by Josh Dean
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BLACK TRI AUSSIE
By the time Jack was due to show on day two, the judge had already cast aside a good dozen lesser dogs from the lower classes that precede the Best of Breed competition. Being so new, I couldn’t help but obsess over aesthetics—I was searching for the dog whose appearance looked best to my untrained eye—but Kimberly pointed out that the more knowledgeable observer of Australian shepherds keys on movement. “Jack is a good mover,” she would say over and over (and over). And as he stacked up behind the Crufts dog, noticeably larger in juxtaposition, she patted my shoulder. “I have butterflies.”
The common belief about dog shows is that they are beauty pageants, but that’s only sort of right. A beauty pageant as we humans do it is a competition that sets out to judge some entirely subjective idea of beauty—hair, eye, and skin color hardly matter; height and weight do, to some degree, but what’s perfect, exactly, is never clear. What matters, really, is that the judges—using gut instinct and fuzzy logic, plus their own inclinations—decide that one human is more “beautiful” than the others, whatever that means.
In a dog show, it’s a lot more scientific, at least in theory: The judge sets out to identify which of the dogs assembled best represents a very specific ideal that is articulated quite explicitly in print by the parent club of a particular breed and then backed up by the American Kennel Club. It’s known as the breed standard, and you can find it on the AKC Web site as well as in Web and print materials published by each breed’s parent organization. It’s not necessarily which Australian shepherd, then, is the most beautiful, but rather which one looks the most like the theoretical perfect dog as defined by the small group of humans who founded the breed and maintain its definition.
How a breeder knows that a puppy will grow up to be perfect, or at least potentially so, is pretty fuzzy, too (no pun intended). It’s not at all a science and is at best a mix of instinct and guesswork. Basically, that breeder is looking for clear markers of future flaws that would disqualify a show dog. In the case of Aussies, one would be white splashes “between withers and tail.”
Some of these markers are apparent early—those white splashes, or some badly splayed back legs—but often it’s more like an educated guess, and if a statistician were to get ambitious and track an appropriately giant sample set to match predicted success with actual success, we’d probably find out that breeders are wrong as often as they’re right. Go to a dog show and talk to enough people and you’ll find plenty of examples of people who “had no idea” their dog would become a champion, and each year at Westminster the PR machine trots out examples of dogs that were abandoned, or left for dead, or considered too ugly or lame or stupid who grew up to become top show dogs. Kimberly chose Jack, for instance, primarily to be a house pet, as well as an occasional agility competitor.
Each breed also has a standard for movement, and because Aussies have such disparate looks and the breed was created to be agile, movement is especially critical in judging. Kimberly explained it this way: “You need to move fast enough so you can get that flowy movement but not so fast that you lose foot timing.” “Flowy movement” is a bit of an amorphous idea, but it’s more or less an elegance of motion that looks both athletic and effortless. Foot timing refers to the four feet being in perfect alignment, so that one front and one rear work together, as if joined on a string. “That’s all the handler,” she said.
When directed by the judge, a handler will lead her dog straight ahead and then back. This is known as “down and back” or “coming and going,” and if you hang around show people, you will often hear them say things like, “I wish he were better coming and going.” Handlers will next run their dogs around the outside perimeter of the ring to give the judge a look at the “side gait.” These are two different measures of perfection in movement, and judges of different breeds weigh the value of each pattern differently.
One tip-off that a judge doesn’t like a dog is when she stops watching before it has completed the movement—she might watch it down but will then turn to analyze the next dog by the time it’s coming back. Very often the judge will watch only half of the run around the ring and then turn back to the next dog in line.
Before the test of its movement, though, a dog must “stack.” This is that statuary pose you’ll know if you’ve ever watched Westminster on TV. The dog stands dead still, front legs under its chest, back legs slightly splayed, staring straight ahead at the fixed palm of its handler, which may or may not contain treats, known as “bait.” Treats come in many varieties, the most popular being hot-dog chunks, Purina Carvers, and freeze-dried liver. Some dogs love mozzarella sticks.
Unlike movement, stacking is not a natural act for a dog, and each one must be taught. Some pick it up easily. In Jack’s case, he was already good at tricks and obedience and was adept at something called “targeting”—putting a paw on a fixed object—so Kimberly just had to teach him to set all four paws in a stance and “stay.” Once he got it, he got it.
Nearly all dog behavior is relatable to wolves (after all, they are just evolved wolves), and if you think of all dog activity in the context of their wild ancestors, you will realize that standing stone still is not so natural; it’s hardly biologically advantageous in a world where other things want to stalk and kill you. And yet it is a critical ability of any show dog—not just to stand still but to stand still in a very precise way that accentuates structure, and to do so for an extended period while an unfamiliar human molests you.
Plenty of dogs flunk conformation before they’ve attended a single show, because they are unable to master this seemingly simple skill. And plenty of others owe their aptitude at impersonating a statue to something called Happy Legs, a contraption devised for the very specific purpose of teaching dogs how to stand-stay in a correct show pose. Basically, the Happy Legs looks like a box with four “stilts,” or paw-size platforms, on which a dog balances. After some time and ample treats, a dog will come to see this as a trick he can do on command, like fetching or rolling over. Happy Legs come in three sizes, costs two hundred dollars, and if the “barkimonials” on the Web site are any indication, purchasers see results within minutes.
Happy Legs* is the invention of Mr. and Mrs. Happy Legs, aka David and Susan Catlin of Kennesaw, Georgia, an exurb of Atlanta so conservative that local lawmakers—in reaction to a nationwide movement for increasingly stringent gun legislation—passed a town ordinance in 1982 mandating that all residents own “a firearm together with ammunition.”
Happy Legs “has revolutionized the way that people teach the stand for examination,” Mrs. Happy Legs told me.* She said it is such a staple of the show world that it is now “standard equipment, just like a grooming table or a brush.”
Happy Legs works for the same reason any obedience trick does—and for the same reason that Jack will gladly do things: for the satisfaction of successfully completing a challenge. Susan said that in the very early days there were people who accused her of dog torture. “People said it was cruel. But dogs think it’s a game. It’s muscle memory. And it’s a quick, easy game. You stand up on these four things that won’t tip over and you’ve won. They’re like, ‘Really? You’re happy, I get food, and you’ll pet me? That’s it?’”
Prior to its invention, she said, “We just yelled at the dogs.” Which in addition to being cruel is actually detrimental, because one common flaw in purebred dogs is an insecure temperament, and if you yell at an insecure dog, it’s only going to intensify his shyness around humans. “So we would slowly but surely lose the show attitude,” Mrs. Happy Legs told me. “You tried to teach them this concept that they never really got. A certain amount of dogs are so correct in structure they can’t stand any other way. Others are ever so slightly off. We simply lost dogs much, much sooner.”
On her contribution to the service of show dogs, Mrs. Happy Legs isn’t modest. “It has changed the face of the show scene,” she proclaimed. “I would argue tha
t point with any high-profile judge or handler.”
In Jack’s case, he was both structurally sound and willing to play the game of standing still. There was no need for Happy Legs, even in the beginning. And he looked good in the ring on Wildwood’s second day, but, for whatever reason, the judge preferred the Crufts dog that day. Judges have no obligation to explain themselves. If you ask nicely, some will gladly elucidate their rationale; others choose to keep their reasons private.
“He showed well today,” Heather said as she walked out and handed the dog to Kimberly. Within minutes she’d be on a new dog, in a new ring. “I could tell she liked big dogs. And she didn’t want them to move too fast.” Both things did not favor Jack.
Kimberly seemed to be accepting of her fate. “I said before I got here that because he won yesterday, the weekend is a success no matter what happens,” she said, but I didn’t totally buy it.
At 9:23 A.M. on Friday, day three at the Wildwood show, a PA crackled to life and a tinny female voice addressed “all the rumors and stories about the storm.”
“The show will go on,” the voice droned, for once wielding this tired old cliché in proper context. “This building will not close. We are open twenty-four hours for your and your dogs’ safety.” There was more murmuring that I couldn’t pick up, and the woman finished with this defiant line, using, for the second time in one PA announcement, a cliché in a way that was not only appropriate, but accurate. After a dramatic pause, as in a stump speech, she bellowed, “Together we will weather this storm!”
Kimberly had gone home for the night and returned with Summer, to start the process of getting her second dog used to the chaos in case Kimberly decided to show her, too, even though whether or not she ultimately would was very much in question. Lately the young bitch had been growing into her looks. If you’d asked Kimberly in January, she would have said she thought that Summer was “sweet, but not so smart” and that despite the fact that she’d appeared to be “show quality” as a puppy, she looked likely to grow up to have overly short legs and subpar movement. Lately, however, Kimberly was starting to look at her differently.
The more Jack won, the more valuable his sperm would become. And Summer (whose AKC name is Montrose Sheza Hot Shot), could ultimately be a good mate. Because Jack is a blue dog who is “red factored,” meaning he has red genes in his pedigree,* theoretical litters from a theoretical mating with a red dog like Summer could, theoretically, produce puppies in all four color variations, an attractive result in that there’s something for everyone. This was an angle that Kim had considered from the outset, and it’s the reason Summer is a red tri and not a red merle.
To protect the gene pool, breeders of Australian shepherds have learned that it is not advisable to breed merle to merle—no reputable breeder would ever do it. The reason: There’s a 25 percent risk of blindness and/or deafness in the resulting puppies. “What it does is produce too much white,” Kimberly explained as we waited for smooth-coated collies to clear the ring and make room for the Aussies. Lest you think the breed standards are too capricious and nitpicky—and I certainly thought that—consider that they have very specific reasons for being. In the case of Aussies, the standard dictates where and how much white a dog can have. In particular, white hair around the ears and eyes is considered a serious flaw. This isn’t because someone decided it looks bad, but because white around the eyes is an indicator of increased potential for future blindness. Similarly, if the ears should be all white, there’s a good chance that dog will be deaf. In the end nearly any specific stipulation of the breed standard is there to protect the gene pool. Because showing dogs is really all about breeding.
Ditto movement. The fact that a judge dismisses a dog for having a less-than-perfect gait really stems from the same place. Ultimately the question the judge should be answering is this: Can this Australian shepherd do his job? If he’s built right, and moving right, and can turn quickly, and be light and agile, he can do his job—he can herd sheep. Similarly, this is why you’ll see judges pull on the terriers’ tails. Terriers need sturdy tails that can be yanked and tugged, because that’s the way you pull them out of a hole should they get stuck while chasing rats or rabbits or gophers. If one barks or snaps or recoils when the judge pulls, he’s probably going to be a bad terrier.
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AUSSIE MOVEMENT
Jack’s performance on Friday would dictate Kimberly’s schedule for the rest of the weekend. If he won, she’d likely enter him the next day, because two wins in a row add up to momentum, and you never stand in the way of that. If he didn’t win, however, she was likely to take him home and skip the weekend. Having a pessimist’s view on Jack’s progress, Kimberly tended to take a loss as more than a loss—she saw it as a sign that her dog wasn’t good enough after all, even though anyone who’s been in showing dogs for a long time will tell you not to draw any conclusions from a single result, or even a string of them. Even the world’s best dog will sometimes lose to a clunker.
But a problem seemed to be brewing. Because Jack’s judge was now running twenty minutes late, there was a chance Heather wouldn’t be able to handle him at all. So tightly packed is Heather’s schedule at a big show like Wildwood that she can’t really accommodate delays without bumping another dog from the slate. Only the few top dogs on yearlong contracts, such as Tanner and Rita, get priority ensuring that the proper handler (Heather for Tanner, Kevin for Rita) will be on the leash. In situations where there’s an intractable conflict with newer noncontract dogs, like Jack, it’s up to Heather to make a judgment call as to which one has a better chance of doing well with a substitute handler, and in that case she’ll recruit a friend to take over.
This informal system of handlers helping other handlers is a critical component of the so-called all-breed professionals who take a truck full of dogs to the show, because there is almost never a weekend, or even a day, when a handler doesn’t need a last-minute substitute. A secondary and no-less-critical effect of this system is that it encourages handlers to be good sports and to maintain friendly relations with one another, because gossip is rampant at dog shows, and if you alienate one member of the club, you’re much less likely to find a free hand when you need it.
Kimberly watched the clock and fretted, first over the possibility that she’d driven up, paid for a hotel, and spent the whole day watching other people’s dogs, all for naught. Then seemingly over whatever else popped into her head. “One of the things I’m getting worried about is that many of the Best of Breed winners out there are so much older,” she said, apropos of nothing. “Jack isn’t two yet, and Aussies don’t fully mature until they’re three.” She said she was constantly asking Heather if she should wait for him to grow up a little.
Heather’s answer?
“No. Every time no.”
Perhaps, at least, this could explain his irrational exuberance, as well as his tendency to get distracted.
“That’s my fault,” she answered, and explained that because she’d bought Jack as a companion foremost, she’d taught him tricks and commands that were essential (sit, stay) or else fun and cute (do a handstand, find your baby), but because he was bought at show quality and Kimberly was afraid he might get sick or injured, she’d neglected to socialize him with other people or dogs—to teach him, for instance, when it’s appropriate to jump on a person. (The answer: only when encouraged to do so.) “It’s something I need to work on,” she said. “But he’s smart; he knows. He can learn.”
The judge, meanwhile, had finally arrived. She was a plump, elderly woman who both hunched and shuffled. Because she would also judge the Herding Group later in the afternoon, a win for Jack in the breed ring would be extra nice. But Kimberly’s natural defense against disappointment, pessimism, was getting the best of her, and she had already decided that it was a lost cause, even if Heather did show up, which she was certain wasn’t going to happen anyway.
Now that Jack was a “special”—as champion dogs
that continue to show are known—and competing only against other champions, Kimberly was having to adjust her expectations. “Everyone keeps telling me I was spoiled,” she said of the early days when she was working on Jack’s championship. “It’s harder now that we are competing against other champions. They are all nice dogs, and most are more mature than Jack.”
I pointed out that no dog can possibly win every weekend and that Tanner’s owner, Dawn Cox, was a good person to consider as a model. Tanner, America’s top Bernese mountain dog, had lost earlier in the morning, to an unfinished dog out of the puppy classes, which is sort of ridiculous, and Dawn had just shrugged it off. In part because that’s Dawn—whose response to Tanner’s defeat was, “I’m more worried about what time I’m having my first glass of wine”—and in part because that same judge had also failed to pick the country’s number-one-ranked boxer and the top-ranked Doberman, the two dogs that had bested Tanner in the prior day’s Working Group, which that judged had declared “the finest Working Group she’d ever judged in her career.” So Dawn just laughed. “This is why you can’t get mad. It means absolutely nothing.”
Kimberly shrugged. She understood, at least in theory. “I know if I really want to be successful, I have to accept failure. You win and lose.”
