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I’m not afraid to say it: dogs are in their flop era. Or maybe, just their owners are. The ones who bring a Great Dane into the grocery store, or hole up in a cocktail bar with a giant Saint Bernard at their feet. Dog people used to symbolize sensitivity, or a down-to-earth vibe. Now, they’re synonymous with white-collar entitlement.
But I kept those feelings to myself during the Westminster Dog Show, lest they take me out back to get mauled by a pack of Belgian Malinios.
The 149th annual Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show is the oldest continually held sporting event in the US, after the Kentucky Derby. The first thing I noticed upon entering the Javits Center, where best-of-breed competitions were held on Monday, was that even the security dogs were fancy. No boring German shepherds or lolling Golden Retrievers here, instead, guards held manicured poodles or super-fit hunting dogs on leashes.
The second thing I noticed was the stench. Straight-up barnyard, especially in the backstage area. Don’t let Getty Images of dogs getting blowouts or YouTube clips of bang trims fool you. Even champions have to poop. The stench of 2,500 dogs representing all 50 states adds up. Collectively, these pups reeked.
Archetypical over-bearing mom types (soccer, dance, boy) all share a hawkish sense of their child’s exceptionalism. Ditto for some of these dog moms, who stared down the competition as if they were a 14-year-old Dunkin employee who just got their owner wrong. I appreciated their dedication to the event’s dress code, though, which I might describe as sequined business casual.
“She’s here to do her job,” one man said of his bulldog, with all the seriousness of a cop at a press conference speaking about how the suspect is still at large. “And so am I.”
“There are a lot of divas here, both two- and four-legged,” said Suzanne Terrant, in from Johnstown, Ohio, to show Trauster, an Icelandic sheepdog. Both of Trauster’s parents were show dogs, but like any good nepo baby, Trauster just wanted to chill.
“He would rather be swimming in a pond,” Terrant said. “He didn’t get anything this year, but we’re proud of him anyway.”
Nearby Cosette, a Havanese from Montreal, stood stick-straight, regulation-style with her chest out. “She wants to be the center of attention,” said her breeder, Myriam Archamdault. Cosette is French, after all.
One dog who was definitely not French, a gray Airedale, flopped over and showed its belly in the middle of the ring, begging for pets while waiting for the judge to come over. I related deeply to this dog.
Only the winners of Best of Breed would go to Madison Square Garden on Monday night, treated to all the pomp of a professional sports game. There were corporate sponsors (Purina), a hyped-up arena crowd (ready to boo the judges’ decisions), and, bizarrely, a performance of the national anthem to start out the event. It was a special day. This year marks the show’s return to Madison Square Garden after five years away due to Covid.
The Hound Group came first. This was when I started getting nervous as a writer. There are only so many ways you can talk about show dogs. Toned, athletic, perky, cute. Luckily, the man sitting next to me, a longtime dog lover, gave running commentary.
Of the lithe, elegant Afghan hound: “That’s a psychotic breed.” Of the Redbone Coonhound: “There we go. A beautiful dog.” Of the Rhodesian ridgeback: “They’re dumb as hell.”
Of the entire Toy Group, made up of small, affectionate companion pets: “I never understood these little ones.”
The Toy Group, by the way, was judged by Angela Pickett, an American Kennel Club judge, breeder of Papillons, and honorary lifetime member of the Papillon Club of America from Chuluota, Florida. With her ombre-brown hair, side bangs, floor-length lace evening gown, and steely-eyed stare, Pickett resembled Westminster’s version of Anna Wintour, the frosty Vogue editor-in-chief.
Pickett seems like the type of person I’d want to drink six margaritas with, while mining her for kennel club gossip. But she seemed ruthless in her judging. I know a Miniature Pinscher must hate to see her coming. (Comet, a Shih Tzu who also won last year, took home the prize.)
Sports are only as good as their narratives: the Miracle on Ice, The Rumble in the Jungle. Westminster had its own emotional peak with Neil the Bichon Frisé, winner of the Non-Sporting Group. Neil’s owner, Lisa Bettis of Naperville, Illinois, spent the day before the big show in the hospital after an unspecified health emergency. But she made sure to get out and hit the stage with Neil. “He loves life, loves people,” Bettis told a Fox reporter after they cinched the medal. A good boy!
At this point, it was around 10pm. Maybe it was Neil, or the pageantry, or my being hypnotized after watching dogs run in circles for eight hours, but I started to rethink my whole “dogs are in their flop era” theory. These ones were athletes who knew how to work a crowd. They lived to please, and gamely put up with the foibles and follies of us humans. I guess spending a night with these top dogs can convert even the staunchest hater.
