I decided long ago that my first turns in an American Kennel Club show ring should not include flying fur or fuss.
Besides, aiming a can of Aqua Net hairspray at a nest of dog fur never seemed quite right.
Greyhounds, on the other hand, were an easy choice.
My first three greyhounds were refugees from racetracks. Ineligible for the show ring after racing, these dogs are about as pleasant a companion breed as any, and live up to their couch potato reputation.
In considering the show ring, it would have to be a greyhound, or none at all. And this canine supermodel’s name would be “Derek Zoolander.”
A groomer’s dream, “Zoolander” is one full yard of sleek, short hair and effortless shine. At just 16 months, this blue and white Egyptian-looking wonder continues to grow, and looks a bit like a nerdy kid whose parents can’t keep up with the growth spurts of a 6-foot-2, fifth-grade child with daily caloric demands that top 7,000.
According to his breeder, he’s a full six to eight months away from being completely filled out.
Judges at this week’s Five Valley Kennel Club show in Missoula agreed.
Though leanness is an earmark of his sleek breed, in a world of human supermodels, my baby Zoolander might likely be ridiculed as too slim by angry fashion protesters.
But that was Zoolander.
Was I the only woman not dressed in a business suit? I can’t remember a time feeling as casual in a basic black pencil skirt and purple blouse.
There’s a reason fashion photographers routinely dress women in Chanel and Prada suits and hand them leashfuls of graceful canine breeds for the tidiest of shots - it’s a “to-the-manor-born” image that perfectly suits the pages of Town & Country or Vogue.
Seeing that visual come to life at a dog show, however, seems a tad odd at first.
Guess these show folks really mean business.
Our first class at the Missoula County Fairgrounds ended mere seconds after it began. Uncontested, we handily won our first blue ribbon.
Don’t ever let anyone tell you that easy wins aren’t satisfying - that ribbon wasn’t any less blue.
But elation was fleeting, and no amount of foresight could have prepared us for entry into the ring with one “Ch. Sobers Galathea at Grand Cru.”
I was fortunate not to know it at the time, but “Galathea” is presently the No. 1 greyhound in the country.
Not too shabby an adversary for a first outing.
Striding into the ring, this Italian import assumes the familiar AKC show “stack” - head up, chest out, rear legs back with hocks perpendicular to the floor - in a matter of seconds.
Hundreds upon hundreds of turns in the show ring have made doing this a snap. But then, AKC handler Lori Wilson is no slouch either. She could make a mongrel look like a million bucks.
This 30- or 40-something woman said she’s been showing dogs since the age of 7. These days, she’s being paid to campaign Galathea across the U.S., both to achieve legendary status and to be invited to high-profile shows like Westminster and Crufts.
That kind of travel and appearance schedule is pricey, and whispers among handlers pegged Galathea’s owners - the Steeles - as having more money than God.
All bittersweet chocolate and butterscotch brindle, Galathea is a series of crazy conformational “S” curves that roll from chest to waist to hind.
And so it went for two days straight: My boy and I alone in the ring, emerging with blue. Then, a total eclipse by Galathea, and a “Best of Opposite Sex” ribbon by default.
That was, until Day Three.
Galathea was long gone, and well on her way to California for a lengthy circuit of dog shows and scads more ribbons and points.
A greyhound alone, there were no chances for points now, nor further scrutiny alongside an established champion. The good news? By default, we were assured a spot in the hound group ring, just one step removed from a “Best in Show” bout.
Walking the aisles, handlers spied the familiar purple and yellow ribbon and smiled, “You beat the No. 1? Good job!”
Sounding like a broken record, I replied, “No, she just left early.”
“You know, you shouldn’t ever tell people you were the only one,” said a whippet handler in a conspiratorial tone.
“Sounds better just to say you won 'Best of Breed,’ and show up at the hound ring,” he said.
I was the first to arrive at the ring - long before the Rhodesian ridgeback, the saluki, the Scottish deerhound and the beagle. Nothing like beating the crowds to announce yourself the novice in the group.
With time to kill, I felt sure the ring stewards would have tips a newbie like me could use.
Cupping premium books over mouths, two young women rattled off a series of hushed tips on how to show with the big boys and girls.
“They’ll all be jockeying for just the right ring position,” said the first, rolling her eyes.
“Some may even push right in front of you to be in the best position for their dog,” said another. It’s all part of their strategy.
“Oh, and make sure you don’t get behind a dachshund or a beagle,” said the first. “That’ll be death to a greyhound trying to move out.”
Moments later, I stood firm in second position at the mouth of the ring, and entered just behind the long, floor-sweeping coat of the Afghan hound, to begin my sprint down the long side.
As I rounded the corner, I heard a thud just behind. It was followed by a high-pitched squeaking - the unmistakable sound of skin burning across concrete flooring.
Saluki handler down.
Ooh, I thought, that’s gonna leave a mark.
On the other side, many looked back to see what they could avoid. Few, apart from me, asked this man how he was. It begged a new philosophic question: “If a man goes down in a ring, but you don’t see him, does it really matter to you and your dog?”
Deep. Very deep.
In the end, “Saluki man” had the last laugh in the center of the winner’s circle. And in an instant, I discovered that karma is as alive and well in the dog world, as it is in the real one.
Reporter Lori Grannis can be reached at 523-5251 or llgrannis@missoulian.com.
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