Why Waste English Setters on Dog Shows?

Why Waste English Setters on Dog Shows?

  by Robert Scott Leyse

  Copyright 2014 Robert Scott Leyse

  Discover other titles by Robert Scott Leyse at:

  Author Website: https://www.robertscottleyse.com

  Sample Leyse’s novella, Penelope Prim,

  Read Leyse’s free short story, “Dream Displacement, or Love from the Grave,”

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  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased, and events, past or present, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Star: Zuke

  Photo: Don Robin

  Cover built by RSL

  “Why Waste English Setters on Dog Shows?”

  was first published at Hackwriters.Com, edited by Sam North,

  and Laurahird.Com, edited by Laura Hird.

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  Gratefully dedicated to undisciplined dogs

  and the people who love them.

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  Steven to Angie & Ella

  Sent: Sunday, August 28, 2010 10:47 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—one of the wildest, most spirited, bouncing-off-the-walls-with-energy breeds 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 twelve hundred dollars 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, by being honest and naïve and saying I had neither the time nor inclination to go anywhere near dog shows, I was prepared this time and 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 my act and agreed to the sale.

  “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, who’s loved and appreciated and treated like royalty! 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 it when she finds out 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 whole arm’s sore by the time I release him behind the Met. Not that I mind—it’s a privilege to man the leash and be connected to the strength and energy of a beautiful dog. Drunk with his sudden freedom after having been cooped up in the car for most of the day, Zuke 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 and compels them to chase him but none can catch him, or even come close.

  Another quality of English Setters 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, not to mention that his movements remain flawlessly fluid and graceful. Then we’re chasing Zuke 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, the Frisbee still in his mouth. Lo and behold, I quickly understand why Byron was grinning: an expansive lawn crowded with people is Zuke’s ideal playground. Within seconds he drops the Frisbee and is madly dashing across picnic blankets, spilling bowls and scattering plates—thrusting himself upon people, nuzzling and licking them—relentlessly baiting the leashed dogs, until they erupt into furious barks. Softball games are being played and Zuke interrupts a couple. In the first instance he bounds into the batter’s box and, in a demonstration of affection, knocks the catcher on his rear; in the second
instance he fields a base hit and dashes in circles with the ball, the defensive players flinging their arms up in futility as the runner takes his time trotting home, a huge smile on his face.

  It’s then, my dears, that I’m rewarded with some bonafide transcendent moments—as when the truly improbable suddenly reveals itself to be a plausible and existing reality of which one’s both the cause and beneficiary. In the blink of an eye I’m as if hovering outside my body and gazing upon the