By Ariel Woodruff

“I’m afraid you’ll be celebrating without me this year,” I informed Kimi and Tai. They looked decidedly unimpressed. Being Shibas, this was not a particularly hard expression for them to muster; when the occasion calls for it, Shibas can be zen masters of impassivity. In their opinion, packing a suitcase which failed to include dog leads, kibble, or any of their well-loved stuffies (does the description really apply to an eviscerated wild boar toy?) certainly warranted its use. Nevertheless, my excitement managed to override the majority of my guilt at leaving them home (the majority…did I mention that many Shibas have degrees in Guilt Trippery? Mine have their masters).

Just what would my dogs be celebrating in my absence? Why, their very own Super Bowl, as Westminster is so appropriately nicknamed. Forget Mr. Manning. In our home, the names Uno, Macey, and Vikki are cheered and howled. Dream teams have seven players, pools refer to the amount of drool mopped up by slobber rags, and purple and gold are the colors we fly every year, regardless of who is attending. And I? I would be present for the very first time – a witness to the 132nd Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show, as I eagerly shared with anyone who would listen months and months beforehand. I discussed it with my friends in the fancy, reviewed my Westminster tapes in anticipation, and poured over the book bearing its name. What would it be like to at last attend the show I had dreamed of going to since I was nine years old, and was first enchanted by the sight of magnificent dogs flying across a green ballroom, accompanied by their human partners in formal wear?

At first, the sheer magnitude overwhelmed me. This wasn’t just a dog show, it was a Dog Show, and you could hear the capitals when people spoke its name. Many of the breed rings were packed, four people deep on all sides, exhibiting such a mass of humanity that it might easily have been a Person Show as well. Handlers, alternately ferrying their charges in arms, or escorting them by lead, raced from ring to ring, often accompanied by assistant entourages that would miff the most pampered starlet. In the stands, the unforgettable Jerry hawked catalogues; “Get your Puppy Paper! Get your Doggy Digest! Get your Afghan Assignation! Your Dalmati-an Daily!” to the delight of all that heard his clever banter. The buttery smell of popcorn competed for my attention with the delicate, sugary perfume of cotton candy – was it too soon after breakfast to grab a treat? – the vendors strolling the stands, calling out their wares. Often they were drowned out, for every few minutes a cheer would rise from first this ring, than that, heralding the next breed representative, a lifetime’s worth of pride. Where to look first? What to do first? Oh, this wasn’t just the Super Bowl, it was indeed, The Greatest Show on Earth!

The benches proved just as thrilling. Rivers of canine aficionados churned through the Garden’s catacombs, displaying patience borne of near-religious devotion. It was here I had the chance to meet friends I had heretofore known only through correspondence, dogs I had admired only in pictures, and could now touch in the fur; a talented handler in her final show as a junior, and her dancing, charismatic Cairn, together planning on new challenges to tackle with “true terrier character.” A lovely, lively Pug bitch, and her thrilled breeder/owner, fresh from exhilarating success in the breed ring. And when the circuit of this cyno-mecca was completed once, twice, three times, what an offering of treasures to take home! What about photographs, a statuette – were there Shibas? - a poster or a magazine subscription? Breed-specific jewels and bangles? Did I need any brushes and combs? I mustn’t forget the edible goodies for the pups, and the edible (chocolate) pups for the people!

But wait – I couldn’t miss my own breed! Armed with a brand-new camera, I became a paparazzo, trading the red carpet and its human stars for a rich, velvety green rug and its Sirius competitors. Ah, what an experience it was, to step on that carpet for the first time. It seemed to almost hum with energy, with the electricity of expectation, with the keenness of the animals. To the left of me stood a man so ecstatic to be ringside, cheering for his favorite breed, amongst like-minded enthusiasts, that he produced photos of his bitch waiting back at home. To the right of me a woman trilled a fond greeting and best of luck to a favorite entry. The goodwill between spectator, competitor and dogs was genuine – we were all, it seemed, happy, and energized to be sharing this magical experience as a community that cared about the breed, and the dogs obliged by really putting on a show. Best of Breed chosen, congratulations given, hands shaken, photos taken, and soon we were all off to group…Group!

Pleasurable shivers ran up and down my spine as the lights darkened, and the national anthem signaled the beginning of what promised to be a truly unforgettable night. My mother (my intrepid traveling companion, and also first-time Westminster attendee) and I took our seats in the stands, giggling like schoolgirls in our extreme delight, to at last really be a part of the show we had watched together every year since my youth, until college attendance had – not quite – put an end to that tradition. (I will forever wonder if any other students received care packages quite like the one my parents put together for my sister and I – homemade cookies and tapes of Westminster).

Just in front of us a young family told us that this was their first Westminster – ours too! In the neighboring seats, a trio of genteel, champagne-sipping ladies affirmed that it was theirs as well, and the same was true of the woman and her daughter across from us. “This is a mother-daughter trip,” they said smiling, and we, returning grins, said the same. “We’ve always wanted to do this!” That this was a shared experience only amplified its magic. We made our own cuts, hollered for our favorites, made predictions, and plans – “See you gals next year, right?” asked one of the Southern ladies. Who could say no?

And who would the honorable judge, Dr. J. Donald Jones, say yes to? Spotlights skimmed across the darkened green carpet, lighting each contender for Best in Show, making of them, living, luminous pearls. With each minute that passed, each nailed free stack, each second of careful consideration on the part of the judge, the tension increased. Mom and I squeezed hands – quickly trading final guesses – as Dr. Jones turned to write the name of his selection in that well-known book. We had always made a game of trying to decipher the swooping movements of the judge’s pen – impossible on this night, not for the usual reasons of sheer impracticality, but for wild, anticipatory distraction! Around us the crowd roared the names of its choices – and the greatest surprise came when he made his choice and…and…who was it?! So accustomed to the helpful voice of Mr. Frei and the revealing proximity of the cameras was I, that I had not considered what it might be like to have them removed. Cheering pandemonium! Wild, ecstatic cries! And then, parting them all, a bugle from the heavens, the baying of a Beagle.

Congratulations, Uno!

Back home, I am greeted by a pair of Shibas. Their tails are wagging. Bright smiles grace their beautiful faces.You see, their opinion of Westminster is that it must be the Oscars. They’ve just been given their Westminster “swag bags” – new stuffies, meal bars, kibble samples, handkerchiefs – gifts far rivaling, in their opinion, the new and expensive perfume Keira Knightley probably received, and the palm pilot Harrison Ford likely obtained at the Academy Awards, amidst a dozen other fabulous prizes. They are decidedly impressed.