Jaquenetta German Shepherd Dogs
It's a Dogs Life !
Greetings to you all. What an awful few months I have endured. It began with the class one bitch giving birth to ten little horrors, which made up for her missing last time. It was the humans to blame; they took her too early to an old age pensioner. I think the stud dog owners should have paid them for making his last few days pleasurable, for he died soon after the mating. But they generously allowed her to mate their other German import, who had similar bloodlines, at her following season. After a few weeks the little brats are allowed into the main kitchen with the rest of us, when they annoy me too much I go to the top of the stairs and glare down at them. Their mother's hair fell out on one of her back legs; it was diagnosed as hormonal and has grown back now. I would have torn my hair out if I had to spend most of every day for two weeks with the little pests.
Then the show bitch brought a bug back with her from a show and passed it on to me, but not to any of the others. I felt awful, I slept upstairs where I could get some peace all day, I wouldn't eat and worried the humans. I couldn't face my usual tripe; the show bitch had also brought back from the shows an Arden Grange goody bag, and a Pedigree Chum goody bag. ( I suppose she is useful for something ). The humans tried to tempt me with them, they did smell pleasanter than my tripe, they were quite tasty so I scoffed the lot.
When we have puppies Squawk stays with them all the time and Growler takes the bitch to the shows by himself. At one show he was at the ringside, the showbitch was in the ring, and the woman next to him pointed at the list of dogs in the class in the catalogue.
"The first dog is shxx!" she said to him. "The next dog belongs to so and so, I don't know that dog and so on down the list." Turning to Growler she asked, "Which dog is yours?"
"The first one," he replied.
"That's not you" she stated, "you're not them." Then she addressed her husband, "they're not the ones we thought they were." So obviously it was the people she thought owned the bitch she did not like and not the bitch herself, and she had got the humans surname mixed up with theirs. This woman belongs to the same training club as the humans. She probably hasn't seen our show bitch at the club. The humans took her a few times, she barked so much Growler wouldn't take her in again. He takes her for a walk and Squawk takes one of the other bitches into the club. The showbitch has a Jekyll and Hyde trait, if the humans have hold of her lead she barks furiously at any dog that 'eyes' her. As soon as she is handed over to someone else she goes quiet and behaves perfectly. It doesn't matter whether it is her regular handler Larry Yates or handlers who have helped us out like Neil Dodds, John Inkpen, Fred Whitefoot, she takes no notice of other dogs when with them, and does all that is asked of her with no problems. It is obviously the humans at fault. It was just as well it was Growler the woman was talking to and not Squawk. Growler never worries what is said about the showbitch, he tells off Squawk when she gets annoyed about a judge's critique. He says if she can't take the criticism she shouldn't show the dog. She should have confidence in her own judgment, take note of the criticism, and carry on regardless. Every judge sees the dog through different eyes, have their own personal interpretations of the standard, and put the importance on different points of the dog according to their preference. That is why showing is a challenge and why the exhibitor shouldn't become too disappointed if their exhibit doesn't win very often.
The showbitch is mightily pleased with herself; she actually came first, second twice, a third and a fourth at her last five shows. But I was ready for her when she started gloating. I overheard Squawk berating about the showbitch's first ever critique to appear in the dog paper. Apparently the judge was very negative about her.
"I came first," she informed me on her return.
"Were you the only one entered?" I queried.
"No there were seven of us," she stated.
"I bet you made friends with the judge's guide dog or she forgot her glasses." I goaded her.
"Oh fun--ee! I was chosen because she thought I was best." she preened.
"It doesn't say much for the others," I growled.
"You never give me any credit," she whined.
"Well the judge the other week didn't think much of you. He might as well have said in his critique 'this dog is crap' and left it at that," I sneered.
"You can't please them all. It's obvious he is in the minority from my other placings, so I shall dismiss him," she replied haughtily.
"He might be the only one that's right," I parried.
"There are so many other factors that come into play besides just being a good quality dog. If I'm consistently placed in the first four say, to allow for face and favour judging, then I'm not doing too badly. Then if I am lucky enough to come under an honest judge, and there are still a lot of them about, I may get a first like I did at Leicester show," she pontificated.
"You always come out with a load of claptrap as an excuse for why you aren't a consistent winner," I snapped.
"Oh come on even you aren't naive enough to think the best dog always wins," she declared.
"Well it didn't that day at Leicester," I retorted.
"I don't know why I bother with you," she said and flounced off in a huff.
The other week I mentioned about the class one bitch demanding dandelion roots when in whelp. Well Squawk went to her friends for supper the other night: this is a yearly happening when the writer chap up the road invites his Czechoslovak friend down from London. They go out picking mushrooms like ceps, chantarelles, blewitts, and giant puffballs and invite several friends round for about half a mushroom each. Off Squawk goes looking like a Jo Brand school of fashion victim. Growler uses us as an excuse for not going. At this supper there was a herbalist who informed Squawk that the root of the dandelion encourages milk production and is good for the kidneys.
The class one bitch refused her food a few days before she whelped. Squawk tried her with tins of salmon, sardines and so on, but she would eat very little. She was absolutely huge and it seems as though she shut off the main stop cock and the little blighters either had to get out or starve, so out they came. I've never heard such miserable puppies. They all entered the world wailing wanting a teat straightaway. It seemed ages before they were all well-fed and quiet. But they all thrived with no problems, so I don't suppose it done them any harm. Just as well they were wailers, as Squawk stayed up until 1.30 a.m., and there was no sign of the bitch settling down to have her puppies, so she went on to bed. At about 3.45 a.m. Growler said "Listen I can hear a puppy." He rushed downstairs and the first puppy had just been born. Squawk quickly followed and the rest of the day was spent tending to their needs. Our food was late and we missed out on our walks. It's a dog's life.
Copyright J C Hiscox
Previously published in the GSD National Magazine Feb 1998
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