by Josh Dean
In the ring it was hard to get a read on Mr. Clemente and his mustard blazer. He took a hard look at Ben and Player and seemed only to glance at Jack, which was fortunate, because once the judge turned his back, Jack broke trot and leaped into the air. But by the time Clemente was looking at him again, stacked in line, Heather had Jack settled. Clemente took a long time to consider the line of dogs. A class dog, a red merle, seemed to be getting the hardest look, but in the end it was Jack again. And as Heather hurried off to another dog in another ring, she handed me the lead, patted Jack, and said, “He was a very good show dog today.”
Which just goes to show how little I still knew about reading his behavior.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Jack and Summer
* * *
When breeding a young bitch for the first time, it is often best to use a proven stud dog.
—DAN RICE, The Complete Book of Dog Breeding
* * *
Sometime between New Paltz and the first of July, catastrophe struck back home at Kimberly’s. Summer was in full-blown heat, and, having just spent weeks unsuccessfully copulating with Halle and then a few days in a truck with another bitch in heat, Jack was absolutely out of his mind with doggy lust. He was, in Kimberly’s words, “whining like crazy, panting, drooling, and not eating a thing.” He was losing fur and dropping coat, and, to make matters worse, the object of his affection, if that’s what you’d call it, had absolutely no interest; she was clinging to Kimberly for protection.
Kimberly was living in a prison of hormonal dogs, going about her home life on edge as Jack chased a potential mate whose only defense was to use Kimberly as a human barrier. So frustrating was the experience that the only way Kimberly could relax was to partition off the front room with a gate and keep Summer penned in.
Then one afternoon my phone rang. It was Kimberly.
“You have to promise me you won’t put this in the book,” she said, and the fact that you’re reading these words means that she later recanted. “Jack raped Summer.”
That was one way to get my attention.
What seemed to have happened was that Kimberly—with a tight grip on Jack’s leash—had gone to retrieve Summer from the front room to take her to the yard to pee, and in the instant that her guard was down and a portal opened, Jack went mental and, Kimberly said, “knocked me on my ass—well, actually on my hands and knees into the gate.”
Stunned, she watched in slow motion as Jack seized his moment of freedom, and “in the sixty seconds it took me to get up and walk to the living room, they were tied!” Kimberly panicked, which panicked Summer, who, having never mated before and being unsure how to react, dropped to the floor and attempted to roll over and shed the frantically humping dog latched onto her backside. But dogs tied are tied, and there was really no escape for her. So Kimberly called out for Taylor, who never heard her cries, and righted the dogs to an appropriate position, then held on and attempted to comfort Summer until it was over. “She kept trying to hug me and climb in my lap,” Kimberly said. “Poor baby! Damn Jack!”
She was embarrassed, she told me—“mortified, and so worried about Summer.” The dog, being only just over a year, was, in her opinion, “way too young and too little for this.” (According to the AKC, however, a bitch need only be eight months.) What’s more, Kimberly had recently decided that the two wouldn’t ever make a good mating pair—mostly because Summer’s legs were too stubby, and while Jack’s legs were a fine length, they weren’t so long that he’d likely cancel that flaw. She had even begun to consider having the bitch spayed.
Nothing about the situation was good, in her estimation. Having heard of a “morning-after pill for dogs,” Kimberly located it online, only to read that it wasn’t 100 percent safe. And so she resigned herself to her fate and had already told Kerry, who she said was surprisingly supportive—though probably at heart at least a little upset at the news. If Jack had been successful with Halle, the puppies would have been due any day.
This was a complication no one could have planned for.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Bel Alton
* * *
In how many other sports can a rank amateur—with a little luck and a lot of work, or vice versa, walk right in and have at least a chance of defeating the top pros?
—BO BENGSTON, Best in Show (THE BOOK, NO RELATION TO THE FILM)
* * *
The Charles County Fairgrounds in Bel Alton, Maryland, were home to the Blue Crab Cluster, which ran over the Fourth of July weekend. And a total of fourteen Australian shepherds had gathered in Ring 3 for assessment by Judge Walter Sommerfelt. It was a small field with one dog casting a giant shadow—Beyoncé. America’s top Aussie had traveled north in pursuit of points, and as the judge conferred with his steward, she stood calmly, her shiny black hair perfect as always, while her handler, Jamie Clute, warmed up in his camel-hair jacket with a series of exaggerated neck rolls.
Mr. Sommerfelt had a round face, salt-and-pepper hair, and a trim mustache, and I caught him staring at Beyoncé like a teenager in love as the low, lithe dog circled the ring on legs that moved so fast they seemed to blur. It was beyond obvious that Sommerfelt liked her, as so many judges had before, and the result was never in doubt. He gave the breed to Beyoncé, Best of Opposite to Bentley, and a Select ribbon to Jack, who celebrated the completion of his day’s work by jumping on the judge when he walked by to enter the results in his book.
The following day Jack’s judge was to be Terry DePietro, a recently retired schoolteacher from New Jersey who wore a floor-length floral dress and a straw Kentucky Derby–style hat. As she and Heather had known each other for years, I asked for an introduction and told DePietro that I hoped to catch up and talk a little about her job once she’d finished with the day’s assignment. We met for some lunch in the judge’s lounge, one of the few air-conditioned places on the grounds.
A dog had been disqualified earlier in the day, and I’d hoped DePietro might know why. She did not; the rumor was either too new or just that, a rumor. The most common disqualification, she said, was the one that had befallen Trader: aggression toward the judge. “If they try to bite you,” she said, “they’re done.” And not just that—the dog is suspended from all showing and must apply for reinstatement, which involves a number of hurdles, including a critical test. The dog must appear before three separate judges, she explained. “If he can stand and be inspected by all three, he can be reinstated.” (This is one judging assignment that seems unlikely to be sought after.)
The other thing that will get a dog booted is alteration of its appearance, and there is no grayer area—pun only sort of intended—in dog showing than this one. According to the letter of the law, you can’t alter a dog’s appearance in any unnatural way. This would apply to extreme procedures such as cosmetic surgery or the use of implants, as well as to simpler, wildly common practices such as the use of chalk and hair spray—the AKC rule book states that “no foreign substances” may be used. So if you were going by the book—and no one does—much of what takes place openly on grooming tables would be illegal. There is not a poodle or bichon in the ring that hasn’t been coated in hair spray, nor a white dog that hasn’t been chalked.
DePietro, like all judges, is well aware of the particulars of dog-show grooming. And she’s pretty tolerant, so long as the exhibitors don’t overdo it. “If I pet the dog and the powder goes up everywhere, he’s out,” she said. She’s not at all tolerant of more extreme cheating—such as the use of false teeth. It’s also not unusual for people to use rubber bands to straighten a dog’s bite, she said.
Some cheating is very difficult to uncover. Sporting dogs, for instance, are supposed to have a “two o’clock tail set,” meaning that the tail dangles just a little above the dog’s topline. But many, and especially those goofy, happy, goldens, carry their tails high; it’s just how they turn out, and you can imagine that we humans selected them that way at some point because it was cute
. But it’s not to the standard. And to compensate, some devious owners will cut a muscle in the tail, causing it to drop. This kind of thing infuriates DePietro. “What’s the point of finishing that dog? All of its puppies are going to have that tail in the air.”
Other deceptive practices that are difficult to detect would include the dyeing of hair (to make black dogs blacker, especially poodles), the tattooing of eyelids (because brown ones can be a flaw on dogs that should have black), and the insertion of prosthetic testicles into a monorchid dog,* as well as surgery to “correct” droopy ears or tails. In England judges were warned before the 2010 Crufts show to be vigilant especially for dye jobs, and there is even talk of testing hair samples of suspect animals. Judges will also sometimes pat a poodle’s topknot to check for the use of hairpieces to enhance the pouf.
Sue Vroom, one of twelve AKC field representatives, told me that the important distinction for altering a dog’s appearance is between a “foreign substance”—which can be grounds for an excusal—and a “change of appearance,” which is a disqualification. The former is temporary and would be a case where the judge decides that the handler has used an “unacceptable substance” (e.g., chalk or hair spray) that “would diminish the judge’s ability to evaluate the natural characteristic of that dog.” An excusal basically means, “Get out of my ring, for now.” The dog would be done for the day, but the handler is certainly welcome to go give him a bath and come back the next day. On the other hand, a disqualification for change of appearance is one for permanent alteration—things such as adding a prosthetic testicle, or an eye, or teeth or a bridge, strings in the ears, or the removal of the third eyelid. A disqualification is permanent for the dog, and the handler is also subject to suspension and/or fine.
The AKC rule book also explicitly prohibits “cosmetic surgery,” but this rule is not always clear-cut. One discussion in the forums of the online magazine Dog Press revolved around a “big-winning mastiff” that had leg surgery to correct a torn ligament. This seems fine—an injured dog should be fixed, right?—but the breed community was divided, because it was unclear if the injury was accidental or genetic. On another forum I found a discussion over the removal of “hanging nipples” on Great Danes; a vet had recommended it for the dog’s comfort, but the reaction of responders was unanimous: Doing it will get your dog bounced.
The rule is this: “A dog is considered changed in appearance by artificial means if it has been subjected to any type of procedure that has the effect of obscuring, disguising or eliminating any congenital or hereditary abnormality or any undesirable characteristic, or that does anything to improve a dog’s natural appearance, temperament, bite or gait.” (Even if these surgeries were critical to the dog’s health, I should add.)
The rules then go on to list eleven “procedures that would in and of themselves be considered a change in appearance by artificial means and make a dog ineligible for shows.” The list includes the following: trimming, removal, or tattooing of the third eyelid (nictitating membrane—the transparent third eyelid that Vroom was talking about earlier); the insertion of an eye prosthesis; correction of harelip, cleft palate, stenotic nares, or an elongated soft palate resection; any procedure to change ear set or carriage other than that permitted by the breed standard; restorative dental procedures, the use of bands or braces on teeth, or any alteration of the dental arcade; the removal of excess skin folds or the removal of skin patches to alter markings; correction of inguinal, scrotal, or perineal hernias;* surgery for hip dysplasia, (osteochondrosis), patellar luxation, and femoral head resection; alteration of the location of the testes or the insertion of an artificial testicle; altering the set or carriage of the tail.
That last one is different from tail docking, which is one of a few artificial changes that the AKC is just fine with. The others are the removal of dewclaws,* if permissible by the breed, and debarking, which involves the partial removal of the vocal folds to cease or soften a dog’s bark.
The most egregious example of cheating I heard about came up well into the writing of this book, when a Google News alert pointed me to a news story almost too shocking to accept. An Illinois man was arrested after a Chicago dog show in December 2010 and accused of drugging a top Siberian husky named Pixie, handled by none other than Jessica Plourde, Bentley’s handler. Plourde apparently noticed that her dog was unnaturally sluggish, and when a witness reported seeing this man—whose girlfriend owned and handled a rival husky—feeding Pixie suspiciously, Plourde alerted officials and rushed the dog to the vet, who pumped her stomach and found both Benadryl and a drug called Protonix in her stomach. The man was charged with misdemeanor animal cruelty, but was later acquitted due to lack of evidence.
Like most Saturday shows, the next day’s brought a far larger field, and Heather was showing three different golden retrievers, one of whom, Brad, turned out to be a notorious figure in the camp. Brad’s claim to fame was that he gets so excited when he’s on the grooming table that . . . well, he gets about as excited as a male dog possibly can. Kevin happened to look over the first time Heather was grooming him, and he did a double take at the sight. “I was like, ‘Heather, what did you do?!’”
Brad’s owner Diane Petruzzo, maker and seller of beautiful, hand-beaded, kangaroo-leather show leads (including Jack’s) under the name Cane D’Oro, laughed when this story was recounted. It was just something she’d come to deal with. “Once he was fully groomed and ready for the ring, I was like ‘Oh, no – he’s dripping! We may as well let him finish.’” There was no further detail given. “What can I say?” she said unabashedly. “He thinks he’s a stud.”
Speaking of excited, Jack was hardly any calmer, despite the lack of rottweilers in heat. “He’s a bad boy,” Heather said. “He does not need another thing to be excited about.” She gave me a look. “You need to train your dog”—lately she had begun to call him that in my presence, especially when Kimberly wasn’t around.
It was hotter on Saturday, and a huge airplane-propeller-size fan blew beside the ring presided over by Thomas Feneis, who wore khakis, a short-sleeved oxford, and a white ball cap; a cell phone was clipped to his belt.
Jamie Clute had ditched the camel hair in favor of a blue suit that made him look too slick for the surroundings and also overdressed, considering it was ninety-five degrees out. Jamie, I decided, had an air about him, as if he assumed that the result was preordained, and I guess you could hardly blame him. Beyoncé had lost only a handful of times in 2010 and was not only the top Aussie but also the number-three Herding Dog as well as the twenty-second-ranked all-breed dog in America. She was nearly unbeatable.
Once he or she is on a dog at that level, Heather explained, a handler can’t help but be confident. Jamie’s schedule was simple, because after two years of showing Beyoncé he knew all the Aussie judges. He could simply scan down a list of judging assignments—which are available months in advance—and say, “This guy gave me a Group One, this guy gave me a Group Three,” and so on. He most likely never faces an unfriendly judge except in the case of a late substitution, and if he felt bad about his chance there, he’d probably scratch the dog. The more you win consistently, Heather said, the more you can bend the odds in your favor. That’s basic strategy, sort of like hedging your bets in poker.
Joining Jack and Beyoncé in the ring was Bentley—who had flown past Jack in the rankings and was now just outside the top five—plus two class dogs and a red merle special I’d not seen before. Stacked in line, it was Jack, Beyoncé, then Ben, all three looking like the class of the field. Our boy seemed good: calm, alert, undistracted by rottweilers. And then he pooped.
Heather sensed it coming and stealthily maneuvered him into the corner farthest from the judge, into a spot that was not in the dogs’ trotting path. I slinked over to the corner and found her, nostrils flared.
“It’s becoming a bad habit,” she said. “Bad!” she hissed. “You are going to get in big trouble.”
Oh, well. Be
yoncé won anyway. Jack got Best of Opposite.
Heather stomped out and slapped the ribbon into my hand, along with Jack’s lead. “It drives me nuts, because it looks like I don’t take care of my dogs,” she snapped. “You saw him. He was out for like ten minutes,” walking around before the ring. “He tried to go on the down-and-back.” She sighed. “It started when Kimberly showed him.”
No one expected Jack to beat Beyoncé, at least not at this point. But the fact that Jack had spent a long weekend losing to the most dominant Australian shepherd in years only temporarily obscured the reality that he was losing more often than not. By the time the crew rolled into Bloomsburg a week later, it was hard to deny that Jack was in a slump and that tensions surrounding his situation had never been higher. Heather was frustrated with his condition and with Kimberly’s apparent lack of focus on working to improve it, not to mention her tendency to wait until the last possible minute to decide whether or not to send Jack to a particular cluster. Kimberly was frustrated with Heather’s persistent badgering and in the rising costs of the campaign. And Kerry, way out in California and hearing both sides, was frustrated by the entire situation.
More than halfway into a year in which the goal was ostensibly to chase rankings, it was increasingly clear that Kimberly still viewed Jack as pet first, show dog second, and in Heather’s eyes the only way to fulfill his potential and make Jack great was to reverse that emphasis.
It’s important to realize here than even a bad Jack isn’t a bad dog, and against average competition he was still capable of winning. Often, on bad days, he did exactly that. But when top dogs were entered, average Jack wasn’t enough. And having such potential unrealized drove Heather nuts.
