Plainly put, she adored me—the one who had rescued her from being at the bottom of the pack and moved her up to being a prized top dog—and I adored her back in equal measure. Over time, I began to realize she was a “special” dog, the kind that intuited all my emotions, wrapped herself around me in a cocoon of devotion and loyalty, and stepped up to deliver whatever I required of her.
As the only dog in the house, she received a deluge of affection from the boys as well. Even my father, when he came from Boston for a visit, fell in love with Rhiannon and her gentle ways. One year, he brought her a gift and left it till last on Christmas morning, stuffed into her stocking, deliciously anticipating her reaction. When he pulled it out and unwrapped it for her, he looked very satisfied with himself and handed over a dog bone the size of a dinosaur’s leg. Rhiannon picked it up in her mouth and then just stood there, as if puzzled as to what to do with it. We all erupted into laughter as she set it down on the floor gingerly and waited for someone to tell her what came next.
Jim learned to love Rhiannon, tentatively at first and then with a sort of distracted affection. After I went to bed, she often sat under his desk as he worked in the bedroom late into the evening, warming his toes by resting her muzzle across them. That cozy situation lasted until the night he was immersed enough in his computer not to note her insistent whining to go out, and she peed on his feet. Where I would have shrugged it off, figuring such an event was just part of being a dog owner, he then banished her from the cubbyhole. Jim loved Rhiannon but perhaps never felt truly bonded to her, not with that solid sense of communion the kids and I felt. While he grew to be a dog lover, he would never be a dog person.
•••
The arrival of Rhiannon ushered in a whole new decade for me. Since we had moved to California, I had had the friendships created when Jim and I went to business dinners or his company’s annual outings and Christmas parties, or when we met our new California neighbors at Fourth of July parades, or when one of the kids made friends with a schoolmate and I spent time with the mother on the edge of the soccer field. But I missed all my close friends—mostly those from college years—who had remained behind when I moved to the West Coast. I was lonely for the kind of friendship that was independent of Jim or the kids.
And so I began, a little bit at a time, to involve myself in the hobby of showing dogs, making new friendships as I went along. Rhiannon had helped me to find an activity created solely for me. My family provided a positive backdrop, cheering me on as I pursued It. This reminded me of days at Highlawn, of the dusty ring where we all rode our hearts out, of the excitement of competing and winning a ribbon or a trophy.
By 1992, I had joined the Dalmatian Club of Northern California and the Dalmatian Club of America. Jim had no interest, but he was happy to see me with an activity that made me feel great and anchored my days around more than kids and work and the depression that I still fought intermittently.
He was even starting to enjoy watching the kids on his own—more than when I had been home full-time on the weekends— as he could choose activities for them that he really enjoyed, too, like tennis and baseball, sports that didn’t interest me much. Soon I was addicted to “show and go,” which was the term for driving hours to a show at a distant venue, being in the ring for all of ten minutes, and then, sometimes defeated, turning around to go home again—all without having hung around the fairgrounds for more than an hour or two.
Eventually I would make many “dog” friends, and it was like unraveling a daisy chain of people and their kennels—if you knew one breeder, they introduced you to the next, and over time you knew the people at Paisley and Spotlight and St. Florian and Driftwood and Brookside and Blackberry. It was amazing to me how welcoming everyone was when all they knew about you was that you loved Dals.
But at first there had simply been Marty Stanford, who did almost all the showing, and Stu, extremely personable and adored by almost everyone on the Dal circuit. Initially, I’d tagged along with Marty to every show she entered and helped clean up the dogs before their classes.
That meant I did much of the dirty work: getting the dogs ready well in advance of their ring time, clipping the edges of their coats and their whiskers, washing them down with Self Rinse, and applying the forbidden chalk to those yellowed areas, like the hocks and feet, that were stained and needed to be smoothed over. And then, before entering the ring, there was the final potty run, with its requisite smelly, heavy baggie. It wasn’t long before others who knew her began to observe that Marty had a new “bucket bitch.”
I resented the term—but not enough to quit the role. Instead, I vowed to show my own dogs someday. No co-owning for me again. I felt as if I were paying my dues by helping Marty, and in return had the opportunity to hang around ringside and hear what others breeders were discussing, often behind their hands. Competition was stiff and gossip rampant. Showing was sometimes extremely political, with well-established, highly visible breeders or professional handlers winning most of the points, especially in the “Group” rings. In “Groups” (of which there were seven: Sporting, Hound, Working, Terrier, Toy, Non-Sporting, Herding), the Best-of-Breed winners competed against the others, and then only the single winner from each of the Groups went on to compete for the top honor, Best in Show.
I found myself anticipating each show day eagerly. Watching the animals move fluidly through their paces, or stand up proudly for the judge’s examination, was a recalled pleasure. As my critical eye developed, I could increasingly determine which dogs were, though sometimes serendipitously, worthy of a ribbon.
What I liked the best, however, was the chance to work with the dogs, croon in their ears as I brushed their perennially shedding coats with the same kind of curry comb I’d used at summer camp.
•••
Marty Stanford introduced me to Kathryn Blink, and we turned into good friends quite quickly. I had not stopped hankering after a pup even after Rhiannon moved in, and I had made Jim promise me that we could have one more dog. By the time Kathryn and I got to be close, my family was at the top of her list for a litter that had just been born.
She was a breeder of equal reputation to Marty and Stu, or perhaps greater, and Driftwood Farm, just one town away from me, was known for its obedience dogs as well as its breed-ring champions. Kathryn had a good sense of humor and was known for her loud laugh and bossy manner. I was drawn to her sense of buoyancy, which was refreshing after all of Marty’s seriousness, but especially because she treated me as an equal, not as a daughter.
And through Kathryn, I met Dawn Mauel of Saint Florian Dalmatians, well respected for her line as well as her expert handling. She wasn’t interested in obedience, but that didn’t seem to stop a friendship from developing between us. Perhaps I was just glad not to have someone to compete with in that arena. Short, with a head of thick, glossy black hair, she was very attractive, and I always felt a bit at a disadvantage when standing next to her, a gangly blonde Jeff to her petite dark Mutt. Over the next several years the friendship deepened until it became the one I depended on and enjoyed the most. My world within the fancy was growing.
•••
In January of 1993, I finally chose that puppy I’d been looking for, but this time, it was from one of Kathryn’s litters. Born on December 30, Tia became an official family member that February. She was one of the smaller girls in the litter, and when I brought her home at eight weeks old, everyone loved her right away—including two-year-old Rhiannon. She was the prettiest Dalmatian I had ever owned, with just the right amount of “hand-painted” spotting, a lovely head shape, and dark brown eyes that made Rhiannon’s look even lighter.
The dogs were, through a twist of pedigree, aunt and niece. Tia was a joyous pup, not unlike Daisy, with a Dalmatian smile for everyone and an independent streak that often led her into interesting predicaments. She loved to roll in the mud and come out coated black all the way up to her eyeballs. Her favorite spot to hang out was not a cha
ir in my writing room, but underneath the wheelbarrow in the garden. I have many photos of her nestled in the grass with just her snoot peeking out around the wheels, garden tools mingled with old dog toys that obviously held no interest for her. Later we would discover what did hold her interest.
She quickly became enmeshed in the household. As she grew from puppyhood to adolescence, she became the star of the stories I told to the boys at bedtime. In addition to reading books to them, I made up fantasy tales in which Tia was a nightrider, encountering dragons and unicorns, wearing a ruby jewel in her forehead as a sign of her intrepid nature. Night by night she made her way from one land to another, up mountains and through forests, our independent voyager.
While Rhiannon was clearly my dog, Tia was everyone’s dog. Whining wasn’t part of her canine vocabulary, and she would just wait patiently until someone let her out the door or filled her dish with kibble. As our family ate dinner at the kitchen table, she hunkered down at our feet, waiting quietly for a piece of food to fall, rather than persistently nudging your elbow hard, as did Rhiannon.
Tia did have one unique trait, however, and as she grew, it turned into one of her main activities: despite the fact that Dals are not ratters, Tia loved to chase down squirrels, just as Daisy had. Rhiannon had never shown the slightest interest in a bird, snake, or squirrel, but Tia was wild for the latter, though she’d never actually caught one. Because this was safer than chasing cars, I didn’t worry about it. Squirrels were too quick, though we found lots of trophies, usually dead roof rats (a California specialty), laid carefully at any one of our doorsteps.
With a curious streak built into her personality, Tia just couldn’t keep from investigating things. One night just as I was turning out the light, I heard a loud scrabbling at the screen slider that led from our bedroom out into the backyard. As I walked to the door, the scratching grew more and more frantic, accompanied by moans. I opened to door to find Tia with the left side of her face covered in some kind of viscous glop. It was oozing right down into her eye and from there onto her muzzle and from there onto the rug. As I hollered at Jim to get a towel, I got my first whiff.
I had always imagined a skunk’s spray to be more like the mist from an aerosol can. This was thick enough to scrape off with a spoon. I picked her up and ran with her to the bathroom, where I put her into the tub and turned the spray nozzle of cold water directly into her eyes. All I could think was that she might go blind. She stood there as bravely as Gidget once had and didn’t move, letting the water flush the stuff out.
Jim was dispatched to Safeway to buy tomato juice. I was still rinsing Tia with cold water when he came back with four cans of tomato juice and three jugs of V8. He’d also brought vinegar because the checker at the store had sworn that vinegar was excellent at getting skunk out of dogs. I didn’t know then about the sure-fire remedy for skunk that consisted of baking soda, hydrogen peroxide, and dishwashing soap.
Predictably enough, neither the tomato juice, nor the V8, nor the vinegar worked. The house stunk, she stunk, we stunk.
For the next six months, every time it rained and her coat got wet, it smelled like an invasion again, even though she had been sprayed only the one time. It finally occurred to us that from the position and quantity of slimy deposit on her, she must have been virtually sniffing his tail when he let go full in her face. She hadn’t even had the time to turn aside.
Tia also liked to chase our two Abyssinian cats, who probably looked like red squirrels to her. As a small puppy, she began by wanting to romp gently after them, around and over the furniture, and I quickly grew exasperated at having to pick up family photos knocked from the piano top and chairs tipped over on their sides. Eventually the cats were relegated to the boy’s end of the house and the family room, and the dogs took over the kitchen, living room, our bedroom, and my office.
One summer morning, Tia paced back and forth in front of the screen door in our bedroom, obviously highly anxious to go out, but—remembering the episode with the skunk—I hesitated and peered out into the yard. Nothing visible, I decided, reminding myself that skunks were nocturnal. Still, it was with some hesitation that I released her. Once I’d closed the slider behind her, however, I could see something was going on: she took off as if propelled from a cannon, tried to jump clear across the upper end of the swimming pool and fell in, clambered out by going up the steps she remembered so well, and then didn’t pause a minute for even a shake—just started running again pell-mell across the yard, where she came face-to-face with a big bushy-tailed black squirrel.
Trapped, the squirrel ran in circles as Tia chased it, making the tragic mistake of not climbing the fence, which would have put it out of her reach. She was extremely fast, and it took her only a moment to pounce. I ran toward her, yelling at her to drop it, but quickly she shook her head sharply from side to side.
I arrived at her side, panting from my quick sprint, and she dropped it from her mouth. I grabbed her collar, slippery from her dunk in the pool. The squirrel was still alive, but with its neck broken, now paralyzed, looking up at us with one eye as it lay there on its side. There was not a mark on it, but it was clear it was checking out on life. Tia strained to be released, undoubtedly wanting to finish it off. I thought, in horror, that if I didn’t let her go, I would have to kill it. I couldn’t just leave it there to die, and I wasn’t about to let her at it again. Angrily, I dragged my soaking-wet dog off to shut her in the garbage area. Once again, because she was wet, she stunk of skunk. I got a shovel and gave the squirrel a big bang on the head, then picked it up and took it out to the trash.
Tia was waiting for me. As I dumped my sad burden into the black can and locked the lid, I looked down at her, ready to begin the “bad dog!!” routine. But there she was: little Tia, joyous little Tia—who would have known there was a killer in her? She was wagging her tail as hard as she could, her whole body moving side to side. Her bright eyes shone up at me. I shut my mouth and went in for a bath towel.
One cool summer evening, the entire family was out in the backyard. As the sun went down, the boys and Jim were playing catch, and Rhiannon and I were working over white jumps on the lawn. We were getting ready to compete for the first leg of her first obedience title, at the Dalmatian Club of America National Specialty, the biggest annual show devoted solely to Dalmatians, which this year was to be held in San Rafael, just over the Golden Gate Bridge from where we lived. Tia began chasing the boys’ ball and getting in the way.
In 1992, just about the time Tia arrived and I got a new prospect for the breed ring, I had switched gears from the conformation ring with Rhiannon and begun to train her for obedience as well. Here she would be judged on her performance at a certain set of tasks. As we practiced, slowly, several times a day, heeling smoothly and in concert as if we were one, her eyes were always on my face as we executed this pas de deux. I felt a surge of satisfaction. Loyal as ever, Rhiannon was eager to please me. It was a new sort of lesson: a dog’s loyalty easily rivaled a human’s. Kathryn and her obedience girl, Button, met up with Rhiannon and me several times a week to practice on the smooth surface of our backyard lawn.
Rhiannon turned out to have the kind of obedience potential that makes a handler wait to show her until perfection is achieved. No settling for scores of 175 out of a possible, but perhaps unattainable, 200. I wanted to see the high 190s, and I absolutely believed we could do it. Even the prestigious and coveted obedience award of what is commonly known as “High in Trial”—won by the dog with the top score overall and similar to conformation’s Best in Show—might not be beyound her reach.
Ignoring Jim’s problems as Tia continued to interfere with their ball that night, I put Rhiannon on a down stay and walked away from her, to go and hide behind a tree. For the Companion Dog obedience title (CD), it wasn’t necessary for her to be going over the jumps or for me to be out of sight on a down stay, but she did have to remain lying on her side without changing position for a total of three minutes
while I stood on the other side of the ring. I was training her with the requirements for the higher-level Companion Dog Excellent (CDX), as a way of making her truly solid for the CD we were working toward, and so I was asking her to stay without moving for five minutes.
“Come on boys, we’re going in to read,” Jim declared after a while, wiping his forehead on his sleeve. “I’m exhausted.” Tia tagged after them, probably confident of cadging a scrap of whatever snack they would choose as they sat down with their books.
After I released her from her down stay, Rhiannon and I began heeling, moving up and down, back and forth, as a synchronized team. I called a pattern aloud the way the judge would, in any order he or she chose, in three short weeks. “Forward,” then “right turn,” then “fast,” then “normal,” then “left turn,” then “slow,” then “normal,” then “about turn,” then “halt.” And at last, “Exercise finished!” Rhiannon had to watch my face the entire time even though she was at my side, to move with my every move. I wasn’t satisfied with anything less than straight lines, good footwork, and smooth turns. Sometimes I used a clear Plexiglas rod to gently tap her butt or chest if she lagged behind or forged ahead a bit. I was back to showing again, with dogs rather than horses, and I was pursuing it with a vengeance. My family was proud and sometimes stood at the edge of the lawn to watch us practice.
I had begun by showing Rhiannon in the conformation ring, where classes are judged solely on the way the dog is put together structurally, the size and clarity of the spots, the motion of the body while moving around the ring; however, by the time she was three, I had come to the conclusion that the real reason Marty and Stu had placed her in a co-own home (perhaps without even acknowledging it to themselves) was because they wanted to fill her crate in their kitchen with a dog that had more potential. Rhiannon wasn’t truly competitive in the conformation ring: she was too colorful; she was too high in the rear, too upright in the shoulder; her eyes were light enough to brighten a dark room; and she had long feet shaped like a rabbit’s, rather than those resembling tight round cat’s paws. She did have some good qualities, but not enough of them. Tia, on the other hand, was a different story. She had promise, and I was just beginning to show her in the “nine-to-twelve-month puppy bitch” class.
Bespotted: My Family's Love Affair With Thirty-Eight Dalmatians Page 6
