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 t
hough 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.)
At nine months, at a show in Maine, Yankee moved up out of the Puppy Class to win the Best of Breed ribbon, and he never looked back. In short order he had his championship, he was on the cover of the New York Times Magazine, and his biography was being readied for publication by Putnam. He had it all, a truly splendid animal with brains and personality and incredible good looks. He was substance.
Yankee in the show ring was a wonder to behold. He absolutely loved it and let the world know it. When he was moved around the ring for the judge’s approval and the ringside attendees applauded, he would throw his massive head back and yodel a marvelous hound song. Coyotes and wolves are no more musically gifted than Bloodhounds and the Coonhounds that descend from them. The more he woe-woe-woed, the more the people would applaud and laugh, and the louder he got. He had so much fun on these occasions I swore he was about to flap his ears and fly right out of the ring and circle overhead. Somehow, I’m not sure how, he knew when he had won yet another ribbon. He woe-woe-woed then, too. Bloodhounds are not long-lived, none of the giants are, and when he died at about the age of eight he left a trunkful of ribbons and trophies and a lot of broken hearts in the Caras family and his fan club. There is no doubt in my mind that because Yankee loved to show he did it extremely well, and had he had Lizzie’s attitude it wouldn’t have mattered what he looked like or how he could have moved. But Yankee had a champion’s heart and the stunning good looks to back it up.
Rhonda and Snickers
Rhonda, John, and their two sons live in suburban Baltimore. John did not have dogs growing up; Rhonda did. We know this remarkable story well because in a sense it started right here at our home, Thistle Hill Farm. One warm summer afternoon, poolside with appropriate refreshments, Rhonda had a revelation.
Rhonda and John are close friends of our daughter and son-in-law, Pamela and Joe, and very often the families gather on the farm by the pool. Some of our eleven dogs are always in evidence when the splashing starts and the food arrives. Pamela and Joe usually bring their four dogs, and guests often arrive with theirs. There can be fifteen or more dogs enjoying us as we enjoy them. All of those eating machines in one place at the same time! We like to think of it as a typical American home.
Rhonda regularly interacted with our dogs, and more and more she realized how badly she wanted a dog in her life again. It had been too many years. Coming here reminded her of that fact again and again. That afternoon she and John decided to make the move. Their boys concurred—no great surprise there.
Rhonda had fallen in love with my beautiful golden Whippet named Topaz, Topi to his friends. He is one of my all-time favorite dogs, and where I am, there he is, too. He is a veritable limpet. He and Rhonda spent a lot of time together and Rhonda was determined to own a Whippet of her own. It would be an important part of her family. She and John began surveying dog people in Maryland and Pennsylvania and surrounding states and found a highly regarded breeder in South Carolina who would soon have quality puppies for sale. Rhonda had been ready to accept a mature dog, a rescue, but things went better than planned. They got on the breeder’s list (not necessarily an easy thing to do), and with all four family members hopping up and down in anticipation, they waited for their puppy. At eight weeks, generally suggested as the ideal age for a pet dog to go into a new home, Snickers became theirs. There was no plan to show Snickers. She was to be all about love. She had tremendous people skills, and that was more than enough.
When the beautiful, long-dreamed-of Whippet was a few months old, they entered her in a handling class to give their almost-teenage son, Ryan, a new and constructive way to interact with their pet. That is usually a very positive thing to do. Ryan loved Snickers but he hated the discipline of the handling class. Although they had paid for a course of eight classes, Ryan opted out after only two. Rhonda decided that since the other six lessons were already paid for she might as well use them. And what happened next is history.
Friends began pressing Rhonda to show Snickers. It would be a terrible waste, they insisted, not to give Snickers a chance at glory, beautiful girl that she was. Little did they know what lay ahead.
Before she was nine months old, Snickers was in the ring, with Rhonda at the other end of the lead. At the Eastern Whippet Specialty, an important showcase for the breed, Snickers beat thirteen of the fourteen other contenders in a class called Puppy Sweeps under a breederjudge. Snickers loved showing off, she loved the excitement and the praise. Her gait was, as specified in the standards, free moving and smooth. She looked like a million-dollar Whippet. Elegant is the only word for it, elegant and willing. Snickers came in second, bringing home a bright red ribbon, her first. There were to be many. Rhonda was amazed at what happened, and as she puts it, “I was thrilled that someone else thought my dog was beautiful.”
After that initial triumph, Rhonda took Snickers to a couple of other shows just to “see what would happen.” Both of the part
ners in this new enterprise were still highly enthusiastic and still learning. It was a journey of discovery into a new world with new challenges. Rhonda liked the other exhibitors and especially their dogs. She even liked the judges. Secretly, she set to judging all the dogs herself. At ringside she was matching her own eyes against those of the judges. Most observers and contenders at dog shows do that. Dog-show judges are among the most judged people there are.
In Howard County, Maryland, at the fairgrounds, Snickers came under the scrutiny of one of the most awesome judges in America today, or any other day, Anne Rogers Clark. Annie gave Snickers a three-point major—and the lovely, athletic Whippet’s course was set. Having Annie Clark lay her broad sword against your shoulder is a kind of ultimate approbation, assuming someone doesn’t yell, “Off with his head!” No one knows more about dogs than Annie Clark. Rhonda was still more amazed than anything else. Snickers, after all, was her pet, a very beloved pet by now, a role she happily played for John and the boys, on their own shared turf. Showing was still an extra treat, because the stunningly beautiful sighthound turned out to be so very good at it. Snickers loved it from that first time in Puppy Sweeps at the Eastern Whippet Specialty. She has been for the game ever since. She is, in that sense, a little different from our well-beloved Lizzie. She is exactly the kind of dog that dog shows try to isolate and identify for future breeding. No puppy of Snickers’s will be found in pounds and shelters or be scheduled for euthanasia.
Going for the Blue Page 4