Heritable conditions aside, all this talk of breeding must have pricked the ears of Americans aspiring to the good life and yearning for social distinctions of their own. Rather than shun the old ways and avoid unhealthy breeding practices, and despite all their talk of equal opportunity and meritocracy, they rushed to embrace the madness of the past. Millionaires were a dime a dozen in the States by the 1890s. Hordes of self-made men were scrambling to set themselves up as breeds apart, to “stabilize” their offspring, and their dog breeds, like England’s old upper class. While the American fancy was busy “improving” the dogs they’d purchased abroad, society was struggling to put together its own homegrown human aristocracy and then training it to act the part. But without real royalty to decide who was better than everyone else, chaos reigned.
Thus, the need for higher authorities. Ward McAllister, a blueblood of Anglophile Southern stock, tried to shorten the list of American family names that mattered to a finite “Four Hundred.” The club by that name didn’t last very long, but became the symbol of the shameless elitism of these times. The exclusion movement took other forms as well. The first volume of the Social Register, for example, was published in 1886—eight years after America’s own canine Who’s Who, the AKC’s Stud Book, first closed its doors to nonpedigrees. A number of gentlemen’s clubs, modeled after ultraelite London establishments, also opened their doors during these years, if only to close them to outsiders. The Knickerbocker Club, the University Club, the Union Club, J. P. Morgan’s Metropolitan Club—and the Westminster Kennel Club, whose members gave these other clubs as home addresses when signing its charter11—made insiders feel special for having been admitted, and much of the appeal of “improvement” came from disapproving of others.
The Leash, one of several ultra-elite clubs that still exist in Midtown Manhattan, and so private it doesn’t have a website, was founded in the 1920s “to promote interest in the thoroughbred dog and to study and apply principles of scientific breeding.”12 Besides being a speakeasy, The Leash was a sort of refuge from a changing world where anyone with a few thousand dollars might feel worthy of owning the best purebreds. Founding members included the most discriminating dog collectors and exhibitors, and ritual hunters of the highest breeding. Many were AKC directors or delegates, breeders, and show-ring judges from the days before the entire business was swamped with plebeians. Much like an English hunting resort for trans-Atlantic wealth, the old Goodwood Estate, which still caters to its clique of “like minded people”—and is home to a Ralph Lauren clothing boutique for humans and hounds, the “first European club shop”13—the Leash was and remains a haven for society’s uppermost crust of like-minded gentlemen (and, in time, ladies).14 Here members can feel safe applying eugenic principles of old from posh wood-paneled clubrooms lined with silver cups, leather chairs, and fox terrier friezes their ancestors enjoyed.
But American families would have to ripen before being offered medals by the Légion d’honneur. The cleverest way to gain a superior standing was to found a dynasty and ensure the family name irreproachable hauteur for generations to come. The surefire path to snootiness was a trip to England or Europe to shop for aristocratic studs to breed with heiress daughters. The strategy was not unlike importing canine champions, and by 1909, more than five hundred of these matings had been arranged. “Before long, many of the remnants of Europe’s royalty, some of them exiles or wastrels, and some completely bogus,” writes the author of America’s Gilded Age, “were auctioning themselves off to the highest American bidder, and the wives of Ohio grain millionaires, Chicago slaughterhouse tycoons, and New York street railway magnates” were parading their corn-fed daughters with hefty price tags.15 These were business arrangements plain and simple, and both sides profited. The rich Americans guaranteed themselves absolute respect at home, ensuring that their descendants would forever walk the earth wearing regal auras no one would dare to question. Their own flesh and blood got to mingle with royalty, and a coat of arms often came with the deal. The titled Englishmen, for marrying beneath themselves, got to keep the family castles that were likely inches away from public auction. They also received an added bonus. By agreeing to commingle common blood with their own, families chronically inbred for centuries received life-saving doses of hybrid vigor unavailable in their restricted social stations at home. The Americans turned their girls into ladies.
Going straight to the source was also the advisable strategy for self-improvement in the Land of Fancy, and many American dog investors wasted no time in traveling abroad. One can only imagine the thrill of victory felt by liquid Yanks who’d scoured the British Isles for founders of canine dynasties and brought them home to win trophies. A special illustrated section of an English high-society magazine called the Strand seems to have been detached in 1894 by one of these tuft-hunters and carried back to the States, where it currently resides in the AKC’s collection. According to the insert, pedigree people were gathering in London to compare notes on their pedigree dogs. The Duchess of York’s dachshund was said to be a “tiny Prince whose birth not long ago was heralded with acclaim throughout the breadth of the dominions.” The Shah of Persia’s stately Afghan made an impression with its high breeding, for “in his veins flows blood bluer than any other dog in the world.”16 Rich Americans didn’t mind begging for similar models from the same breeders when stud shopping abroad.
Also known as Judith Neville Lytton, the author of Toy Dogs and Their Ancestors had some illustrious ancestors of her own. Lady Wentworth was the great granddaughter of Lord Byron the poet, and born to a family responsible for a type of toy spaniel corrupted, she said, by the modern fancy and its crass commercialism. Nobility, it seemed, was selling itself cheaply and dogs had “been ‘improved’ out of all beauty.” Lytton saw silver cups and blue ribbons as mere trinkets for social climbers. The entire business, in her eyes, was fixed. Breeders and breed clubs, she claimed, were racketeers that had “the glitter of challenge cups and medals wherewith to dazzle,” and Lytton looked upon the fancy with the sort of attitude that only a person of gentle breeding can express so disdainfully. Yet she took pity on the Americans arriving in droves on pilgrimages to pay homage at the altar of aristocracy. Unsuspecting visitors with large purses, she warned, were being duped. “It is a dealer’s business to foster ignorance, and America has been taught to admire wrong types”—whatever that meant—“so that we may keep our best dogs and yet please our customers with indifferent ones.” Inferior dogs—however these were defined—were being “rushed through as champions and shipped to America out of the way, where they are immediately boomed as marvelous sires and undefeated champions.”17
Socially insecure Americans probably were being taken for the royal ride. But if the newly rich were easy prey to foreign swindlers, genuine aristocracy was no less eager to follow the transnational pet set wherever it migrated. Pedigree honors could be won on both sides of the Atlantic. The world’s grandest grandees, when they weren’t congregating in London and showering their borzois with champagne in the best hotels, were flocking to New York where adulation and solid gold cash prizes awaited. Upon their arrivals, the New York Times often commented ironically on the quaint notion of aristocracy, human and canine. But many Americans took nobility, and its dogs, quite literally when both debarked. “The general judgment is that the class of the sporting dogs is very high,” the Times remarked on the Westminster Kennel Club show of 1902. “The Prince of Siam has signified his intention to visit the exhibition to-day, and Lord and Lady Algernon Lennox, the latter of whom is a field spaniel enthusiast, have also been invited.”18 So intimately were well-bred dogs linked to well-bred people that it was difficult to distinguish one from the other. “Rolph, a Danish boarhound, weighing 106 pounds, which is the grandson of Prince Bismarck’s famous Satan,” arrived in 1880. “It is entered by the Baron Carl von Tena, who has only recently arrived from Germany, and is staying at the St. Denis Hotel.”19 As in England, where impresario Charles Cruft
was keenly aware of the prestige that big names lent to his events, the American fancy went to great lengths to court “society’s upper crust” at home and abroad for its New York shows. Soon “the aisles were filled and the society feature of the show was scarcely secondary to the attraction in the dogs themselves,” the Times observed with disbelief.20 America’s homegrown best and brightest, though untitled, were seen descending from carriages and entering “richly-dressed”21 through the very same portal as Europe’s entitled. Any man owning an important pedigree dog was referred to as “gentleman.” Female fanciers were all “ladies.” Both were announced in the papers by their full names along with a clearly displayed “of” linking them to their hometowns as though these were feudal estates. “Lizzie Adele Josslyn, of Pittsfield, Mass.,” the Times recorded, “has entered a German mastiff named Strolch, bred by Prince Karl of Prussia, and she marks his value as ‘priceless.’”22 A certain “Mrs. Benjamin Guinness of Douglaston, L.I.” had a prize Peke named “Pekin Pu Tay II”23 that conjured up memories of the Imperial Palace. The redoubtable “Miss May Bird of Hempstead” owned wolfhounds, as did the czar of Russia, and “Mr. and Mrs. Champion of Staten Island” possessed champion dogs that were described with an amusing typo as “Pomperanians”24 (italics mine). There was even a family of fanciers called “the Breeds.”
Official announcements were designed to either amuse or intimidate readers of the social columns. Arriving in old Madison Square Garden each year for common folk and their mutts to admire were “high-bred” dogs, “high-class” dogs,25 and “high-priced” dogs.26 There were “noble” breeds, “aristocratic dogs,” “blue-blooded canines,” “prominent dogs,” “dogs of noble parentage,”27 dogs of “exalted station,”28 and “dogs worthy of respect.”29 The less kind among the columnists called them “spoiled beauties”30 or “fashions in dog flesh.”31 These newfangled, standardized breeds came and went like the latest hat styles. “Poodles are still quite fashionable among aristocratic people,” readers were advised in 1884.32 Then came French bulldogs a few years later with those weird bat-shaped head ornaments for ears. Show dogs had very distinctive looks, but Westminster organizers couldn’t be so choosy in the beginning about which ones they allowed to compete. In fact, a kind of open-door policy was in effect until Americans could afford to be more exclusive. “Pedigrees are not required,” it was admitted in 1878, the year of the second Westminster competition, “but where two dogs are equal in merits, the one with an authenticated pedigree will be placed first.”33 Much to the frustration of the natives, this rule left many local dogs at a disadvantage and gave the imports the edge their owners thought they were born deserving. The preference for pedigrees also came as a small reminder to those untitled Americans that, no matter what the individual merits of their dogs or their own personal accomplishments in life, lowly birth had branded them and their dogs as forever second-rate to the entitled.
The American fancy was a mixed bag, to say the least. But it seldom lacked the genuine article. Real nobility graced New York’s port and attended the noteworthy shows whenever it could. Unless beckoned by other aristocratic duties of the surf or turf, titled fanciers could be counted on to show their faces, and their dogs’ perfect skulls, against a sea of inferior specimens. When attending in person was physically impossible, they sent their famous pooches to represent them as canine ambassadors. The best shows were not about being seen with dogs—that was for pedestrians, and these people seldom walked anywhere. Typically, someone was hired to escort the animals in the ring, and their owners didn’t need to be present at the shows. Everyone knew of these foreign dogs’ presence, and their status rubbed off on the locals said to be in the same “class.” Even if the canine contestants were delivered with masters in absentia, dog shows were never so much about dogs as they were about people. Nor was the true sport of these events supposed to be in winning the sordid coin—that, too, was pedestrian. “The idea of such persons struggling for $20 or even $50 prizes is laughable,” the Times explained about contestants in the first great New York show, “although they are all doubtless eager to secure the blue ribbon . . . nearly every exhibitor is a gentleman or lady owner, and above the necessity of breeding for profit.”34
Prizes were for prestige and recognition—and for reminding people who they were or weren’t. Promoters counted on audiences buying into this snootiness and were only too eager to go out of their way to collect notable dogs for their viewing pleasure. They waited hand and foot on aristocrats attending only in spirit but lending their dogs for the public’s edification. “It is expected the Princess Louise will send some specimens from their private kennels,” the Times remarked in 1879, “and the club will send special agents to Ottawa for them.”35 Then in 1880 came the announcement: “Sir William Vennor’s private secretary arrived on the Britannic, bringing with him the string of champion bull-dogs, bull-terriers, and black and tan terriers. . . . Sir William, who has once before visited this country, was unable, on account of pressing engagements, to sail on the Britannic himself.”36 Dogs belonging to an invisible king, queen, or czar always outranked the rest, even if they didn’t necessarily win. When a member of Victoria’s brood arrived without its mistress, there was no shortage of frisson on the docks. “One famous dog, bred by Her Majesty, the Queen of England, will be on exhibition, and valued at $20,000,”37 likely referred to Victoria’s champion deerhound named “Hero,”38 but could have meant any one of her illustrious collies named, in succession, “Noble I,” “Noble II,” “Noble III,” “Noble IV,” and “Noble V.”39 Queen Victoria kept hundreds of dogs in her kennels at Windsor Castle, including a Maltese, a breed said to be of ancient lineage on the verge of extinction, a fellow fading aristocrat Her Majesty rescued for posterity, or so it was said.
Dog shows were meeting places where commoners could rub elbows, if not with nobles, then with their dogs. After pooches with aristocratic patrons who might or might not show came the hordes of non-noble fanciers bent on increasing their social chances. “One gentleman—Mr. William L. Bradbury of Nason, Va.—exhibits six ‘basket’ beagles, recently imported and of very excellent breeding,” said the Times, boosting American morale.40 A pair of old English sheepdogs actually born in England and valued at $2,500 were said to have “won a long string of ribbons abroad.”41 Ticket sales responded favorably to these cameo appearances of dogs with old pedigrees now in the hands of self-made men.
Dog shows were not just for entertainment. They offered a way up in the minds of social climbers, and the appeal of belonging to an elite was about as irresistible as that of the sparkling jewels in a royal crown. Winning a competition, or simply having a dog worthy of entering, was like receiving the approval of a king or queen. Everyone wanted a piece of royalty, and by 1892 this elite was already becoming so large that measures had to be taken to rescue it from commonality. “Superintendant James Mortimer has discouraged owners of second-rate dogs”—whatever that was meant to mean—“from entering the product of their kennels, and the Westminster Kennel Club has added a most convincing argument to Mr. Mortimer’s persuasions by raising the per capita entrance fee from $2 to $5.”42 When authorities weren’t maintaining high standards for the canine caste system, they were trying to keep commoners from acting the part. The question of proper human behavior became crucial at dog shows with doors that opened wider each year. These were places where good form and good breeding were put on public display. Well-dressed and well-mannered high society attended so that the rest of humankind could see how things ought to be done. But the audience was not always anxious to imitate, and neither were the dog owners, who often showed a lack of refinement. Concerned parties feared that without a basic respect for higher powers, shows would soon degenerate into sordid scenes no better than the animal-baiting events of old.
Cheating was, in fact, still rampant at the turn of the century in both American and English competitions. Entrees were often given fake names and birth dates, and some were entered as diff
erent dogs in several shows. Animals with substandard markings were dyed. Undesirable spots were painted over with boot polish, and desirable ones were sketched in. A famous forgery uncovered at the Crufts show was a wirehaired fox terrier whose coat had been altered with alum, a product once used to whiten human skin when paleness was in fashion. Another involved a poodle whose eyes were enhanced with belladonna, a substance used to dilate women’s pupils when that look was de rigueur.43 “I have seen spots on the Dalmatian’s tail very artistically put on with nitrate of silver,” Gordon Stables reported. “And I know of a case where a very beautiful top-knot [a sprig of hair on the top of the head] was glued on the cranium of an Irish Water Spaniel.”44 More recently, in 2003, a Pekingese won best in show at Crufts after having undergone some gruesome corrective surgery to help it breathe, but the dog wasn’t disqualified because the alteration was made for survival and was not cosmetic!45
A Matter of Breeding Page 15