I have to give a nod to Gaupola’s post today, Linda’s Brain Peanuts Remembers Soda Pop. It got me thinking. There’s just one big perk to getting old, other than senior discounts: memories.
Everything reminds me of something. No matter what anyone is talking about, it brings back something that happened a long time ago or maybe yesterday. I may not have money, but I am rich in memories. Or would be, if I could remember whatever that thing is I can’t quite recall. It’s right on the tip of my tongue. Never mind. I’ll remember later. Something will remind me.
Last night was the final night of the Westminster Kennel Club show. It’s the 138th year of the show.
“Westminster gets its name from a long gone hotel in Manhattan. There, sporting gentlemen used to meet in the bar to drink and lie about their shooting accomplishments. Eventually they formed a club and bought a training area and kennel. They kept their dogs there and hired a trainer.
“They couldn’t agree on the name for their new club. But finally someone suggested that they name it after their favorite bar. The idea was unanimously selected, we imagine, with the hoisting of a dozen drinking arms.”
— Maxwell Riddle, from a newspaper story quoted in
“The Dog Show, 125 Years of Westminster” by William Stifel
Westminster is my Superbowl. I love watching beautiful dogs, seeing what the newest “official” AKC breeds are. Watching the show reminded me about the dogs I grew up with. Not only my dogs, but the dogs that belonged to the kids I played with.
When I was a kid — that would be the 1950s in case you’re wondering — everyone owned purebred dogs. Not just rich people, but working people. Even poor people. Garry grew up with a Collie. We had Doberman Pinschers. My friend Betty had a Shetland Sheepdog. Mary had a Chihuahua. Carol had a Havanese. I thought she was making up the breed because it wasn’t listed by the American Kennel Club, but now it is. Sure enough, it’s the dog she had. Apologies, Carol. I shouldn’t have said you were making it up.
People make a big deal these days about purebred dogs being an elitist thing, but they weren’t then and I resent the label now. When I was growing up, if you wanted a dog, you went to a breeder and bought a puppy.
There was nothing elitist about it. It never occurred to anyone we were failing to save doomed dogs by getting the puppy we wanted. Maybe there weren’t so many doomed dogs in the 1950s. Regardless, it was simple. We bought a puppy. Raised the puppy. Kept the puppy until he or she died of old age.
We didn’t abandon our dogs or let them breed randomly … mostly, not at all. We kept them in fenced yards or on leashes, had them spayed, though rarely neutered. It wasn’t something anyone did back then.
I still own purebred dogs. Two are re-homed from owners or breeders who were no longer able to keep them. Bonnie, our Scottish Terrier was a puppy farm rescue who we bought from her rescuer. She is a joy to our hearts and brightens every day of our lives. Amber, the miniature dachshund was the only one we bought “on purpose.” She was supposed to be a birthday present for Garry, but somehow wound up Kaity’s dog. Sometimes the puppy makes the choice, not the human.
I love breeds. I love knowing this puppy will grow up with this set of characteristics. Will be this size, have this personality type.
All of this came up because watching the dog show reminded me of all the dogs we had as kids. Everything reminds me of something.