I don’t know what it is, but I find the National Dog Show to be one of those things that once you see accidentally happen upon it, you simply can’t look away. It is the Miss America pageant for dogs, though far more interesting because I have yet to see Miss Washington smell Miss Delaware’s butt on national television.
I’m not really sure how the dogs feel about all this pageantry. They seem to get what’s going on, but I am still not certain if their willingness to strut their stuff is because of the trophies or the treats.
I readily admit that I am a dog lover. I have had two dogs of my own and my family had another. Jocko was a purebred Scottish Terrier. He could run away early in the day and once you finally noticed he had flown the coop later in the day, he’d have made it as far as the Bergman’s yard next door.
Barney, the Designer Dog?
My first dog, one who I could really call mine, was Barney. He was a Labrador-Beagle mix. He cost my Aunt Lu 50¢. He was a great dog, one who would run away regularly but would instantly run back to me as soon as I shook his leash and harness, thinking he’d get to go for a walk, even though he was already on one. Cute dog, not exactly a mental giant though.
Jasper, the Big Mook, was my last dog. He was a purebred Beagle. He too loved to go on the lam as well, but no matter what you’d do, he wouldn’t come home until it started raining. He never liked the rain, but had an odd obsession about snow. Go figure.
During the National Dog Show I obviously root for the Scotties and the Beagles. They usually don’t make the cut, but Miss P did win Best of Show at the Westminster Kennel Dog Show last February, a proud moment for Beagle lovers everywhere.
I guess one of the reasons I watch these shows is to see the astounding variety of dog breeds out there. People, especially those in beauty pageants, all start to look the same after a while. We don’t really have a lot of variety, we humans.
But dogs, wow! What a selection! And more seem to be coming along all the time.
Case in point. Barney was a cross-breed in the nicest parlance, a mutt in less nice terms. He was the result of an inopportune crossing of a Beagle and a Labrador. I’m still not sure if there was a step stool involved in this interlude; but I still can’t picture the physics involved here.
Regardless, out of this romance came Barney, who by today’s terms would be considered a Designer Dog. A Leagle? A Blab? I don’t know. He definitely wasn’t in the league of a LabraDoodle or Puggle.
I guess I got a helluva deal with Barney. He was just 50¢. Well, truth be told, he was only 10¢ but my aunt felt bad for the little girl with the box of puppies in front of the Safeway store in Anacortes.
I wonder what he’d be worth today. After all, in the current market a Goldendoodle can go for $1,500, almost double what a purebred dog would set you back.
That’s just crazy to me. It’s a freaking mutt! Since when did mutts become Designer Dogs?
I blame it on the American Kennel Club. You know, the guys who decide all this breed stuff. They have officially recognized 160 pure breeds of dogs. Now, that should be more than enough for all us dog lovers. There are sporting dogs and toys, hunting and herding dogs and just plain old useless dogs who don’t do much beyond lay around all day, eat and poop.
I’m pretty sure my dogs fell into this last category. Yes, Jasper could follow a scent to hell and back but it was always without any purpose whatsoever. Whatever trail he was on, it never led to a good looking blonde or even a half decent looking brunette with money. Useless.
Of course, the AKC is no dummy. They smell opportunity – and money – here. They decided that Designer Dogs should be registered. So far, there are more than 550 different Designer Dog breeds registered with the AKC.
To think, I could have registered my 10¢ dog with the AKC and get him some papers, the kind you don’t pee on. All it would have cost me was $1 to get him registered, or roughly 1,000% of what he cost.
Which leads me to wonder how all this nonsense began and why can’t we get into the action.
First, we just used to have mutts. It was O.K. and even kind of cool to have one. “Ah, he’s just a mutt,” we would say, with some measure of pride. “He’s a good dog.” Now we have to say what kind of mutt he is, as if it’s a source of pride that two different breeds got horny one night and made puppies. “Well, he’s a Chinweenie,” we say now. But one day I hope to have a Chorkie.”
Fair enough. But I can’t help wonder how I can get fancified a bit too. I mean, I’m a mutt, albeit a human one. I am a mix of all sorts of DNA from the ancient Celts, some Scandihoovians, a little bit of Portuguese-Spanish and even a touch of Italian.
Hey, that’s it! I could just start saying, “I’m not white. I’m a Celtinavian.” Or maybe a Celtispaniguese.”
I could have really used this in my single days. I could have met a girl at a bar and when she asked to tell her a little bit about myself, I wouldn’t have had to say I grew up a “poor white boy from Renton.” I could instead give her a sly wink, lean in seductively and say, “Glad you asked, babe. I guess you could say I’m Scanishceltilian,” in my most exotic voice.
“Really,” she would say. “I never would have guessed. By your accent you sound like you’re from Renton. Now buzz off asswipe.”
O.K., so this whole Designer Human thing may be more difficult than I thought it would be. I guess you can take the guy out of the hick town, but you can’t take the hick town out of the guy – completely. I was so sure I was on to something big.
In the Emerald City, muttling my way through life,
– Robb