Gone to the Dogs

When Amy found the Scottish Kennel Club All Breed - 4 days of rollicking canine mayhem at the Royal Highland Showground in Ingliston, I wasn't exactly jazzed about it.

I'm not a "dog person". Not their target demographic. I said, "Meh, I'll bring a book to read."

Not My Thing

In my mind, canines only do one thing reliably well - scare little kids. And yep, I was petrified. I would walk the three blocks to Lincoln Elementary school, glancing left and right, waiting for the German Shepherd bigger than me to come bounding down the street and tear me limb from limb. That never actually happened, but it was close enough.

That trauma is really hard to get out of your system. To this day, when I'm on my bicycle and a dog starts tearing after me, the adrenaline transforms me into Lance Armstrong.

As a general rule, my family just didn't do pets. My mom wouldn't clean up after one, and when we were told all of the responsibilities associate with the pet, none of us kids wanted the trouble either. I admire our honesty. We finally opted for hamsters, as they provided the optimum mix of entertainment with hassle-freeness.

As I encountered dogs in all walks of life, my opinion didn't really improve. Dogs struck me as too eager to please. They are the classic over-promiser, under-deliverer of domestic pets. They are in constant "I love you more!" argument, trying to knock you down to prove themselves.

Dogs are exploited by humans, and seem to be fine with it. They are bred, sent to obedience school and have all the personality whipped out of them. If they had just done an "Another Brick in the Wall Pt 2." and rose up against their oppressors, I would've liked them more. If they had a Punk Rock phase. Or maybe they just needed a little teenage rebellion. I dunno.

A cat, at least, knows where the center of the universe is. (Itself). Dogs are always chasing the next center of the universe - a ball or stuffed animal.

Not exactly worthy of my respect.

The Cacophony Called a Dog Show

So Amy and I hopped the Edinburgh Tram, rode to the end of the line and ambled down to the Royal Highland Showground. Paid £5 for the spectator ticket. Walked into the exhibit hall and BAM get hit with a deafening chorus of barking, yipping and the smell of doggy accidents.

4 days of dogs. 19 judging rings going on simultaneously. It was an assault on the senses.

This is the sort of crazy scene you're confronted with.

If you've never been to a dog show, here's the lowdown. Each ring sports a different breed. Dogs are grouped into puppies, dogs and bitches (it took a little getting used to ring callers shouting, "Bitches! Any Wolfhound Bitches, You're Up!"). They are brought into the ring, paraded into a circle, examined one at a time by the very persnickety judges, and trotted around the ring by their dressed-to-the-nines huffing-and-puffing owner.

Other oddities:

• The Slobber Rag - each human outfit must have two things (1) a loose pocket filled with treats (2) a slobber rag either sticking out of the pocket, or secured loosely with a belt. After giving the dog or treat, or before that patch of doggy slobber hits the floor ... out comes the rag for a quick, unceremonious wipe.
• The Paw Adjustment - the human's job is to place the dogs' paws directly underneath their body, so that their legs are bone-straight. They do this every 10 seconds. They are basically yoga instructors on speed.
• The (Oh So Gross) Treat Treatment - Some canine divas find their treat too crispy. For these, the human's job is to pop the treat in their own mouth, soften it up, spit it out and pop it into the dog's mouth. When I first saw this, I did a double-take. Surely that's not what just happened here.
  
  But it was. As Droopy would say, "That's unsanitary."

Rufus

After circling the arena a few times, Amy and I sit on folding chairs at the Newfoundland ring. Newfies, as the dog affectionados say, are a huge, fluffy, mostly brown St. Bernard-like breed. When they jump on you (and they will!) they stand about as tall as the trainers.

They are a gorgeous dog to watch. Their faces are calm and wistful. Immediately we peg one Newfie as our favorite, and since the dogs are not announced by name, we call him Rufus.

And we give Rufus a back story too. His father was a hard worker and very proud of his triplet puppies, of which Rufus was one. But ... he was a little too fond of the drink. His mother held down two jobs, waitressing and dance class instructor, having forgone her dream of a ballerina when she met Rufus' father.

Rufus himself was the middle puppy in a set of triplets. Often overlooked, Rufus spent countless hours in front of the mirror practicing his paw placement and chomping a treat out of off the table without leaving any slobber puddles. At night he would lay down and dream of the day he could parade in front of the judges table, get his teeth examined, and trot around the ring showing his stuff. And maybe, just maybe, some American foreigners would be sitting on folding chairs watching him ... one of the foreigners a dog-hater slowly repenting of his former ways.

Rufus wins the Newfie category, then competes for Best Working Group with the St. Bernards, Boxers, Canadian Sled Dogs, Rottweilers, Mastiffs. Amy and I are cheering for Rufus from our folding chairs at the luxurious and crowded Ring 1 (complete with faux picket fence around the perimeter).

Rufus takes 1st, and Amy and I leap out of our chairs in wild applause!

We find out later that Rufus' real name is Sandbears' Masterpiece, Sandbears being the kennel from which most of the competing Newfies came. But to us, he will always be Rufus.

All Right

When I'm circling the arena, I finally get it.

Dogs are everywhere - on blankets, in the aisles, puttering around on leashes, peeing in the ring ... and the people who love them are along for the ride.

Only a few dogs in this arena will win anything, Rufus being one of the lucky few. But to the people who love them, this is only a small aberration in the 4 day show. There are no heated arguments with the judges, no accusations of blood doping or unfairness, no "Come to Jesus" speeches in the locker room. There are no grudges between the human participants either, and you get the feeling they have been friends for years now, and will remain so after their canine friends cross the rainbow bridge.

Here at the Scotland Kennel Club All-Breed Show, there are just dogs and the people who love them ... and who want you to love them too.