[Post] To Show Or Not To Show...
Years ago in a backwoods Florida town too small to mention at the moment, a schoolmate looked at me with the startling exclamation "Hey! You're that Chick with the Fence.". A rather strange affectation, one might say. What a peculiar thing to be known for. Surely there was more than one girl in said town that had a fence around her yard?
(If you're honestly wondering, yes, there was more than one girl in said town with a fence around her yard. It was a rural setting, not a desert.)
But how many of those girls had five Australian Shepherds running around behind said fence?
That's right, just me.
Years before, back in Middle School, I was the 'Girl with the Great Dane'. In Elementary School, I was the girl that loved horses and dolphins. So much so, in fact, that two years after my graduation from High School while helping a friend move, I encountered one of my fifth grade classmates. Kyle looked at me with a rather startled expression and said "You're the one that loved dolphins and horses, right?"
I stared, and then blushed and muttered an agreement.
He informed me that it was cool, everyone loves something, he just remembered me being particularly vocal and enthusiastic about it. (In fifth grade I did a book report on dolphins and a speech on mustangs).
I've always been known by my love of animals and the fact that I make no secret of it. Now a college student and an adult, I'm the proud owner of a Doberman Pinscher. And trust me, there was quite a bit of surprise in the family ranks when I declared I wanted one. I've always been the fluffy breed sort. We had a Chow, the Aussies, I desperately wanted a Siberian Husky (and still do, in some small wolf-loving corner of my soul).
A Doberman?
Banned Breed. Bad Rep. Scary Dog. Killer.
You want a what now? Have you lost your ever-loving mind?
I can't explain to you what it was like to meet my first in-the-flesh Doberman. He is one that is still thankfully in my life, and will remain forever one of my favorite dogs. I can't even explain to you what his breeder is like, what her house is like. A little ninety-pound woman in her seventies, with Dobermans easily over 100lbs, a mouth like the New Yorker she truly is, and a family connection to less-than-reputable people. (Hello Mafia Daughter)
I'm sure my father had kittens when he found out that his daughter wanted a doberman. I know he tried to talk me out of it. In fact, several of the "older and wiser" crowd in my life tried to talk me out of it. Some of my mom's friends, my father, my grandmother. They're bad dogs, they're a banned breed, too much for you, too scary, get something else. Something small, something sweet.
I worked two jobs, sometimes six and seven days a week. I bough my dog. My Doberman. From my new favorite person, the Breeder of the first Doberman I fell in love with. The owner of the next seven Dobermans I fell in love with. The same woman who is the breeder of my first dog. My first Doberman, but certainly not my last.
I can't tell you what it was like to walk into her house. At the time she had five Dobermans (the smallest over 70lbs, the largest 125) and they all answered the knocking on the door with loud barks and upright ears. She tells us to just 'walk right through them' and there are five pairs of eyes just daring you to come into their house. The cats don't really matter, the chihuahuas just add to the general noise.
She says shut up, everyone shuts up.
She says lay down, they lay down.
We sit and talk. They drift back over, toys in mouths, tails wagging slightly, noses prodding you for attention. Is this what heaven is like? Where has this been all of my life. They're amazing, she's amazing. I want one. I want five, but one will do for now. The red bitch is due to be bred, she likes me, she'd let me buy one. I want one.
I want one until my heart aches. Is this a sickness? I've caught it, and I don't mind. Short coats, cropped ears, docked tails, sharp expressions. I love it. They’re not fluffy, they don’t have blue eyes, I don’t care. I’ve found my new favorite thing. They might be better than horses.
I’m supposed to buy a girl. There’s a plan, and I’m all for it. She’s going to teach me all about Dobes, she’s been in this game for 50 years. Of course I want to learn. But the pups are nine days old when she invites me over. There are three, she says I can pet one. I reach down and stroke one small head with a finger. Her partner rolls his eyes at me, scoops the boy up, and plants him in my hands.
This is to be my Kai.
He yawns, I try not to squee. His eyes aren’t open yet, his years flappy, paws the size of my thumb. His grandsire is standing right beside the whelping box, 125lbs of disapproval. One day, he’ll be that big, or nearly. I have little interest in the only girl in the litter. There’s an adorable pup in my hands, and it’s not the one I planned to buy.
Seven weeks later, he comes home with me. My Keeper of the Keys.
I don’t care that my father didn’t want me to get him. I don’t care that family friends advised against it. I don’t care that family is still opposed to the idea. My money, my choice, my dog.
I didn’t buy him to show, I didn’t buy him to win ribbons or prizes or compete for someone’s attention or approval. I bought him because I fell in love with him, and I love him even more now than I did that first day. I love him even when he tore holes in my favorite blankets, chewed up my favorite books, and did a dozen silly things that I now look back on as fond memories of puppyhood.
We’re practicing for confirmation shows. Is he pretty enough to finish? Am I brave enough to start? I hate being in front of people, being judged. They say Owner-Handlers don’t go anywhere. There are no Majors for Dobes in Florida. Professional Handlers are the only way to go. It costs so much. The chances for success are so little. The whole thing either annoys or terrifies me, but some small part of me still wants to do this...
I bought him for me. Me. Me. Me. I don’t care what they think, what anyone thinks. Tell me his back is too long or you don’t like his stride. He’s too big, Dobes shouldn’t be that big. He’s classic Doberman, from nose to tail. I think he’s beautiful, he has great movement and a wonderful temperament. He hogs the bed and plays with the cats. He sleeps upside down and listens to music with me. He likes fruit and shuns fried food.
I don’t know if we’ll show. I don’t know if we’ll go anywhere. But I love him, and I’m proud of him. Whether he completes an AKC Championship or just remains a couch-potatoe. He’s mine. My Keeper of the Keys.
Without anyone to approve or disapprove, to hang ribbons around his neck or dock points because he doesn’t sit instantly, to praise him for standing still or frown because he barks when he shouldn’t. He’s all mine. That’s always been enough for me.
~Me
(If you're honestly wondering, yes, there was more than one girl in said town with a fence around her yard. It was a rural setting, not a desert.)
But how many of those girls had five Australian Shepherds running around behind said fence?
That's right, just me.
Years before, back in Middle School, I was the 'Girl with the Great Dane'. In Elementary School, I was the girl that loved horses and dolphins. So much so, in fact, that two years after my graduation from High School while helping a friend move, I encountered one of my fifth grade classmates. Kyle looked at me with a rather startled expression and said "You're the one that loved dolphins and horses, right?"
I stared, and then blushed and muttered an agreement.
He informed me that it was cool, everyone loves something, he just remembered me being particularly vocal and enthusiastic about it. (In fifth grade I did a book report on dolphins and a speech on mustangs).
I've always been known by my love of animals and the fact that I make no secret of it. Now a college student and an adult, I'm the proud owner of a Doberman Pinscher. And trust me, there was quite a bit of surprise in the family ranks when I declared I wanted one. I've always been the fluffy breed sort. We had a Chow, the Aussies, I desperately wanted a Siberian Husky (and still do, in some small wolf-loving corner of my soul).
A Doberman?
Banned Breed. Bad Rep. Scary Dog. Killer.
You want a what now? Have you lost your ever-loving mind?
I can't explain to you what it was like to meet my first in-the-flesh Doberman. He is one that is still thankfully in my life, and will remain forever one of my favorite dogs. I can't even explain to you what his breeder is like, what her house is like. A little ninety-pound woman in her seventies, with Dobermans easily over 100lbs, a mouth like the New Yorker she truly is, and a family connection to less-than-reputable people. (Hello Mafia Daughter)
I'm sure my father had kittens when he found out that his daughter wanted a doberman. I know he tried to talk me out of it. In fact, several of the "older and wiser" crowd in my life tried to talk me out of it. Some of my mom's friends, my father, my grandmother. They're bad dogs, they're a banned breed, too much for you, too scary, get something else. Something small, something sweet.
I worked two jobs, sometimes six and seven days a week. I bough my dog. My Doberman. From my new favorite person, the Breeder of the first Doberman I fell in love with. The owner of the next seven Dobermans I fell in love with. The same woman who is the breeder of my first dog. My first Doberman, but certainly not my last.
I can't tell you what it was like to walk into her house. At the time she had five Dobermans (the smallest over 70lbs, the largest 125) and they all answered the knocking on the door with loud barks and upright ears. She tells us to just 'walk right through them' and there are five pairs of eyes just daring you to come into their house. The cats don't really matter, the chihuahuas just add to the general noise.
She says shut up, everyone shuts up.
She says lay down, they lay down.
We sit and talk. They drift back over, toys in mouths, tails wagging slightly, noses prodding you for attention. Is this what heaven is like? Where has this been all of my life. They're amazing, she's amazing. I want one. I want five, but one will do for now. The red bitch is due to be bred, she likes me, she'd let me buy one. I want one.
I want one until my heart aches. Is this a sickness? I've caught it, and I don't mind. Short coats, cropped ears, docked tails, sharp expressions. I love it. They’re not fluffy, they don’t have blue eyes, I don’t care. I’ve found my new favorite thing. They might be better than horses.
I’m supposed to buy a girl. There’s a plan, and I’m all for it. She’s going to teach me all about Dobes, she’s been in this game for 50 years. Of course I want to learn. But the pups are nine days old when she invites me over. There are three, she says I can pet one. I reach down and stroke one small head with a finger. Her partner rolls his eyes at me, scoops the boy up, and plants him in my hands.
This is to be my Kai.
He yawns, I try not to squee. His eyes aren’t open yet, his years flappy, paws the size of my thumb. His grandsire is standing right beside the whelping box, 125lbs of disapproval. One day, he’ll be that big, or nearly. I have little interest in the only girl in the litter. There’s an adorable pup in my hands, and it’s not the one I planned to buy.
Seven weeks later, he comes home with me. My Keeper of the Keys.
I don’t care that my father didn’t want me to get him. I don’t care that family friends advised against it. I don’t care that family is still opposed to the idea. My money, my choice, my dog.
I didn’t buy him to show, I didn’t buy him to win ribbons or prizes or compete for someone’s attention or approval. I bought him because I fell in love with him, and I love him even more now than I did that first day. I love him even when he tore holes in my favorite blankets, chewed up my favorite books, and did a dozen silly things that I now look back on as fond memories of puppyhood.
We’re practicing for confirmation shows. Is he pretty enough to finish? Am I brave enough to start? I hate being in front of people, being judged. They say Owner-Handlers don’t go anywhere. There are no Majors for Dobes in Florida. Professional Handlers are the only way to go. It costs so much. The chances for success are so little. The whole thing either annoys or terrifies me, but some small part of me still wants to do this...
I bought him for me. Me. Me. Me. I don’t care what they think, what anyone thinks. Tell me his back is too long or you don’t like his stride. He’s too big, Dobes shouldn’t be that big. He’s classic Doberman, from nose to tail. I think he’s beautiful, he has great movement and a wonderful temperament. He hogs the bed and plays with the cats. He sleeps upside down and listens to music with me. He likes fruit and shuns fried food.
I don’t know if we’ll show. I don’t know if we’ll go anywhere. But I love him, and I’m proud of him. Whether he completes an AKC Championship or just remains a couch-potatoe. He’s mine. My Keeper of the Keys.
Without anyone to approve or disapprove, to hang ribbons around his neck or dock points because he doesn’t sit instantly, to praise him for standing still or frown because he barks when he shouldn’t. He’s all mine. That’s always been enough for me.
~Me