Humans Unleashed
At the Westminster Kennel Club Show, the Dogs Aren't Doing the Growling
 

By David Segal
Washington Post Staff Writer
Wednesday, February 15, 2006; C01
 

NEW YORK It's nearly show time and a couple dozen Pomeranians with fluffy tails and beady eyes are lined up on a bench, getting spritzed into cotton-candy poof balls. One woman is sculpting muzzle hairs with a toothbrush. Another is rubbing Pinaud men's hair tonic on her dog's backside. It like visiting the world's silliest spa.

"Keeps it fluffed without drying it out," says Audrey Roberts, who's from Texas and speaking over a small cloud of mist. "Can't have too much hair."

The dogs seem impervious or bored, like starlets on a smoke break. But in less than 45 minutes, these itsy-bitsy canines and their anxious owners will trot into Ring 7 on the floor of Madison Square Garden, hoping to capture the best of breed title at the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show.

Known to insiders as the Big Time. Known to outsiders as the Most Satire-Friendly Event on Earth.

More than 2,600 dogs have converged here, all of them designated champions, in 165 breeds and varieties that range from intimidating (Doberman pinscher) to preposterous (Dandie Dinmont terrier), from the woefully impractical (mastiff) to the largely obscure (Glen of Imaal terrier). On Monday and Tuesday, the show turned the Garden into the yapping and malodorous center of the dog-loving universe, with the top prize, best in show, awarded last night to Ch. Rocky Top's Sundance Kid, a brown and white bull terrier.

Most of the yapping, of course, comes from the owners. Each breed is a soap opera unto itself, with its own intrigue and gossip, its own heroes and villains and, naturally, its own superstars. Spend an afternoon with the Pomeranians and you get a sense of just how complex and vicious -- yes, be forewarned, it is going to get ugly -- these mini-dramas can be.

"I remember watching a handler step on a miniature poodle, during the competition," says Mark Lasiter, who is applying some final touches to his Pomeranian on the first day of competition. "You don't see that too often, but it happens. And there's no way that was an accident."

At another event, according to another dog show regular, a Newfoundland was left alone for a few minutes and someone -- a rival owner, one presumes -- shaved the dog's head.

* * *

As anyone who's seen the movie mockumentary "Best in Show" might have guessed, this whole purebred dog thing went berserk a long time ago. Like any thriving subculture, its language is sometimes hard to decipher. Other times you can understand it, but it sounds all gangsta, all Snoop Dogg, if you will.

"If I could find a really gorgeous bitch, I would think about it," one owner says. "But first I need a really gorgeous bitch."

"I think the judge just really likes long-legged bitches. I've got a short-legged bitch."

Then there are the knickknacks, clothing and art for sale in the concession area. There are doggie bandanas for sale emblazoned with phrases like "If sniffing you is wrong, I don't want to be right" and "What part of biscuit don't you understand?" You can buy chocolates in the shape of dog chews. At a booth for the Hamshere Gallery, antique portraits of dogs are behind glass and priced to not move. A painting of a toy spaniel from 1827 is for sale here for $57,000.

"People have money to spend," Gillie Hamshere says, "and they like to spend it on dogs."

Yes, they do. Everyone here groans about the expense of it all, which can easily cost the common fancier, the backyard breeder, $30,000 a year. A first-class campaign can cost $250,000. It's hard to find anyone who even hopes to break even, let alone turn a profit. The dog-related magazines are stuffed with advertising, and nearly all of it comes from the competitors. Yes, if you're serious about winning at an event like Westminster, it isn't enough to just show up with the ideal dog -- you need to buy an advertisement trumpeting the ideal dog.

The latest issue of Dog News, like all the ones before it, is crammed with ads like the two-pager for Riley, who won multiple specialty citations at the Prescott Arizona Kennel Club and is seen looking alert at the end of a leash, as if ready for reveille. Or Henry, who comes with the tag line "Always a Natural!" Or Zak Attack, described as "America's number one Shetland Sheepdog."

The magazine is the size of an Applebee's menu and more than 470 pages long, and most of those pages are bought by owners pushing their dogs. The inside front cover costs $1,710.

Promoting a dog, it turns out, isn't that different from promoting a hit record: Both need hype. The ads signal that you're serious to the judges, who are often thanked by name right in the copy for their astute choice. ("Our appreciation to Judge Mrs. Robert D. Smith," reads a typical salute to a fine judge of dog flesh.)

It's called campaigning the dog, and it contributes to a certain sense of fatalism among those owners and breeders who aren't ready to launch a six-figure campaign. It's not just ads -- it's getting the right handler, someone the judge will know in the ring.

"It's very political," says Angela Curtis, who owns a keeshond. "We pretty much knew who was going to win our breed today. It's like you just win enough to keep you going."

Among the Pomeranians, the dominant professional handler and odds-on favorite is a thirtyish man named Noble Inglett. Until recently, he handled what he calls "the winningest Pomeranian in history." Last year he spent weeks searching for a replacement, spotting her at last at a show in Kentucky. You get the sense he heard church music.

"It was like, that is the dog," Inglett recalls, cradling Dutchie in both hands. "He's got the perfect Pomeranian face. He's beautiful. Little bit of an attitude problem, but we'll work on that."

Inglett recruited a financial backer, a fellow Pom lover who lives in Hawaii, and this Monday the plan is to turn Dutchie into a fuzzy wuzzy wittle legend. At 2:30 p.m., all the Pomeranian competitors grab their dogs and carry them like Gucci handbags toward the ring, where the Maltese are preening for the top ribbon. The Maltese are perhaps the only breed that the Pomeranians could take in a fight -- they're like Fu Manchu mustaches with invisible legs and they appear to weigh less than 5 ounces apiece. They also appear to the untrained eye to be carbon copies of each other. To the point where you'd guess that the judge would pick a different dog each time if you pulled a three-card monte switcheroo.

Which gets to the sticky issue of what exactly is being judged here. This is a "conformation show," so the winner is whoever comes closest to the ideal as defined by the American Kennel Club. For the Pomeranian, the definition includes details like "The distance from the point of shoulder to the point of buttocks is slightly shorter than from the highest point of the withers to the ground." It goes on and on, in such neurosis-inducing detail that it's a good thing Poms can't read. The "teeth must meet in a scissors bite. One tooth out of alignment is acceptable." Among the no-nos are "domed skull" and "cow hocks," rear legs pointing toward each other.

There are no cow hocks in sight when the Pomeranians friskily enter the ring to a round of applause from the crowd in the stands. Judge Shirley D. Limoges puts them through the paces. There's a body search that the Transportation Security Administration would love, and a few obligatory laps. At one point, a competitor stops for a quick moment to leave a small and stinking souvenir on the ground, which is instantly whisked away with a napkin by the handler. Everyone is spritzing and brushing during spare moments. The dogs are bribed into their maneuvers with liver scraps. A few people have squeeze toys.

After 20 minutes or so of somber reflection and random checks, Limoges makes her choice.

It's Dutchie. There are cheers and photographs. A group of well-wishers presses around Inglett. "Congratulations, princess," says one, giving him a hug.

One handler, however, is livid. It's Jessica Satallante, who says the judge pointed to her dog to give it an "Award of Merit," which was grabbed when a rival handler rushed in front of her at the end of the competition, as all the dogs took a last lap around the ring. She says she was robbed. But her brief and teary protests are rebuffed because -- well, because this isn't the NFL and there are no instant replays.

"It happened so fast," she says, back at the Pomeranian bench. "That lady knows she didn't win. But when I asked her about it, she just said, 'Sorry.' "

That lady is Bronya Johnston, whose version of events is different. Oh, at first she didn't realize the judge had given her a prize, but when she swooped around for that curtain-call lap, the judge handed her a ribbon.

"And then I realized I'd won," she said. "I've got nothing to hide. I don't cheat."

Satallante isn't buying it. A sympathizer tells her that people are evil, a vain attempt to cheer her up. Then you realize there hasn't been so much as a growl from any of the dogs at this show. Compared with the owners, they seem well bred.

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