Ruffly Speaking (5 page)

5

 Sometime around Memorial Day each year, the prestigious Essex County Kennel Club sponsors Boston’s answer to the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show. But I prefer Essex County, and so does every dog there who’s ever endured the heat, crowding, and chaos of Madison Square Gar-den. Essex is Westminster with the calendar turned back a thousand years, a medieval tournament instead of a twentieth-century teleplay, and all the better for it. It’s a gorgeous pageant that really earns the name
show.
Although the site in the past few years has been a College campus in suburban Boston, when you approach from a distance, you’d swear it’s Camelot. The beauty of the multicolored striped tents and the intense green of the acres of lawn will fool you into expecting a pair of armored knights on horseback to charge up and start jousting, and if the women in pastel dresses turned out to be princesses with cone-shaped hats instead of breed handlers dolled up for the ring, you wouldn’t be surprised at all.

A thousand years ago, knighthood was strictly limited to males, who rescued—and certainly never vied with—females. Times change. On the morning of Saturday, May 30, a month after Morris Lamb’s death, the champion who bore my colors entered the ring and got trounced by a damsel in no distress, which is to say that Rowdy gallantly joined the round table of Alaskan malamute dogs who’d gone Best of Opposite while the invincible Daphne once again took Best of Breed. Alien? Best of Opposite Sex to Best of Breed. If a bitch—right, a girl —wins BOB, then BOS goes to a dog. Lost? Stick around, anyway. Before long, you’ll be talking about Bred-by dogs and Open bitches as if you were one yourself. In the meantime? Relax. Everyone’s welcome at a dog show.

Even Daphne.More or less.

After Rowdy’s defeat, while he rested in his crate in the shadow of Faith Barlow’s Winnebago, I made the rounds of the concession booths (yield: eight sample packets of dog food, two Nylabones, an attention-getting squeaker, a bottle of Mela Miracle pet lusterizer spray, and two welcome-back-to-dog-heaven presents for my cousin Leah, a twenty-one-inch heeling lead and the video version of Bernie Brown’s
No-Force Method of Dog Training).
Faith Barlow, by the way, handles Rowdy in breed. Why? Faith is a first-rate professional handler. I like my dogs to win. Any more questions?

When I’d finished stocking up, I headed for the breed rings, which formed two temporary buildings, each consisting of a long, wide, awning-covered central aisle with a row of four or five rings—roped-off rectangles— out in the hot sun on each side. You don’t have to go inside to watch, of course—you can work on your tan while you follow the judging—but I grew up on the coast of Maine, and I’m still not used to the hellish climate this far south of God’s country. Besides, it’s fun inside. The aisle I entered was crammed with cool spectators watching the activity out in the hot rings; exhibitors spraying and brushing last-minute winning glints into the coats of sparkling dogs; and keyed-up, next-in-the-ring amateur handlers nervously shifting their feet and snapping rude accusations at innocent strangers.

I was meandering down this aisle of paradise—dogs, dogs, and more beautiful dogs, sweet sight, O beautiful vision, do not cease—when I was bashed from the rear by a hugely overweight woman cuddling a Maltese terrier about a tenth the size of one of her breasts. Thus I didn’t exactly run into Doug Winer; I got rammed into the back of his folding chair.

“I’m sorry!” I said, untangling myself.

Now, if you’re new to dog shows, I should warn you that when you get shoved into someone and there’s a dog nearby, as there’s inevitably going to be, what you’re apt to hear even before your words of apology leave your mouth is, “Oh, yeah, I’ll bet you’re sorry! Didn’t mean to step on his foot and make him go lame, did you? Number one dog in the Western world until
you
had to go and...” Stage fright. Ignore it. It’s not dog fanciers at our best. And if you’re already one of us? Well, then, I just have to ask you: Who brings these people up?

But Doug Winer wasn’t a real show type and didn’t have a dog at his side, anyway. Doug not only accepted my apology, but introduced me to the person seated next to him, namely, his father, an extremely short, stocky, and completely bald man of seventy-five or eighty who bore an uncanny resemblance to the dogs parading around in the ring only a few yards away. Guess? Certainly. Bull terriers. True gentlemen. Mr. Winer, Sr., rose from his folding chair, shook my hand, and—a dog-show first—offered me his seat.

Doug had dark, curly hair all over his hands, arms, and head, and so ineradicable a growth of beard that hourly razoring would still have left him looking in per-petual need of a shave. His thick build was his father’s, but when Doug stood to greet me, he moved with the agility of an athlete. I seemed to remember that he played tennis. At any rate, he wore white, a polo shirt and pressed pants as spotless as the linen at Winer &. Lamb. Doug gestured to his empty chair and threw me an imploring glance. “Holly can have mine.” Addressing his father and me, he was starting to explain that Bedlingtons were next in this ring.

Mr. Winer’s face suddenly took on a look of alarm and confusion. “Where’s your mother?” he demanded.

Children are always getting lost at shows, but our octogenarians don’t have time for mental failure. They’re too busy training and grooming dogs, whelping puppies, and traveling to shows. The only thing elderly dog people ever seem to forget is how old they are. But Doug’s mother? The two big awning-covered breed ring areas looked identical. To Mrs. Winer, maybe the dogs did, too.

But Doug seemed unperturbed. “Mother had some errands to run,” he told his father matter-of-factly. “She was going to do some shopping. She’s home by now.” He turned to me, leaned close, and quietly confided, “Stealing some time alone.”

I can take a hint, and I don’t mind doing favors. I gave Mr. Winer a big smile. “I’d love to sit down, if you don’t mind.”

When Doug had excused himself and promised to be right back, his father practiced the courtly art of helping a lady to her seat. The folding chair and I must both have challenged him, and, of the two, I was probably the greater challenge. I’d ironed my shirt but not my jeans, which were, however, clean. My old Reeboks weren’t. I usually smell like training treats and dog shampoo. Mr. Winer’s courtesy deserved Joy—the perfume, naturally, not the dog chow, which, as far as I know, at least, is made by a totally different company, but, in its own way, is very good nonetheless.

“Is this your first dog show, Mr. Winer?” It was as close as I could come to asking the gentleman about himself.

He nodded.

“And Doug is showing one of Morris Lamb’s dogs?” I was genuinely curious. Doug used to accompany Morris to shows, but I’d always had the impression that he was there for Morris, not the dogs.

“They’ve moved in with us.” Mr. Winer sounded surprised, as if the two Bedlingtons had shown up at his door only seconds earlier. “Nelson and...” He groped.

I pretended to search my own memory. “Jennie, isn’t it?”

“Jennie,” Mr. Winer confirmed.

“They’re living with you? With you and, uh, Mrs. Winer?”

I almost expected Mr. Winer to ask
who
was, but he didn’t. All he did was nod again.

“Doug can’t have dogs?” I waited a second and rephrased the question. “His landlord doesn’t allow dogs?”

Mr. Winer looked really bewildered now.

“Oh.” I’d finally caught on. “Doug lives at home? With you?”

“Brookline,” Mr. Winer answered. “Francis Street.” Unasked, he went on to give me first the address, and then precise directions for driving there and advice about where to park. The recitation of the familiar details seemed to comfort and reassure him. His voice lingered fondly at every turn and stoplight.

When he’d finished, I said that the area, Longwood, was lovely—it is—but Mr. Winer wasn’t paying attention. He twisted restlessly around and looked here and there until he caught sight of Doug, who was five or six yards behind us listening to an impeccably groomed young woman with the brisk, confident air of a professional handler. Her blue-flowered dress matched the thin blue show lead in her hand. At the dog’s end of the lead pranced Ch. Marigleam’s Canadian Lovesong (Nelson to his friends), who paused midfrolic to lick the pretty woman’s hand, then Doug’s.

Want some free advice? If so, ask a real dog person. You can’t shut us up. Here it is: With some breeds, amateurs do fine in conformation, but if you want to show your terrier, hire the best professional handler you can afford, because if you go out there and stumble around yourself, no judge will so much as look at your dog. Too bad, but that’s the truth. Morris Lamb knew it. So, evidently, did Doug Winer.

I glanced at Doug’s father, who was beaming so jovially that his entire hairless head practically glowed. He turned toward me, winked, took another look at his son and the pretty handler, and in proud paternal tones murmured, “Doug has his eye on that one! Just you watch!”

Any object of Doug’s amorous regard would so absolutely, totally, definitely, and unconditionally have been male that I found it almost impossible to imagine how anyone could suppose otherwise. But Mr. Winer wasn’t just anyone.

Kennel blindness takes all kinds of forms. In dog fancy, of course, it means the inability to see the faults of your own dogs. Daphne’s owners, for example, probably don’t realize that her ears are a little big and slightly high set, at least by contrast with Rowdy’s, which are small in proportion to the size of his head and set exactly where they belong, on the sides, just as the standard says. Also, Daphne’s tail is rather short, and she doesn’t-have the best neck I’ve ever seen, either. But then some judges either don’t read the standard or don’t recognize it even when it materializes in the ring. You’ve seen Rowdy, right? You’ve seen him
move
? Incredible dog. The standard incarnate.

But the point about Doug and his father isn’t that Doug had a major fault in terms of the standard for human beings, because there isn’t any one standard for all of us. There couldn’t be, any more than there could be a single standard for Saint Bernards, Bernese mountain dogs, Chihuahuas, and all the others. We don’t vary in size and shape as radically as dogs do, but in our own way, we’re equally diverse, aren’t we?

Am I making myself clear? Suppose the standard you’re using is for the Great Dane, when, in reality, your dog is a Chesapeake Bay retriever. Enter kennel blindness. Love that dog enough and before long, you’re going to convince yourself that, according to the standard, your Chessie is a flawless specimen of an entirely different breed. Maybe he
is
faultless, but that’s not the point. The point is that you’re using the wrong standard.

And if your Chessie has the option of barking out the truth? That you’ve made a fool of yourself? That you don’t know the first thing about your own dog? Caught in that situation, any Chessie with any sense is going to worry that if you find out, you’ll be heartbroken. Maybe you’ll even decide that you don’t want a Chessie at all. Maybe you never liked Chessies, or never thought you did, anyway. Maybe the shock will be more than you can take. So if your Chessie really loves you? And knows how much you need him? Well, then, maybe he’s going to act just like Doug. He’s going to let you go right on admiring your perfect Great Dane.

6

 Late on a Friday afternoon a couple of weeks after the Essex County show, the dogs and I were heading back from the river. According to Rowdy and Kimi, we were supposed to be retracing our steps and taking the direct route by following Appleton Street from where it begins, at Brattle Street, to where it ends, at Concord Avenue, home being 256 Concord Avenue, the bam red house at the corner of Appleton. I, however, had led us to Fayerweather and then onto Reservoir Street. Just when Rowdy and Kimi had more or less reconciled themselves to Reservoir, though, we came to the intersection with Highland Street, where they balked and I coaxed. Highland Street was not one of the direct routes home, I conceded. Highland did, however, intersect with Appleton, I added, and it happened to be where Morris Lamb had lived. Furthermore, I felt like walking down it, and we were damned well going to do so. Malamutes might worship monotony, I said; I did not. If I decided that this was the way we were going, then this was the way we were going, and that was that. The dogs continued to balk. Then I reached into my pocket, pulled out a fistful of freeze-dried liver, smacked my lips, and, having firmly reestablished myself as the alpha leader of the pack, made the turn onto Highland with Rowdy and Kimi bouncing and leaping along beside me. You think I’m kidding? Alpha
means
the one who gets her own way.