Why Waste English Setters on Dog Shows?
by
Robert Scott Leyse
Steven
to Angie &
Ella
Sent: Sunday,
August 28, 2005
7:47 PM
Miffed,
my darlings? You
ought to be. What
girls worth their
frilly underthings—that
every man with
a pulse wants
to peel off—put
up with being
stood up? All
the same, I ask
for understanding.
OK,
I bailed on our
Four Seasons brunch
after I'd made
the reservations,
but ask yourselves:
how often do I
fail to show up
after setting
a meeting up and
talking it up?
I can count the
sum total for
the year on one
finger. Is it
my fault Byron,
one of my oldest
friends who I—at
most—see
every other year,
chose today to
detour through
town on a drive
to New Jersey
from North Carolina?
I'd say that qualifies
as extenuating
circumstances.
As
to why I didn't
bring Byron along
so you could meet
him: he had his
dog Zuke with
him and Zuke couldn't
be left unsupervised
in my apartment:
there's no telling
what would've
been chewed beyond
recognition or
torn to shreds.
Zuke's
an English Setter—the
wildest, most
spirited, bouncing-off-the-walls-with-energy
breed of dog on
earth; and, at
eleven months,
is in the prime
of exuberant disregardful-of-authority
puppyhood. Full
grown size-wise,
still a puppy
disposition-wise—the
perfect combination
for maximum riot.
Turn your back
on him for a second
in my apartment,
and he's mauling
a pillow or chomping
on electrical
chords or overturning
the trash. So
that's why you
didn't meet Byron,
and we went to
Central Park with
Zuke instead.
Yes,
an English Setter:
slender, swift
of movement, graceful
of bearing, a
breed not often
seen outside of
dog shows. As
for dog shows,
the contract Byron
signed with the
breeder stipulates
that he show Zuke.
Is he going to
do so? Here's
his take on the
subject:
"I
shell out $1,200
for Zuke, and
the breeder has
the gall to inform
me I'm to hit
the dog show circuit
with him! Free
advertising's
what she's after,
as when the dog's
birthplace and
pedigree's announced!
But, having botched
it with breeders
in the past and
been turned down,
I was prepared
this time—I
assured her I
was looking forward
to showing Zuke,
trotted out a
barrage of false
enthusiasm; said
I was planning
to hand him over
to an obedience
school—named
the school, well-known,
that I'd found
on Google. Still,
she was suspicious—subjected
me to a full-out
interrogation!
So I dropped more
names and locations
of trainers, asked
pointed questions
concerning dog
show applications
and policies—was
very well-informed
indeed, because
I'd printed some
of the rubbish
out and studied
it. Finally, she
swallowed it.
"Christ!
Forcing a dog
as lively as an
English Setter,
originally bred
for hunting, to
endure the endless
transport cages
of the dog show
circuit is a high
crime! Turning
an English Setter
over to spirit-breaking
parasites at an
obedience school
is something I
could never be
paid to do! All
I want is a lively
pet! Anything
wrong with that?
"All
the training rigmarole,
dog shows—it's
a multi-million
dollar industry!
The silly woman
thinks she's going
to enlist me in
publicizing her
business, at the
expense of Zuke's
happiness! Screw
her! And what's
she, located in
Vancouver, going
to do about the
fact I lied a
blue streak and
duped her? Zuke's
going to remain
free-spirited
and out of control
and race like
a maniac through
the fields of
my farm to his
heart's content,
and she can drop
dead!"
But
enough of the
preliminaries,
Angie and Ella.
By way of—partially—making
amends for skipping
out on our brunch-date,
I'll entertain
you with our Sunday-in-the-park
adventure:
Once
we cross Madison
and the trees
of Central Park
come into view
at the end of
the block Zuke's
excitedly whiffing
the air—inhaling
the heady scents
of nature—and
yanking at the
leash as if possessed,
such that it's
real work to keep
him from tearing
it from my hand.
I kid you not:
my arm's sore
by the time I
release him behind
the Met. Drunk
with his sudden
freedom after
having been cooped
up in the car
for most of the
day, he bolts
towards Cleo's
Needle, darting
hither and thither.
An
English Setter's
a beautiful creature
to see when he's
racing free. Zuke's
on permanent overdrive,
faster than any
other dog in the
park; extremely
playful, he buzzes
other dogs, compels
them to chase
him; but none
can catch him,
or even come close.
Another
quality of English
Setter's is that
they love people.
Zuke's way of
greeting people
is to rear up
on his hind legs
and place his
front paws on
their chests,
often rather abruptly.
He's simply saying
"Hello!"
and is as harmless
as a baby, but
some people don't
realize that and
become quite discomfited,
recoil with apprehension.
It's amusing to
watch Zuke jolt
them from their
thoughts, force
interaction upon
them: one moment
they're in their
private worlds,
the next they're
forced to deal
with an exuberant—leaping,
sniffing, licking—creature
that still has
one foot in the
wild kingdom.
Byron
and I toss a Frisbee
for awhile under
the canopies of
the oaks near
Cleo's Needle;
Zuke races back
and forth between
us leaping and
snapping at the
air in vain attempts
to seize the disk
that soars just
beyond his reach;
at last, half
out of his mind
because we're
playing with something
he can't get ahold
of, he begins
barking in protest;
so we toss the
Frisbee to him
and, after snatching
it in his jaws,
he outdoes himself
in demonstrations
of joy—capers
about in such
zigzag angles
of abrupt switches
of direction it's
amazing he manages
to remain on his
feet. Then we're
chasing him to
get the Frisbee
back, and he's
teasing us in
turn—often
crouching on the
ground and allowing
us to approach,
only to whisk
yards away in
about two seconds
the instant our
fingers are inches
from his mouth.
"Zuke's
really charged
up now,"
Byron says with
a grin. "Let's
go over there."
He gestures towards
the Great Lawn,
crowded with people.
So
we stroll to the
Great Lawn and,
ignoring the signs
that say dogs
must be leashed
therein, allow
Zuke to enter
unhindered. Lo
and behold, I
soon understand
why Byron was
grinning: a field
crowded with people
is Zuke's ideal
playground. Within
seconds he's madly
dashing across
picnic blankets,
spilling bowls
and scattering
plates—thrusting
himself upon people,
nuzzling and licking
them—relentlessly
teasing the leashed
dogs, until they
erupt into furious
barks. Softball
games are being
played and Zuke
interrupts a couple—in
the first instance
bounds into the
batter's box and,
in a demonstration
of affection,
knocks the catcher
on his rear; in
the second instance
fields a base
hit and dashes
in circles with
the ball, the
defensive players
flinging their
arms up in futility
as the runner
sprints all the
way home.
It's
then, my dears,
that I'm rewarded
with a bonafide
transcendent moment—as
when the truly
improbable suddenly
reveals itself
to be a plausible
and existing reality
of which one's
both the cause
and beneficiary.
Suddenly, I'm
hovering outside
of my body, gazing
upon the scene
as if from a distance:
Zuke, the softball
still in his mouth,
is racing like
a maniac with
three players
chasing him; Byron
and I, making
a show of actually
trying to catch
Zuke and leash
him, are shrieking
"Zuke! Zuke!"
at the top of
our lungs. We're
the cause of a
great deal of
commotion on this
previously peaceful
Sunday and the
majority of nearby
heads on the Great
Lawn are turned
in our direction,
and guess what?
No one's openly
cursing us.
It
has to be experienced
to be believed.
Running and shouting
and at the center
of the commotion
as I am, I'm suddenly
enveloped in a
feeling of overwhelming
security and inviolability.
Why? Because I
understand that,
as long as Byron
and I pretend
to try to catch
Zuke while dispensing
apologies here
and there, no
one's going to
voice opposition.
How do two
grown men get
away with sowing
chaos in a public
place? All they
need is a spirited
dog.
Yes,
I'm relishing
the situation:
plenty of people
are laughing on
account of the
unexpected entertainment;
others are simply
watching with
no readily discernable
expression; a
small minority
are allowing creases
of annoyance to
appear on their
faces. Am I worried
concerning the
latter? Not a
bit. They dare
not give voice
to their annoyance
because then they'd
be branded as
dog haters and
incur the dislike
of the majority.
(Is it too far-fetched
to suggest that
dog haters, especially
in the eyes of
people who frequent
parks, are situated
close to the bottom
of the totem pole,
barely a notch
above snitches
and child molesters?)
Nor does it hurt
that Zuke's a
poster child for
canine cuteness:
wide trusting
vaguely sad eyes,
long floppy ears,
a beautiful tri-colored
coat, a grown
puppy romping
without a care
in the world.
As I overhear
one woman say:
"Such a pretty
puppy-wuppy!"
Deeming
it time to give
the players their
ball back, Byron
tosses the Frisbee
to Zuke: he drops
the softball to
seize the Frisbee.
The players, jovial
fellows who enjoy
a laugh, shout
things such as:
"Hey Zuke,
we could use you
on our team!,"
"Gold Glove
fielding, Zuke!,"
and "Now
we have a spitball!"
Alright,
we've created
a disturbance
on the densely
populated Great
Lawn for almost
fifteen minutes—great
fun, but unwise
to push it. Tolerance
for a madly romping
dog, no matter
how cute, won't
last forever.
So Byron and I
exit the Great
Lawn and head
towards Belvedere
Castle and Zuke
follows: simple.
And
that, my dears,
was our secret
all along: as
long as Byron
and I were chasing
Zuke, he was going
to dash from our
grasp—it
was all a game
of tag to him.
I like to think
of it as our covert
canine and human
agreement: Zuke
romps and disrupts
everything and
we count on him
to avoid us while
pretending to
try to catch him.
More
adventures are
had, of course.
In Bethesda tunnel,
Zuke treats us
to a demonstration
of his hunting
skills: suddenly
he freezes and
stares, apparently
mesmerized; then
there's a swift
dash, and—presto—he
wraps his jaws
around a bag dangling
from a man's hand
and gives it a
sharp tug: out
tumbles a whole
chicken onto the
ground. Zuke wastes
no time in seizing
it, racing towards
The Mall: quite
breathtaking to
behold.
"Jesus
Christ!"
the man yells,
glancing about
to see who's responsible
for the nefarious
chicken-snatching
beast.
"Zuke!"
we're screaming
at the top of
our lungs—our
yelling's magnified
and echoed very
nicely by the
tunnel.
The
man's looking
at us now, then
glancing towards
the end of the
tunnel, where
Zuke's devouring
his prize at the
base of the exit
stairs—a
mixture of being
none too pleased
and amused despite
himself is on
his face. Before
he can say anything,
we're apologizing
profusely and
offering him twenty
dollars for the
inconvenience.
"Aw
hell, I can get
another bird for
a lot cheaper
than that,"
he answers, refusing
the money. He
makes it obvious
the offer of recompense
is recompense
enough. "What
kind of dog is
that, anyway?"
he asks, gesturing
in Zuke's direction.
"An
English Setter."
"Hunting
dog, right?"
"Too
much of one for
the city, I think,"
says Byron.
"He
sure as hell knows
what he's doing!
That bird was
out of this bag
and over there
in five seconds!
It's worth a bird
to see that, and
blessings on him!
I'm glad he's
enjoying it! And
he's still got
his balls! Good
for you! Don't
neuter him!"
"Dead
horses will fly
to Mars before
my dog gets neutered,"
responds Byron.
"Break his
spirit? Steal
his manhood? Disgusting!"
"Nothing
worse!" the
man fairly shouts.
"I had a
dog awhile back—Black
Lab, feisty and
smart, bundle
of energy. I went
off on business
for a week, convention
in Atlanta. The
first wife...
She hauls him
to the vet and
gets his balls
cut off while
I'm gone! Dog
wasn't the same
after! The sparkle
was gone from
his eyes—he
turned lazy, wasn't
quick and bright
anymore! I sometimes
fancied he was
asking 'Why?'
when he looked
at me—it
was like a trace
of his old spirit
was still there,
wondering how
I could've let
him be savaged!
And I sure asked
the wife why!
Guess why? Because
someone on TV
said it was beneficial!
She was always
glued to the tube,
mistaking blather
for gospel truth!
No one easier
to hoodwink than
the first wife!
Once a head-turner,
but with low mileage!
As scatterbrained
as she was unable
to keep her looks,
and with her bedroom
skills flagging
as fast! She's
been replaced
by one who ruts
like a rabbit
and has
a head on her
shoulders!"
"One
of the breeder's
conditions of
the sale was that
I neuter Zuke,"
says Byron. "It's
in the contract!
Do I care? About
as much as I care
if the breeze
blows! Sure, she's
worried I might
make use of Zuke's
pedigree and breed
him and compete
with her, but
it's more than
that! These people
are programmed
into thinking
neutering's in
a dog's best interest,
as if being deprived
of the sex-drive
will make him
happier! What
they really mean
is that it makes
dogs more submissive—easier
to train to do
stupid tricks
that reflect more
on the vanity
of humans than
anything that's
good for dogs!
They get a dog
because they want
a creature to
control! They
want obedient
fawning animals
that are exclusively
dependent on them!
They want to show
off in front of
others of their
ilk, say 'Watch
Rover roll over!
Watch Rover heel
and sit!' They're
controlling despotic
creeps who victimize
animals because
they need to feel
superior; and
then they turn
around and pass
it off as being
concerned for
the animals' welfare!
I don't see them
cutting their
own balls off,
or getting themselves
spayed!"
"Damn
right!" says
the man heatedly,
delighted to have
found a comrade
in arms. "The
world needs more
dog owners like
you! Not those
scaredy-cats who
want them to be
stupid and lazy,
like my stupid
first wife! Dogs
ought
to steal chickens
and raise a ruckus!
To hell with those
that disagree!"
As
if on cue, chicken-thief
Zuke trots up
to us; not only
is he unapprehensive
of the man from
whom he filched
the chicken, he
enthusiastically
greets him in
his customary
manner, placing
his front paws
on his chest.
"You're
a good boy, aren't
you?" says
the man, caressing
Zuke's head and
patting his back.
"A good
dog!"
Zuke,
Byron, and I part
from the man the
best of friends
and continue on
our merry roving
tour through the
Mall and to Sheep
Meadow and The
Pond, leaving
disruption and
flusteredness
and laughter in
our wake. Towards
the end I'm quite
giddy with the
license to carry
on that Zuke's
antics are making
possible; I'm
screaming his
name absolutely
as loud as I can
while dashing
about like a ten-year-old;
being associated
with Zuke has
transferred a
portion of his
freedom to make
a spectacle of
himself to me
and I'm savoring
it to the hilt.
Thanks to our
constant yelling
of Zuke's name,
I'm sure it's
engraved upon
the memories of
hundreds of people.
Alas,
the waking dream's
over far too soon:
we exit the park
at 59th and 5th
and must reintroduce
Zuke to the leash;
no longer surrounded
by open fields,
he instantly settles
down. We hop a
cab back to my
place, chat for
a couple more
hours over a meal,
then say our good-byes.
Byron resumes
his journey to
New Jersey, to
his usually-but-not-at-the-moment
ex-girlfriend's
place.
So
there, my dears,
you have my excuse
for bailing on
our date and offending
your pride, and
why I ask for
special consideration.
And, though Zuke
was the one primarily
responsible, I
think you ought
to think sweet
thoughts of him
nevertheless.
I, for one, owe
Zuke my heartfelt
thanks for placing
my city boy self
in touch with
the animal world—an
experience I'm
still reverberating
with. Sowing chaos
in half of Central
Park in open view
and getting away
with it lifts
fun to a whole
new level. Being
in on the romping
of a cheerful
and mischievous
dog is rejuvenating,
therapeutic, and
healthy.
Love,
Steven
P.S.
Why are we so
fond of dogs?
Alright, they're
blind to our many
shortcomings and
unselfishly give
us their affection,
no questions asked:
this, the vanity
factor, has to
be the primary
reason why we
love them. But
another source
of their appeal
is that they exist
in our civilization
without being
fully of it and
therefore serve
to remind us of
our ancestral
origins, when
we lived as one
with nature and
were unhindered
in our expressions
of feeling. Thousands
of generations
preceded us and
our present sorry
state of being
emasculated by
civilization is
an aberration
that comprises
a small percentage
of human history:
how can we not
want dogs among
us, when they
occasionally afford
us a glimpse of
what we once were?
©
2006 by Robert Scott Leyse
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