In Philadelphia: Superdogs

By Gregory Jaynes

True or false?

1) A dog show is practically the only place on earth where a man can ask earnestly and with utter immunity, "Say, pal, what's this bitch's name?"

2) A dog show is no laughing matter.

3) No self-respecting punk rocker (forgive the contradiction) would shave himself the way some of the poodles in dog shows are shaved.

Answers:

1) True.

2) True (exhibitors seem entirely devoid of funny bones, ha-ha!).

3) No hypothetical questions, please.

O.K., O.K., no more jokes-not even an easy aside like, "To a dog, every day is Saturday." The American Kennel Club observed the 100th anniversary of its founding this year in Philadelphia. It was founded, in fact, on Sept. 17, 1884, right there in Philadelphia. To mark the occasion, the AKC put together the largest dog show ever held in North America. It brought more than 8,000 dogs to the Philadelphia Civic Center. Security was tighter than a rusted nut. Tighter than it had been a month before during the vice-presidential debate in the same spot, according to a visitor who attended both.

There were dogs as large as Welsh ponies; of one particular Newfoundland, an announcer said, "A pleasant giant and a wonderful dog for those fortunate enough to have the space." There were dogs so inconsequential in size they were scarcely bigger than the word dog. There were dogs with names as long as a snake, and with a similar disposition. There were hair balls all over the floor. There was no mange.

Any visiting two-legged cur with a casual interest was soon made aware that there are 48 million dogs in America, 14 million of which are purebred, the rest of which are indiscriminate with their low-rent rendezvous. Further, the AKC is one of the oldest amateur-sports governing bodies in the U.S., and it oversees about 10,000 dog shows, obedience trials and field trials annually. To boot (now comes the information picked up around the fringe), Ralston Purina is self-described as "the most trusted name in pet foods," while Mighty Dog is "the pure beef brand," though Kal Kan is "the stuff great dogs are made of and Edge is "rich in brewer's yeast."

The eavesdropper at the continent's largest dog show, caught in the crush of humanity and canines, scarcely able to move, could not help overhearing such telling bits of dialogue as these:

"I feel like an inchworm. Is that a dog down there? Oh my God, it's a furry dog! They shouldn't allow this!"

"Dog coming through! Dog walking through! Make way for the dog, please!"

"Leo, stop pulling! Rose, keep your nose to yourself!"

"It must just be nervousness. Usually he's very regular; every morning, early."

"This is absolutely fascinating to me. I've never had a dog that would lie down and come to you and all that stuff."

"Heel, dammit! Leo, I mean what I say!"

"Wonder what would happen if I brought a cat in here?"

License plates on the vehicles of many purebred enthusiasts often employ a shorthand to reflect the driver's taste, the number of characters being restricted: G-SHEP; SHIH TZU; AIRDL. The recreational vehicle seems to play an important part in the lives of many exhibitors. In the lot across the street from the civic center, there were hundreds of such road leviathans, a grooming table and a wire-mesh kennel occupying the spaces that picnic tables and charcoal grills would in other circumstances. In that lot, beneath a pale November sun, Dee Leahy groomed her one-year-old broken-haired terrier, Lay Dee Ayr Star Search, by pulling tufts out by the roots. That is the way you groom them, she explained, saying further that the dog felt no pain. The dog kept a beatific look on its face, not once wincing as it was snatched bald here and there.

Leahy said she and her husband Dave, who are from Pittsburgh, travel 14,000 miles a year to dog shows. They have operated a kennel for 35 years, and they have had 35 champions. The reason to keep a broken-haired terrier, she says, is that "they have more sense than any other dog. They don't shed. They're sensitive. They know when you're not feeling well and when you're happy. See when I talk to her how she starts to get excited." Lay Dee Ayr Star Search quivered.

In the civic center, at the end of each long row of dogs on display, there was a convenience stall, a place for the dogs to do their business. One man was seen to squat before his Dalmatian; just another instructive gesture, as these things go.

Down the line a ways, Richard L. Nelson, of Woodcliff Lake, N.J., sat lost in a book, his Great Dane, Woodcliffs Bold Bracken, towering over him like an enormous reading lamp. Occasionally Nelson would pat the dog on its breastplate and whisper, "Why don't you take a load off your feet?" But the dog preferred to stand. The dog's sister, Woodcliffs Sweet Rebecca, lay alongside, dozing sweetly.

"This bitch," explained Nelson's wife Elizabeth, "started winning as a puppy, so you don't stop when you're on a roll." She said the Great Danes were "like family. We have their mother and their grandmother. We did have their great-grandmother, but she's gone. And we had their uncle, but he's gone. They're house dogs. They have personalities, just as anyone does. The bitch here is a lot like her grandmother. She has a look, an expression sometimes, just like her grandmother. She's always in your pocket, soft and tender, like her grandmother."

There is no underestimating the pride and love these people who gathered in Philadelphia have for their dogs; they swap snapshots of various Rovers, chests swelling as they would over pictures of the eldest daughter's wedding. To get ready for a show as important as this one, they had preened their pets for days.

"We shampooed and bathed and dried this dog every night this week," said Gene McGuirk, of Cold Spring, N.Y. As he spoke, his wife Barbara addressed Blue, a 2 1/2-year-old Old English Sheepdog, or Olde, with the clippers. "First he soaks for 30 minutes ..."

"Our poor bathroom," Barbara said.

". .. then it's a regular bath," said Gene McGuirk. "You wash it out, dry with towels and then put him on the table. We have two professional hair dryers, so from start to finish it's two hours-if you have the tools. If you have only one dryer, it'll take you four hours."

Blue, a towel round his neck, was led by Barbara, a wire brush jammed in her belt, to the ring for the judging. The dog was fluffed and fluffed until their number was called. They cast aside the towel and entered the ring with other handlers and Old English Sheepdogs, all of which looked very much like Blue. The judge had the moves of a fight referee. He had the owners run in circles, the dogs loping alongside them, heads held high. The texture of the coat means a lot in competition, but the muscle and bone also count. The judge laid hands on Blue. He felt first for the two squares, the block of the snout and then the block of the cranium. He felt the shoulder for the perfect 45DEG angle. He felt for the proper rib configuration, not too round, not too slab-sided, and then kneaded the loin muscle. He had the dog walk and looked for what in humans would be called knock knees, but on a dog it is called being cow-hocked. Blue lost to a puppy. Judging in this sport is most subjective.

"I couldn't fault you," Gene said to Barbara. "I didn't see anything wrong."

"You're biased," said Barbara. "Anyway, it doesn't mean the puppy is necessarily better than Blue. It just means the judge thought it had a lot of potential for that age."

"We'll try next week in Springfield, Mass.," said Gene.

"Have dog, will travel," said Barbara. -By Gregory Jaynes