Animal House

Two-legged competitors are driven to show their four-legged champs at the Garden

By Denise Flaim

STAFF WRITER

Maybe to you, they look like a bunch of liver-throwing, crate-hauling, blowdryer-brandishing weirdos.

But they're dog family to me.

Today, the 131st annual Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show engulfs Madison Square Garden, rolling out an emerald-green carpet where the Knicks usually tread, constructing a backstage maze of yellow wooden benches where dogs lounge in their off time to greet the thronging public, and where even perfect size 6s cannot pass without perennial excuse-me's.

Westminster is dogdom's mecca. For fanciers, handlers and breeders, the annual pilgrimage to "the Garden" is a chance to connect with far-away people we know best through the furious click of computer keys. It's where rumors are fanned and gossip is doled. It's the venue to see the big winners in the flesh, and decide if they live up to their hype.

But for the "pet people" - sorry, that's what we call you - who wend their way through the Garden's tight (and, near the sawdust-strewn potty areas, aromatic) backstage quarters, this is a subculture that can bear more than a passing resemblance to Barnum & Bailey. Indeed, the dog-show life has a bit of the carny to it, especially for those who make it more than a hobby. The cities, and often states, change every weekend, but the people never do, caravanning in motor homes and minivans packed with stainless-steel water buckets, squeak toys - and limitless ambition.

So, taking our attention off the dogs for a moment, here are some frequently asked questions about that most fascinating - and misunderstood - breed of all: the dog-show fanatic.

Are these people doing it for the money? In a word: no. If you win at Westminster, you leave with a silver trophy (plated, no less), a streaming rosette and bragging rights. You'd do better holding up a liquor store.

While theoretically, a Westminster winner could charge exorbitant puppy prices and stud fees, the truth is that even the most libidinous dog would be hard-pressed to recoup a fraction of the cost it took to get him on the map in the first place.

Piloting a successful show dog to the pinnacle can't be done on a shoestring. Champion dogs that are "campaigned" or "specialed" - that is, shown with the goal of securing a top spot in their breed or group rankings - are advertised in slick show magazines and sent off with professional handlers for umpteen weekends on the road. The price tag for all this publicity and visibility can easily surpass five digits, if you are serious - and deep-pocketed - enough.

People show dogs for the same reason they play golf: It's genially - sometimes not so genially - competitive. It's a bug they inexplicably catch and cannot shake. And nobody really wants to add up what it costs them between show entries, gas, mileage and sundry supplies, because nobody really wants to know.

What's with these, er, zaftig ladies running around in polyester? Rather than decrying their sartorial shortcomings, I encourage you to look at such fashion failures as walking - or, when they are running around the ring lacking the proper foundation support, jiggling - evidence of the great democracy of dog shows.

It is easy to spot the professional handlers, those who are paid to condition, present and show dogs for owners who are too clumsy, shy, busy or disinterested to do so themselves. They exude polish and poise. If they are women, they know to choose the chignon over the ponytail, the tailored suit over the gauzy peasant dress. If they are men ... well, as with everything else in the world, no one cares what they wear.

The pro handler's counterpart is the owner-handler - a person who shows his or her own dog. (If they also bred the dog at the end of the lead, they get an extra hyphen and are called breeder-owner-handlers.) Some owner-handlers are so polished as to be indistinguishable from the pros. Others are dead giveaways, from their less-than-graceful locomotion to their choppy responses to a judge's subtle gestures in the ring, to the presence of the dangling "bait bag." (Eschewing any method of treat storage that even hints of a fanny pack, professional handlers stash their motivating pieces of baked liver in discreet pockets or under the rubber band securing their numbered armband in place.)

"I find dog shows an incredible blending of cultures and backgrounds," says Carol Reisman of Baldwin, a dog-show person for 40 years and an AKC judge who judged the Hound group at the Garden in 2003. "You can have heiresses running with their own dogs behind people who don't have enough money to feed their kids. And all socializing, to a degree, together. The dogs are your common ground."

Indeed, I have competed in the ring against country-and-western saloon owners, nuclear-plant workers, thoracic surgeons and at least one board member of the NRA. And too many lawyers to count.

Why are most dog-show breeders women? Dog shows skew disproportionately female, though the higher up the pyramid you go, the less the gender disequilibrium.

When Westminster was founded in the late 1800s, dog shows were dominated by wealthy white men, and some vestiges of that remain today: The club still does not accept female members, though having two X chromosomes certainly does not prohibit you from competing at its high-profile show. (Before you get all suffragette on me, there are also long-standing women-only dog clubs - including the Long Island-based Ladies Kennel Association, which presumably has concluded that men will not look good in the billowy hats and white gloves that are its required dress code on show days.)

Today, women are overwhelmingly in the trenches, breeding the dogs that go on to win big. But when it comes to handlers in the ultra-competitive Group and Best in Show rings, "there are usually more men in the line," says Chris Walkowicz of Sherrard, Ill., an AKC judge and onetime bearded-collie and German shepherd dog breeder. "Ahem."

Is it really like "Best in Show"? Dog-show people don't like answering this question because if we get all huffy and start talking about things like breed type and adherence to the standard and the objective evaluation of breeding stock, we sound defensive.

And if we say yes, we sound stupid.

Perhaps the best answer is this: That mockumentary offers archetypes found at virtually every dog show, from dawg-loving good-ol' boys to swishy handlers to latte-sipping A types.

After all, everyone I know has had a "Busy Bee" moment.

That said, these days being a dog-show handler has an air of cachet. "When I went to my high-school reunion, people were like, 'Oh, my God, I saw you on TV,'" says Kimberly Pastella-Calvacca of Westbury, a third-generation dog person and professional handler who will show her homebred miniature pinscher, along with other breeds like a Doberman and boxer, at the Garden.

What do dog show people talk about? We use the "B" word a lot, because "dog" is taken to mean only a male specimen of the species. Immunity to the repeated utterance of that five-letter word - including on the USA Network telecast - is recommended.

We talk about our frustrations - the breedings that didn't take, the pet owners who return their babies to us to be shown with 10 extra pounds and untrimmed nails that resemble eagle talons. We talk about our aspirations - the promising new dog - and share tips and advice, from nutrition to training to grooming. And no matter how long they are involved with dogs, no one tires of a cute puppy story - provided you only tell it once.

Likely topics of conversation this year will be The Times' recent Sunday magazine story about "designer dogs," and the decision by a prominent breed club to grant membership to the nation's biggest puppy broker. (If you have to ask who, then it's probably too much inside baseball for you, anyway.)

And, of course, there's the inevitable scatology. Housebreaking issues loom large, as do observations about the amount, appearance, consistency and prognostic qualities of, er, output.

"Talk to dog people long enough," says Reisman with a grin, "and it always turns to crap."