by Josh Dean
After the frantic action of the preshows, the actual National was a slow and tedious affair. With so many classes (tris, merles, puppies, bred by, etc.) and each class multiplied by four (for intact dogs, intact bitches, altered dogs, and altered bitches), it was one bunch of Aussies after another cycling through rings in front of judges for hours on end. The room, which had been bustling and congenial during preshows, was quiet and tense, with almost no barking. Only when dogs were placed would a burst of applause break out, then quickly cease.
No one expected Jack to actually win Best of Breed, the ASCA National’s equivalent of Best in Show. To do that would have been a stunning upset; he’d have to first be selected as the best blue merle male, then the best blue merle overall, then Winners Dog over all the various class winners, then finally be picked over all the top ASCA specials in America—dogs already known to ASCA judges. It was beyond a long shot. Possible, but fantastic.
Out in the blue merle ring, though, Judge Jasa Hatcher seemed to like Jack, who went about his job capably and with verve, as if he’d been working with Kerry for months. As was increasingly the case, he seemed aware of the heightened import of what was going on. He was a totally different dog from the one we’d seen before, and when Kerry led him on his first run around the ring, so perfect was his cadence that there was no tension in the leash, which hung limply from her hand. Hatcher, a blonde in her late thirties who was easily the most attractive judge I’d seen all year, watched with a smile.
When she reordered the dogs for placement, Hatcher put Jack second and seemed to be at least considering the idea of bumping him to first when she signaled for one last go-round, at which time spectators gathered about the ring began to cheer for their favorites, and Jack, hearing applause, broke from his trot. Hatcher did not miss this. She looked hard at the line, and instead of bumping Jack up she moved him down, to third—and that’s how they finished.
“Ah, shoot! He heard the cheers and he broke at the wrong time,” Kerry said, annoyed but not angry. It was, however, an especially ill-timed mistake. The second-place dog in any class, she explained, can actually still qualify for the main event, Best of Breed, because if the winning blue were to go on and be selected Winners Dog, the second-place dog from his class would be called in to compete for Reserve Winners, which offers another chance to advance. When I shrugged and said that this sounded far-fetched, she shook her head. “Oh, no. It happens.” And sure enough it did that very afternoon, when Winners Dog and Reserve Winners went to the first- and second-place black tri males.
Still, Jack’s lack of purple ribbons did not make the trip a failure. “A lot of people want to know who he is,” Kerry said, and her aspirations in bringing him halfway across America were at least partly fulfilled. By the time he left, important people were paying attention.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Bloomsburg (Again)
* * *
It is certain that the dog is not just like one of many other animals, but rather a creature of humans, an artificial animal, which has been shaped in its behavior and appearance according to human desires.
—VILMOS CSANYI, If Dogs Could Talk
* * *
You know you’ve been on the dog-show circuit a long time when you start repeating locations. And in early November, I exited Interstate 80 for the Bald Eagle Kennel Club’s 76th All-Breed Dog Show and found myself, for the second time, in Bloomsburg, Pennsylvania. If you look at a dog-show calendar, you’ll find this isn’t an unusual occurrence, and if I hadn’t had a new baby at home and had been more diligent in my attendance, I’d already have repeated a couple of locations at this point. West Friendship, Maryland, for one, was on Heather and Kevin’s schedule three separate times in 2010.
My return to Bloomsburg coincided with a Komondorok Club of America National Specialty and was also special because it was to be the first show attended by Jack’s progeny. Puppies under six months are actually forbidden inside dog shows because their immature immune systems put them at a heightened risk of disease; they’re also kind of a huge distraction, for people and dogs.
Already, just ten weeks into their short lives, Kimberly’s hope that this accidental mating would yield a brood of future stars was beginning to dim; nearly all the puppies were displaying flaws that would likely preclude them from being show quality.* Even Little Jack, a beautiful blue-eyed rendition of his father, was looking imperfect.
Kimberly pointed to a dime-size smudge of brown on his head. “Believe it or not, that rules him out,” she said. It is what Aussie people call “running copper” and means that a gray or black spot also contains brown. There is no such thing as a coat that is too mottled or haphazard, but within that pattern the spots themselves must be pure.
I asked about Jackson, the red merle with aquamarine eyes. He, too, was beautiful.
“White ear.”
Breeze?
“White on her ear.”
Bodi?
“No neck.”
That left only Cork and Patience, a black tri with perfectly symmetrical markings. Aesthetically she was flawless, except that she was very small, and if her mother was any indication, that wasn’t likely to change. According to the standard, an otherwise perfect dog shouldn’t be faulted for being small; in reality, everyone knows that judges do it anyway.
Kimberly had brought the puppies to have them evaluated by Heather, and also by Kristin Elmini, an acquaintance of Kerry’s who had bred Jack’s father, Honor. She’d come out because she knew that the judge liked her pretty red merle, Dallas—a three-time Best in Show winner who won the breed at the Garden in 2007—so she’d brought him out of semiretirement to rack up some easy wins toward a grand championship. (He was, as it turns out, also Jack’s uncle.)
It began to sprinkle as Kimberly took the puppies out of the back of her Subaru wagon in sets of two to show to Kristin. They were larger than pugs and had reached a stage of maximum cuteness—the precise point at which puppies look most like stuffed animals come to life.
“I see a lot of Jack in them,” Kristin said. “The Mill Creek and Kaleidoscope lines* are very strong.” She pointed to the tinge of tan on LJ’s crown. “You’ll get that—and also the long ears,” which she pointed out on Jackson. “That’s Kaleidoscope.”
“Jack produces beautiful heads,” Kimberly said proudly.
“That’s Mill Creek,” Kristin pronounced, with the knowledge of someone who’d spent a lifetime in the breed. Her opinions were concise and swiftly issued. LJ’s ear, she thought, was not a major concern. If Kimberly was worried about whether to sell him to a show home or a pet home, there was always a third option: “You can bite the bullet and hold on to him and hope it grows out. Honor was very light in color. I’ll have to pull some puppy pictures for you.” She was also not that worried about the white on Breeze’s ear. “You can always clip and dye it.”* As the black-and-white dog pounced on LJ’s back, Kimberly laughed. “She has Jack’s eyes and brains—and his fire.”
“I don’t like her shoulder,” Kristin said as Kimberly walked the puppy down and back. “She has a short back. It’s cute, but she’ll probably overkick, like Player. He has a lot of rear angulation. That’s Kaleidoscope.”
She pointed to Jackson in comparison. “See how he has a much better shoulder? Hers was straight.” She picked the merle up and plopped him on the tailgate. “Feel here,” she said, grabbing Kimberly’s hand and directing it toward the pup’s shoulder. “Put your thumb here.” Kristin was a font of knowledge, her head filled to bursting with nuances of the dogs’ pedigree. “How are the bites? We have Cole* in there. He can produce overbites.” She stepped back and took Jackson in. “I like this puppy—a lot. Every one of the puppies has a really nice, correct rear.”
The littlest, Patience, was next. Her size was deceptive, Kimberly said. “She’s a brute. She’s piss and vinegar. She has Daddy’s attitude.”
“That’s good. I’d rather not have to drag it out of them,” Kristin said. “That was Honor’s we
akness.” She lifted the puppy and felt her neck, topline, and back. “Very balanced between front and rear. The thing I don’t like is that she has a lot of space between elbow and chest. That’s where I would fault her—I’d like more here,” she said, palming the dog’s delicate chest.
I caught myself thinking that I’m glad we don’t do this with our human children to determine which path their lives should follow: Your son has a great face, but his shoulders are too narrow for science. He’ll have to work in sanitation. My face must have reflected it.
“I pull puppies apart,” Kristin said matter-of-factly. “I don’t say, ‘This is your next Best in Show bitch.’”
Herding puppies is at least as difficult as herding cats. Every time one was returned to the tiny ex-pen Kimberly had set up in the grass, at least two others spilled out. “You need ten hands to handle puppies!” Kristin said, and grabbed LJ by his scruff. “This puppy I like.” She reached between his legs. “Do you have both your nuts, too?” She confirmed that he did and set him down. “I like this puppy a lot. You put this puppy down and he’s just right on.”
“He’s real independent.”
“That’s my kind of puppy.”
He looked a lot like Jack—but with blue eyes.
“Who’s left? The big boy?” That would be Bodi.
“He has no neck,” Kimberly said, preempting what she assumed would be the obvious criticism.
“I own no neck,” said Kristin, meaning in her line. “I bred to a neck like a giraffe. You can fix that in a generation.”
Right then Kevin appeared. He and Heather were just back from a set of shows in Puerto Rico, and judging by the tan there must have been time in the schedule for sunbathing. He hadn’t seen the puppies in a month. “Is that Little Jack barking?” he said. “Of course!”
Heather joined the party and wasted no time in pronouncing that she liked Patience the least. She said, “I don’t like that one,” over and over as the puppy walked down and back. “She would be my pet dog.” Bodi, though, was improving in her estimation.
Puppies are certain to draw a crowd, and the chorus of critics grew as Belinda Rhoads, owner of Bentley (now ranked seventh) also entered the fray. She liked Jackson and Breeze, the latter for her size. She shrugged. “I like a doggy bitch. I like a big bitch.”
We were far from a quorum, or any kind of consensus.
“I like all the boys,” Heather said. “Which says a lot about Jack. It’s easier to get nice girls. For an oops litter, it’s a really pretty litter.”
The following day was a wet one, and a rainy day makes for perilous conditions for white dogs—or even white-footed dogs. Imagine how the komondor people felt.
There are few dogs more unusual-looking than the komondor, which resembles a sheepdog with dreadlocks. And that’s precisely what it is. Bred in Hungary to protect flocks from wolves and bears and any other animals that might want to snack on sheep, the komondor is a large and independent-minded dog known for being both tough and brave.
* * *
KOMONDOR
The dreadlocks on a komondor—which are actually known as cords—are right there in the breed standard, and, as is the case with human Rastas, are never cut; they last a lifetime, or until the dog retires. Why does a sheepdog need dreads? As should be very clear by now, apparently quirky purebred-dog quirks rarely if ever turn out to be quirky at all. The dreads are intended to make the dog look like a sheep, so that a wolf/bear/thief won’t notice the dog there and will sneak up on the flock and then—oops—get a very unpleasant surprise. This surprise is critical when you think about it, because a bear that sees a dog might not be intimidated at all. But a bear that thinks he’s strolling up to snack on some sheep will likely be scared out of his tiny bear mind when one of those sheep rears up, barks, and bites him on the ass. Like most guard dogs, komondors* are very lethargic and seem docile—until they’re not. You would be wise not to fuck with a dog that is bred to protect sheep from bears.
If you’ve been to some dog shows, you might have noticed the other breed with dreads, the puli.* I asked a woman in a purple kilt standing with two komondors if it was just bizarre coincidence that humans bred two dogs with Jamaican haircuts, and she said no, that wasn’t coincidence at all. The puli is also Hungarian, and the two breeds work in concert. While the komondor protects, the puli herds.
There are many reasons you would want to think deeply before adopting one of these impressive dogs. For one thing, they weigh up to 125 pounds and like to tackle people. So there’s that. Show owners must also go to great lengths to grow and maintain their cords—to keep them dry and free of urine stains. Every time a dog needs to go out, it is wrapped in tarps and bungeed up like a backyard BBQ in winter; the dreads on top of the head are hidden behind an oversize shower cap. And with all the mud outside, they were having to be extra vigilant in Bloomsburg.
Marlene and Joseph Horvath of New Egypt, New Jersey, are known “the Kilt Crew” because they wear kilts to every show, and because of that they are as recognizable as their dogs.
“It is a high-maintenance breed,” Marlene told me. “I kick myself for not getting a wash-and-wear dog.” The Horvaths own seven of these impressive animals and currently have two others staying with them. Marlene said the cords grow four inches a year and that it takes six to seven years for them to grow fully. Once the mats begin to form, you use a special tool to split and shape them. There is some trimming, and it requires a three-hour bath to soak them for cleaning, then another twenty-four hours to dry completely. For this reason, she said, “my retired dogs are shaved.”
One of her dogs, an older bitch, was resting in a crate, and when I leaned over to say hi, she was up in a blur and barking. I recoiled. WOW. OKAY. Yikes.
“They’re livestock guard dogs,” Marlene said. “A lot of people think they’re big, safe, fluffy guard dogs. You’re standing next to me, I’m her mom, and she doesn’t know you.” She smiled. “They’re a wonderful, wonderful breed to guard your family. But they need a lot of socialization.”
Though Hungarians get credit for komondors, the breed is actually far more ancient than that, thought to have originated in Mongolia with tribesmen who wandered all the way to Hungary and then settled there. When Hitler invaded Hungary, the breed was almost wiped out, because the dogs were so fierce that the Germans had to shoot them in order to get into homes.
Dare I ask: Are they okay with kids?
“Your kids,” Marlene said. “Your kids’ friends you have to be careful with. If the kids are roughhousing, they could think the kids are in trouble.” In which case the dogs are likely to do what they do—which is pounce and pin the target to the nearest flat surface. Joseph Horvath said that a dog owned by a friend, a dog he knows well, recently pinned him against the wall and held him until the friend arrived and told the dog to release him. The breed standard, according to Marlene, says to “heed their warning bark, or they may attach themselves to you,” which would be a euphemism for “will pin you to wall.”
Komondors rest eighteen hours a day, Marlene said, because they never really sleep soundly. In guard dogs at least some senses must always be attuned for trouble. “But they’re lightning fast,” Marlene said. “They’ll go from lying down to on top of you in five seconds.
“Size doesn’t matter to them,” she went on. “If they think one of their family members will be hurt, they’ll go after whatever it is.” She recalled the story of a woman who fell while handling her komondor in the breed ring. Another handler, acting on instinct, rushed to help her. “And everyone else froze,” she said. “They all yelled, ‘Stop!’ Her dog had put himself between her and everyone else. She had to tell him it was okay so people could come help out.”
The only resident of her house who doesn’t respect them, she said, is her three-pound Pomeranian. “He’s a tough little cracker. When they play with him, he’ll bite their nose.”
In addition to nine komondors and the Pomeranian, the Horvaths have a
vizsla, a kuvasz,* and five birds (plus three children). This is probably not the quietest house on the block. “The birds are louder than the kids,” Marlene said. “They talk. They know the dogs by name, and they tell them to shut up and be quiet.”
The fact that one special withdrew hardly mattered for Jack, who looked good and showed well but lost anyway as Dallas took the breed for the second straight day. And Kimberly was beginning to accept the hard lesson about too much too soon. Because Jack had won so often in his early months, she’d come to expect winning; subsequently, when he didn’t win, she tended to channel her disappointment in counterproductive ways—by getting frustrated and wavering about her willingness to pay money for shows if she couldn’t count on winning. By November she was managing her expectations better. “Jack is an exceptional dog,” Heather explained. “And when he was a class dog, he won all the time because he’s exceptional. But now he’s a special.” At this level, “they’re all exceptional.”
It wasn’t a totally lost weekend; there was always an upside. And the upside in Bloomsburg was the arrival of Mandy, the show-dog chiropractor.* Mandy Armitage lives outside the charming Delaware River town of New Hope, Pennsylvania, and is another celebrity on the circuit. If your dog is having back or neck or leg problems—or just generally seems out of sorts—you get in touch with Mandy, and for twenty-five dollars her magic hands will get down to business. She works seven days a week and has a sympathetic husband “willing to take care of my kids.” (She has two.)
Heather, like most handlers, is a firm believer in Mandy’s skills, and she continued to state in unambiguous terms that as long as Jack was her responsibility, she wanted him to have regular adjustments. Early in the year, he’d seen Mandy at least every other week; over the summer, though, the frequency slipped. By Bloomsburg he was definitely in need.
