lab is seen in profile with something odd dangling from its mouth, perhaps one of the strands of string, tin foil, or plastic wrap the breed is famous for ingesting and needing surgery for removal—or possibly a cheesy pizza crust rescued from the gutter? The dog is seated, but its description is couched in the most archaic terms. “On a helm with a wreath Argent and Vert, Upon a Rock proper encrusted with Sea Urchins and Purpure a Labrador sejant Sable holding in its mouth a gathering of Bladder Wrack Vert,” reads the caption.
This mouthful that only Monty Python could mimic should be translated for lay readers. “Sable” means “black” in heraldic terms, and so this is a “Labrador Sable.” That’s black Lab to you. “Sejant” refers to the animal’s posture, as he is seated erectly with both front paws firmly planted on the urchin-encrusted rock that teeters atop the helmet. (A more traditional “Lion sejant” would assume the same position but with paws scratching and tongue extended like the bassist for the rock group Kiss.) The curious mass hanging from the dog’s mouth turns out to be, not a half-skinned tennis ball or a masticated Frisbee, but the pièce de résistance. The “gathering of Bladder Wrack Vert” is a piece of slimy seaweed duly fetched for the master, one assumes, from great depths. Bladder wrack is known for its medicinal uses, so the doctor has chosen his symbols, and his water dog, wisely.12
Fanciers have gone to many colorful extremes over the years to show their dogs, and themselves, in some flattering light. Like purebreds that aren’t as perfect as they look—or people who use pets to support their own family trees—dog shows, too, are a very mixed bag, indeed. Weird cannibalizations of old habits and new incarnations, questionable coronations where last year’s ruler is deposed by the latest pretender, semisacred events with high ritual and high ratings—dog shows draw from sources ancient and modern. But like those photogenic breeds that brand-name loyalists can’t seem to imagine in any other shapes, sizes, or coat colors, Westminster and Crufts (and the hundreds of dubious honors leading up to these supreme moments) might just as easily have taken any variety of formats along the way.
Considering how central dogs are to our culture, and how deeply feelings run about them, it should come as no surprise that dog shows, like the stars featured in them, are ad hoc creations with multiple origins. When did canine beauty pageants, also known as “leads” and perhaps “the last vestige of our feudal heritage,”13 begin their long engagement? A common error reprinted in books and spread across the Internet stands to be corrected, because the oft-cited date of 1859 is misleading. Sharing the same year with the publication of Darwin’s Origin of Species gives the dog fancy, in the minds of those who judge people and pooches by the company they keep, a sort of legitimacy that is not deserved. This accident of birth implies that artificial selections parading poofed-up and powdered in canine hit parades are somehow sharing the stage with survival of the fittest. As the health and longevity statistics on purebreds versus nonbreeds can testify, or the sliding scales that veterinary health insurance companies are applying to premiums, this couldn’t be further from the truth.14 Dog breeding and showing have had more to do with social survival of the owner than the survival of fitness as a basic concern.
The would-be first English dog show was, like many early events held in both England and the United States, devoted exclusively to hunting dogs of the gun variety. The most remembered show of 1859 in Newcastle upon Tyne was staged by a firearm manufacturer named Pape who took an interest in promoting the latest canine fashions to gentlemen of means whose sporting hobbies demanded nothing but the finest accessories, dogs included. Pointers and setters were featured in this and similar gun dog events across England and America throughout the 1860s and 1870s, and gradually other types were added to these productions prior to the first Westminster Dog Show of 1877.15 A wider class of contestants in both nations arrived with new entries via railways from near and far, and an informal charity event, the International Dog Show, held in Washington, DC, featured a variety of breeds as early as 1863, as did P. T. Barnum’s Great National Dog Show throughout the 1860s. Dogs were featured in the Centennial Exposition of 1876, and in the World’s Fairs of England and Paris throughout the second half of the nineteenth century. The New York Poultry Society added dogs as a sort of side item in 1869, and the specialized dog show gradually emerged “for display of well-bred dogs, as it is in Great Britain.”16
But getting at the roots of canine competitions requires going back further than the mid-nineteenth century to some of England’s other favorite places for social exchange. For decades prior to the first famous show, informal gatherings were held in English hotels, where small companion dogs were brought to compare and contrast.17 These staid, uneventful events were inspired by livelier foxhound shows that featured fully functional, working pack dogs of England’s elite as early as the late eighteenth century.18 Some of these prestigious foxhound shows are carried on today, the Peterborough Royal Foxhound Show being the fanciest. Healthy, athletic, spirited animals must be restrained by well-tailored handlers in red coats, white breeches, and black hunting caps, while spectators (men in bowler hats) laugh and applaud. Tails wagging enthusiastically, the hounds whine and howl at each other from across the ring before they’re set loose to run around disorderly and catch treats tossed into the air. All around, humans and hounds carry on quite differently from their “improved” cousins, who heel and pose politely in solemn beauty processions of Westminster and Crufts.
Digging deeper for the birthplace of our grandiose canine crownings, we end up in, of all places, the humble taverns of old England. The English have long welcomed animals other than themselves indoors, unlike Americans whose public health paranoia decides which species get in. Canine company is not discouraged in establishments along the British Isles where food and beverages are served. There’s even an official guide of favorite dog-friendly pubs where bipeds and quadrupeds scarf down bangers and lap up ale. Today’s patrons and pets mostly belly up to the bar, but before organized dog shows, pubs were places to show off personal favorites. Impromptu gatherings were held for generations of pub goers of diverse social background, who brought their pooches along to share with fellow countrymen. “The aristocrat and plebeian were as brothers,” commented Freeman Lloyd as he recalled the “democratic” dog shows of his youth not long thereafter, and the miraculous ability of Englishmen to overcome an inbred sense of class distinction—wishful thinking, perhaps.19
As another scholar of dog days past recalls, there was a time when a hunting hound was not remarkable until belonging to a nobleman, and then “the animal became ennobled, as it were.” From ancient Wales, where dogs had “honour prices” that rose on a sliding scale from the lowest commoner’s to the king’s, which was most costly,20 to the first shows at Westminster and Crufts, where a proper lady’s Pekingese wasn’t guaranteed to win but often trumped the rest in resale value and in puppies produced, there’s been a tendency to want dogs for their social ties.
Before kennel clubs and “reputable” breeders priced good dogs out of reach for the average nobody, English game laws actually prevented commoners from being seen with animals that outclassed them. By the same principle, dogs descended the social ladder when they fell into the wrong hands, and in early dog shows, not just anyone’s animals were allowed to compete with those of the upper echelon. Two hounds could be identical in every detail, but pooches with low-born owners could only compete within their “class.” Even some farmers, who were supposed to value dogs for purely practical purposes, apparently bought into this nonsense, and it was widely believed, throughout the nineteenth century, that purebreds behaved nobly and only mongrels were capable of killing
sheep.21
Another explanation for dog shows as we know them would be the old custom on English estates of commissioning tenants to rear or “walk” aristocracy’s fine hunting hounds, animals which society’s lower orders weren’t good enough to own themselves. Masters knew their dogs stood a better chance of performing well in their elaborately staged hunting rites if hand-raised individually in the homes of their servants. Periodic match shows were held, competitions in which pups were judged on condition, temperament, and even appearance to some degree. Surrogate parents were awarded small pieces of silver plate for showing dogs worthy of their lord’s imprimatur, a precursor to silver cups in contests to come.22
Aristocratic families developed their own strains of various dog types associated with their names, like vintage French families with their own personal wine labels. But again, these weren’t breeds as we know them, at least not yet. General types were known by names like foxhound, pointer, or greyhound but lacked the demanding sort of digital perfection that would get them recognized by registries or noticed on better sidewalks today. The old ruling class, quite frankly, didn’t need to advertise the modern way. Picture-perfect pets would have served no social purpose because everyone already knew who the owners were.
As England’s socioeconomic landscape changed, more commoners could afford to carry better dogs in public and digital perfection could wait no longer. Urban pets needed to be instantly recognizable, and from great distances, as those formerly reserved for Lord or Lady So-and-So back at the manor. These new, accessible, standardized breeds were sometimes based loosely on old family favorites. They had a wide appeal for conferring as much cachet as well-bred horses but with less upkeep, and their social uses were invaluable. Nearing the end of the nineteenth century, social climber Gordon Stables appraisingly noted that dog shows had “to a very large extent, spread the taste for well-bred dogs, and there are very few ladies or gentlemen who care to be accompanied by a mongrel cur.”23
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