Nina In New York: Prize Winners, Not Pets
A young professional's take on the trials and tribulations of everyday life in New York City.
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By Nina Pajak
I can't help but get swept up into the excitement of the Westminster Dog Show. It's as weird and adorable and stately and impressive as anyone could hope.
Even as an avid dog lover, I find it absolutely incredible the lengths to which people go for their pets. But then, the dogs who compete at Westminster are not pets at all. They are champions! Athletes! Stars in their own right. Malachy the Pekingese, who won the whole shebang, may seem like he requires hugging and squeezing and for someone to grab him by the face, get up really close and go "booshybooshybooshyboy!" But that's not right. He's a prize-winner, not some pedestrian lap dog. Have you ever seen a haircut like that on a neighborhood pooch? I didn't think so. Frankly, I don't think any of us could afford a haircut like that for ourselves.
There's a woman on my block with whom I chat most mornings. She adopted a little Cairn Terrier who was bred to be a showdog but failed to qualify for whatever reason. As a result of being raised for her first year or two of life with such high expectations, the little pooch is quite a character. She wants nothing at all to do with big, lumbering, dopey, playful Gus, instead choosing to chat me up whenever we meet. Her owner explained that it took quite a while to convince the dog to go out in the rain, because she had been trained never to get wet, lest her lustrous coat be spoiled in some way.
There's another dog in our neighborhood, a spaniel, whom Gus and I once encountered. Gus, being Gus, immediately tried to wrestle him to the ground. But the dog would have none of it. His owner, who was bemused by Gus, explained to me that not only was the spaniel a showdog, he was a champion. "Ooooh!" I said, and I was shocked to find that I meant it. I felt like I'd just stumbled on a celebrity or something. That guy really sold me, and fast.
The only thing that holds me back from full-on obsession with Westminster is that it kind of pains me when I see people purchasing purebred animals for hundreds or even thousands of dollars, when there are so many wonderful pups wasting away in the shelters. I'm not trying to get on a soapbox or anything. My family owned two purebred Cocker Spaniels while I was growing up, and I loved them dearly despite their hereditary ear infections (which led to stinkiness and eventual deafness), copious eye snot, incurable anxiety, skin allergies, obsessive-compulsive disorder (I'm not joking), high blood pressure, kidney failure, sensitive bowels, dog-aggression, and in the case of the younger one, crushing stupidity and an odd and rarely-encountered inability to love. I'm being completely sincere on all fronts, here.
I think my days of breeder-bought dogs are over. And I'd like to see an event that showcases with equal pomp the quality and irresistibility (not a word) of our beloved mixed breeds. I shall call it Muttminster, and none of you shall steal that. I can see it all before me: instead of Best in Breed or Best in Group, we can have Most Unlikely Mix and Prettiest Stinkyface. There can be ancillary awards for dumbest dog, smartest dog, and most affectionate dog. Should the day come that I am not supremely lazy, I look forward to accepting your submissions. Don't worry. I won't enter Gus to preserve the purity of the competition. Probably.
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Dear Readers: While I am rarely at a loss for words, I'm always grateful for column ideas. Please feel free to e-mail me your suggestions.
Nina Pajak is a writer and publishing professional living with her husband on the Upper West Side.
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