with what Mrs. Abbott wore on judging assignments, then, today’s blouse and navy slacks were unmistakably casual.
While I’m on the subject of judges’ appearance, let memention that I’d love to know the full story behind the AKC guidelines on the matter, which sensibly suggest that women conformation judges avoid short or cumbersome skirts, “noisy, dangling jewelry,” and “hats unsuitable for the occasion”; and tantalizingly state that obedience judges “are in the ring to do a job, not to be the center of attention through outlandish dress or bizarre behavior.” So what I want to know is, why the guidelines? Damn, I’d love to have been there! I always envision a long-legged female judge strutting into the ring wearing a miniskirt that barely covers her undies and sporting on her head a gigantic basket of fresh fruit that she proceeds to toss—banana by banana, orange by orange, and grape by grape—to the startled spectators. It must have been some show.
Anyway, neither in the ring nor at camp did Phyllis Abbott wear any hat at all. She had pretty hair, carefully styled waves tinted a distinctive blondish-red. She was a big woman with a powerful build, muscular but not fat. The fussed-over hair softened what could have been a stern appearance. When Max introduced her, Phyllis gave the same tense, well-intentioned smile I remembered from shows. The Abbotts didn’t seem to mind being singled out. Judges are used to attention—they
are
special. For some reason, however, Don Abbott nodded and beamed for longer than I thought necessary. Maybe he hoped that if he looked like an affable guy, everyone would run out and buy his book.
When the introductions were over, Max turned to the final topic of the meeting: camp rules. We were to clean up after our dogs. We were, of course, allowed to take our dogs swimming, but otherwise, except during classes, dogs were to be kept strictly on lead. We were to observe water safety rules. In particular, we were never to swim alone and never to swim at night. The canoes beached by the lake were for everyone’s use, but the paddles were kept in the main house and absolutely had to be returned there. I was disappointed to learnthat once we’d started a course, we were expected to stay with it; popping in and out to sample this and that was against the rules. Instructors, Max said firmly, were hired only to teach their courses, not to work twenty-four hours a day. “Please respect their personal time,” Max told us tactfully. “Oh, here’s Eric! Eric Grimaldi, our breed handling instructor.”
The man was fully dressed and utterly drenched. At his side was the beautiful Chesapeake Bay retriever bitch that Rowdy had admired. Eric had obviously found one way to get Elsa out of the lake: He’d gone in after her. He was so wet that it was hard to see how handsome he was. Then Max made a last introduction. “Oh, I almost forgot Everett! Where’s Everett? Everett is the one who knows how everything works. If your sink gets stopped up, or if your car won’t start, or anything at all, he’s the one you ask. There he is! Everett Dow! Don’t forget. If it breaks, ask Everett!”
From around the side of the main house appeared a lean, tired-looking man dressed in battered boots, green work pants, and a wrinkled plaid shirt. Although Everett Dow just stood there doing absolutely nothing, hackles rose. As if the dogs had consulted with one another and agreed to act in unison, they leaped off the ground, turned toward the man, and barked a chorus of loud alarm. In my years of dog watching, I’d never before seen so unequivocal a display of apparently unprovoked alarm.
When dogs speak with one voice, dog people listen.
TOURIST BUREAUS in Down East Maine and on the Canadian shores of the Bay of Fundy have a hard time persuading tourists to venture north of Bar Harbor. I don’t understand why. When the fog clears, the view of the tiny islands and the healthy green ocean is
While I’m on the subject of judges’ appearance, let memention that I’d love to know the full story behind the AKC guidelines on the matter, which sensibly suggest that women conformation judges avoid short or cumbersome skirts, “noisy, dangling jewelry,” and “hats unsuitable for the occasion”; and tantalizingly state that obedience judges “are in the ring to do a job, not to be the center of attention through outlandish dress or bizarre behavior.” So what I want to know is, why the guidelines? Damn, I’d love to have been there! I always envision a long-legged female judge strutting into the ring wearing a miniskirt that barely covers her undies and sporting on her head a gigantic basket of fresh fruit that she proceeds to toss—banana by banana, orange by orange, and grape by grape—to the startled spectators. It must have been some show.
Anyway, neither in the ring nor at camp did Phyllis Abbott wear any hat at all. She had pretty hair, carefully styled waves tinted a distinctive blondish-red. She was a big woman with a powerful build, muscular but not fat. The fussed-over hair softened what could have been a stern appearance. When Max introduced her, Phyllis gave the same tense, well-intentioned smile I remembered from shows. The Abbotts didn’t seem to mind being singled out. Judges are used to attention—they
are
special. For some reason, however, Don Abbott nodded and beamed for longer than I thought necessary. Maybe he hoped that if he looked like an affable guy, everyone would run out and buy his book.
When the introductions were over, Max turned to the final topic of the meeting: camp rules. We were to clean up after our dogs. We were, of course, allowed to take our dogs swimming, but otherwise, except during classes, dogs were to be kept strictly on lead. We were to observe water safety rules. In particular, we were never to swim alone and never to swim at night. The canoes beached by the lake were for everyone’s use, but the paddles were kept in the main house and absolutely had to be returned there. I was disappointed to learnthat once we’d started a course, we were expected to stay with it; popping in and out to sample this and that was against the rules. Instructors, Max said firmly, were hired only to teach their courses, not to work twenty-four hours a day. “Please respect their personal time,” Max told us tactfully. “Oh, here’s Eric! Eric Grimaldi, our breed handling instructor.”
The man was fully dressed and utterly drenched. At his side was the beautiful Chesapeake Bay retriever bitch that Rowdy had admired. Eric had obviously found one way to get Elsa out of the lake: He’d gone in after her. He was so wet that it was hard to see how handsome he was. Then Max made a last introduction. “Oh, I almost forgot Everett! Where’s Everett? Everett is the one who knows how everything works. If your sink gets stopped up, or if your car won’t start, or anything at all, he’s the one you ask. There he is! Everett Dow! Don’t forget. If it breaks, ask Everett!”
From around the side of the main house appeared a lean, tired-looking man dressed in battered boots, green work pants, and a wrinkled plaid shirt. Although Everett Dow just stood there doing absolutely nothing, hackles rose. As if the dogs had consulted with one another and agreed to act in unison, they leaped off the ground, turned toward the man, and barked a chorus of loud alarm. In my years of dog watching, I’d never before seen so unequivocal a display of apparently unprovoked alarm.
When dogs speak with one voice, dog people listen.
TOURIST BUREAUS in Down East Maine and on the Canadian shores of the Bay of Fundy have a hard time persuading tourists to venture north of Bar Harbor. I don’t understand why. When the fog clears, the view of the tiny islands and the healthy green ocean is
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