Best in show

I stand up and flail my arms as “the wave” makes its way through Madison Square Garden. Next to me, my husband yells, “Here we go, baby!” We’re at the 138th Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show, and “Best in Show” is about to start – “Dogdom’s highest achievement!” the announcer booms. The year’s top seven dogs are about to strut into the ring. And I can’t get the line “To think that in some countries these dogs are eaten” from the movie “Best in Show” out of my head.

Westminster, America’s second oldest sporting event after the Kentucky Derby, was hosting more than 2,800 dogs, many of whom were staying at our hotel. The Hotel Pennsylvania is a cheap fleabag across the street from MSG that hosts a downstairs “SPaw” where canine guests get acupuncture and massages, work out on treadmills, pose for portraits and relieve themselves in his and hers potty areas (the miniature plastic fire hydrants are a nice touch). I was in pet writer heaven.

“Isn’t it fun seeing all these dogs?” I gushed to a woman in the hotel elevator.

“Of course – it’s our Superbowl!” she said. (I worried that her dog would blow it like Peyton Manning.)

“Best in Show” is the big finale of two days of dog judging. I’d watched some of the “Best in Breed” competitions – the American Kennel Club sets standards for each recognized breed, and the dog deemed closest to those standards wins. The best of each breed – of nine greyhounds, for example, or 76 Labradors – advances to “Best in Group,” and from those groups, the finalists for “Best in Show” are selected.

The announcer tells us we are “highly encouraged” to cheer for our favorites. “All American!” I holler, Westminster’s euphemism for mixed-breed dogs, which were admitted to Westminster’s new agility competition this year. My husband, Bryan, flashes me a grin – I know he’s also thinking of Rio, the goofy Lab mix we adopted from the Farmington pound, whom we both know is the greatest dog in the world. We don’t need a blue ribbon from Westminster to confirm it.

But it’s a hoot to meet the people who think they do. Westminster is a “benched” show, which means the dogs have to be available to meet their adoring fans for about eight hours during the competitions. The benching area is where you’ll find women in matching “Barking Mad” T-shirts fawning over an Irish setter, or hot gay guys in suits grooming shih tzus. I met a pug named Reme – short for “Remember 9/11,” and a mastiff named Destiny “because it is her destiny to win,” according to her owner, a tall guy in a “Jesus is my savior” pin. “Praise the Lord!” he called after me as I headed toward a Rottweiler cuddling in his owner’s lap.

Now the seven finalists for “Best in Show” walk onto the green carpet: a miniature pincher (Toy Group); a bloodhound (Hound); corgi (Herding); Irish water spaniel (Sporting); wire fox terrier (Terrier); Portuguese water dog (Working); and standard poodle (Nonsporting). I snort at the poodle, remembering the Rita Rudner quote, “I wonder if other dogs think poodles are members of a weird religious cult.”

The judge starts looking over each dog. She’s a Texan with white-gold hair and a purple gown – the colors of the Westminster Dog Show. I can’t fault, since even the Empire State Building is lit up in purple and yellow in honor of the event. The dogs suffer the indignity of her examination – I’m sure she’d ask them to turn their heads and cough, if she could – and while they’re stoic in the ring, I’m glad they act like regular dogs in the lobby.

There was the golden retriever who put her paws on my shoulders and licked my face, the beagle who tried to eat my scarf, and the Nova Scotia duck toller who immediately offered his belly for a rub. (While I rubbed the little guy’s belly, a woman asked the owner of the champion dog without a trace of irony, “Is he housetrained?”)

The owners were good for a laugh, too, like the guy with two dachshunds who was indignant about the day’s judging. “They were shat on,” he told us. “I am so ready for a drink … and a joint.”

I reach for my drink – beer with a straw, just to “rebel” against the event’s snobbery – and wonder if we’ll go out after. Westminster bar flies are a breed of their own. We’d met the “trust fund baby” who dreamed of opening a dual hair salon/grooming facility “so you and your dog can get gorgeous at the same time,” and the Mexican national who pledged to name his unborn champion Yorkie “Rio de Colorado” in honor of our dog.
It’s almost time for the moment we’ve all been waiting for. The dogs take a final lap, and the crowd starts up again. “Corgi!” I yell, thinking of the first dog I loved, my godparents’ corgi Molly. “Bloodhound!” Bryan hollers, loyal to the big dogs. “Anything without a pom pom!” I shriek, and he laughs as a “Shush!” rips through the stands.

And the winner is … Sky, the wire fox terrier! The place erupts in cheers – and muttering. “It’s all flash,” says the guy in front of us. “It’s all politics,” says his wife, something we’d heard repeatedly. “It used to be a sport, now it’s a game.”

I don’t know why I feel dejected as we head back to our hotel. Then I hold the door open for a woman with a corgi who looks startlingly familiar. “Is that Coco?” I ask.

It is. The puparazzi catch wind that the “Best in Show” finalist is in our midst and circle like foxes on a hunt. But I drop to my knees to pet Coco, and she kisses my ears with wild abandon as I tell her she’s a good dog. My heart swells with affection for the breed, for dogs, for my furry boy back home, for people who give dogs loving homes. There are millions of homeless dogs who need good homes – and of course, I’ll always adopt from shelters. It dawns on me that the Westminster folks just have an extreme approach to loving their dogs. They are all very wanted and loved – and every dog deserves to be loved.

– Jen Reeder