Best in Show

Something unbelievable has happened: the house is quiet. It’s still early and everyone is asleep but me. I am the one who should have passed out hours ago but I guess that ol’ second wind never really dissipates after you’ve worked retail for over 20 years. Yep, I feel like I’m workin’ the second shift and loving the fact that I can sit here and listen to the wind howling outside my window, accompanied by some really bad commentary blasting in from a dog show on some obscure cable station.

Ever since I saw the movie, “Best in Show”, I’ve loved watching these things. I can guess most of the breeds (which astounds S and reaffirms with the boys that I actually DO know everything) and love to dish on the commentators comments. It’s really funny to me that they ask each other questions, back and forth, and take turns being knowledgeable, or not, about each breed. I like to rephrase their questions with sexual innuendos. I’m thinking I should write this stuff down and send it to Mattel as an idea for a new board (bored) game. It would go something like this:

“Tell me, Hank, how much time goes into shaving and shaping the balls on that Standard Poodle? Do they wax it or actually take a razor to it? I would imagine you’d have to tranquilize a dog with balls that size.”  Of course, I’m talking about how that dog is groomed but, you know, whatever!

But really, I’m just in the concept phase…

I really love it when I correctly call the winner and S will look at me like I’m Cesar Milan’s kissing cousin. Tonight, she kept insisting that the Bichon Frise’ was going to win in the non-sporting class. I felt the Tibetan Terrier was a better show of breed (like I would know but, hey, I’ve been following the lead of these phony commentators and, if they can do it, I can do it even better… especially if I’ve had a couple of glasses of wine.) The cute little Bichon really put on a show. Her little feet were moving so fast that she looked like she was happily gliding along singing a Melanie song. (“I’ve got a brand new pair of roller-skates; you’ve got a brand new key!”) She did win the online vote for most popular. This made S happy as she yelled out, “Told ya so!” and called Mojo over and give him a hug and a kiss. Mojo had no idea what was going on but ate up the sudden attention.

It is interesting when Mojo does know when something is happening on the television. Last night, we were watching a dog program and he stopped what he was doing, looked at the TV, and then jumped up on the entertainment center to have a better look. He was fascinated by it and kept tossing his head from side to side. It was really cute and S and I laughed and laughed at him. However, he does this when he sees his own reflection in the sliding glass doors so; I have no idea what he’s really thinking. The only time he has ever barked at anything (other than just playing) was when he saw himself in a reflection on the dishwasher door. I happen to know that he thinks the dishwasher is a place to find free food so I found it odd that he would bark menacingly at it. If it was me, I wouldn’t be growling at it like that, but that’s just me, and, I am, after all, only a dog-kissin’ distant cousin of Cesar Milan. (My “Shhh” sound has a whole lot more panache and my finger snappin’ has a decidedly more samba-like rhythm. Eat your heart out, Cesar. You are still my bestest boyfriend and don‘t you forget it!)

I’ve always been a dog-person and have had dogs since I was a kid. When I was about ten years old, our neighbor, Yvonka (she was Yugoslavian) came over and told my mom that she saw my father riding in his car with a blond woman. The story goes that my father had been in court all day (he was a police officer) and someone was suing someone or owed someone money regarding a dog. The judge ruled that the owner would have to give up the dog and then he tried to find someone who would take it. My dad volunteered to take the dog home and keep him. The dog was a nine year old, show quality (and former champion), blond, Afghan hound, named Zak. He’d been abused and neglected and, I’m sure my father initially saw him as a potential investment or, at the very least, a really cool dog for show. In other words, he knew nothing about it but the dog seemed like he would have been expensive so he took him. To give him some credit; he’s always been an animal lover but, really, this was an impressive looking dog. Imagine Yvonka’s surprise when he pulled up into the driveway with that “blond woman” in the car and it turned out to be Zak. It was a good laugh.

This from the man who’d also brought home a little, two-toner, black ‘n white kitty, which we named oh-so-creatively, “Bootsie” that eventually, had kittens in my closet on my sisters’ faux fur winter coat. He’d been walkin’ a beat, or something, and this little kitty kept following him and his buddies were giving him a hard time about it. He brought that kitty home and never gave it another thought. God… My poor, poor mother… This is the same cat that climbed up the telephone pole that was in the far-back corner of our yard. I, of course, climbed up that pole, wiggling carefully through the wires and transformers, and “rescued” her.  I could have fried myself into oblivion. I heard my mother yell my first, middle, and last name so frantically that I practically jumped down off that pole. Once again; God, my poor, poor mother…

I, of course, took immediate possession of Zak. He was my best friend and I included him in everything. You could never let him out off the leash. He would run and the only way I could catch him would be to jump on my bike, ride like the wind, and hope he had to stop to poop. Then, I’d have to walk him and my bicycle home and we were usually a pretty good distance away as he was quite the runner.  I loved that dog.  In fact, I loved him so much that, when he turned 10, I got my mom to let me have a birthday party for him.  I invited all of the neighbors and had bones for the dogs (um, not really such a good idea) and homemade brownies and some milk for the guests.  Amazingly, all of the neighbors and their dogs show-up and they even brought him cards and presents!  I particularly liked the “Doggie Donuts” which tasted exactly like real donuts only were really, really crunchy.  Tsk!  Of course I tasted them!  They were donuts, for God’s sake!  No other doggie treat would ever compare!  Ever!  Ahem… Anyway…

Zak had a girlfriend, (ironically) named Lulu, that lived down the street. Theirs was a tragic relationship in that he was a golden-haired, graceful, TALL, Afghan Hound while she was a small, nay-TINY, mixed breed of the Chihuahua variety. She was all black with a jutting lower jaw exposing crooked little teeth that extended far past her nose making her look like she was should be chomping on a cigar. Her cutest feature was her curly-Q, piggy tail. It was a riot to watch them do “the dance.” I used to fantasize about them having puppies but thought it would kill Lulu so I watched them very closely to ensure nothing ever connected. Yes, that’s right; that is how I used to while away the hours when I was ten years old. Do things suddenly make sense for you now, gentle reader? *Laughing*

As an Afghan Hound saunters around the dog show arena, the commenter says, “Check out the grace and beauty and the way his hair flows like wheat blowing in a field.” That’s as close to waxing poetic as it will ever get on one of these shows. If it were me, I’d be saying, “Wow, lady; don’t let that dog off the leash or you won’t catch him until you hit Nebraska and then, well, he’ll be lost in the flowing fields of wheat: pooping.”

Yes, I really should have passed-out hours ago. I’ve been sick for the last several days. Well, not really full-blown sick but just sick enough to feel tired and miserable during my days off from work. Why does it always happen that I feel this way on my days off but am perfectly healthy when I go to work? It should be the other way around, dagnabbit! Maybe I’m not really sick. Maybe I’m just under-caffeinated while at home.

Must. Remedy. That.

Tomorrow. At work.

Happy Thursday!