My Dog is a Born Loser
It’s time to move past our obsession with breeding — for dogs and humans, both.
Once again my two dogs failed to win the National Dog Show in Philadelphia. To be fair, I didn’t enter Birdie and Biscuit. But also, they wouldn’t have been welcome. They are what some of us like to call “rescues” and others like to call “mutts.” Though they both contain breeds that did compete in the AKC-sanctioned competition, they are, each of them, the result of (numerous) unplanned alliances.
As so many of us are.
Biscuit’s heritage has been particularly hard to decipher. When we adopted him as a puppy, my husband and I were told he was a “terrier mix,” and with his scruffy fur and floppy ears, he certainly looked the part. But he quickly grew larger than most terrier breeds — twice as large as the rescue organization’s 30-pound prediction — and he had some interesting behavioral quirks, as well.
As a puppy, Biscuit had the energy of a tireless tornado. He chewed on our shoes, our hands, our cupboards and our AC unit. He swiped medicine off the countertop and tore up every toy that came his way. He was smart and quick to learn, but also stubborn as a teenager. What confused us most, though, was his unshakable suspicion of strange dogs and people. We just couldn’t seem to train him out of it.
Feeling that Biscuit’s first eight weeks of life couldn’t have caused such deep distrust, we splurged on a DNA test. And what did we learn?
And there it was. Rottweiler, Staffordshire terrier and pit bull make up more than 80 percent of Biscuit’s genetics. We’d seen his mother — a smaller, creamier version of him — so we knew that his father had likely been a rottie. Which meant that he received the rest of his genetics from his mother — seven breeds’ worth. A real mongrel.
As so many of us are.
Biscuit’s mother had been a stray when she gave birth, and since his rescue organization takes dogs from Mexico, he may have been born there. Most of his DNA comes from breeds in the “guarding dog” category — animals bred by humans for protection, aggression and, alas, fighting. Is it any wonder that Biscuit is nervous around strangers — that he sees other dogs as potential enemies? He is what he was made to be.
As so many of us are.
In the National Dog Show, there is no category for “pieces of other breeds.” Instead, the competition focuses on bloodlines and breed criteria — an annual event to reward perfection and conformity. There are stringent standards in place for each breed, covering everything from their coloring to their size, their skull-to-muzzle ratio, their gait and temperament.
There is no place in the show for devoted pets whose legs are too short, whose underbite is unexpected, whose coat is like Joseph’s for its many colors, whose tail isn’t quite the right length.
Conformity is expected from human participants, too. Male competitors generally wear suits, while the women awkwardly run their dogs in straight skirts and flat heels. I suppose someone along the way decided that skirts on female dog handlers were respectful and appropriate, and no woman trying to win a competition wants her attire to be the detail that sends her home. After all, she’s trying to succeed in (what is still) a man’s world.
As so many of us are.
“Best of show” isn’t only for dogs
In my mind, the National Dog Show is a celebration of sameness — of standing out by fitting in. It promotes the belief that class matters more than substance, that uniformity matters more than individual gifts, that where we come from is more important than who we are.
And I guess that’s not surprising, right? Humans have long been obsessed with breeding, and not only in other species. Why else would we buy magazines with “royals” on the covers, and elect people with family names we recognize? Why else would we attack laws that encourage diversity on college campuses, but have little problem with students receiving entrance because their forebears did?
We must believe at some core level that the qualities of a bloodline’s first winner are automatically transferred to those who follow. And just as we love winners, we love consistency. We don’t want to have to change our idea of who should be at the top.
And that’s not where our obsession ends. We, like the American Kennel Club, have our “breed standards,” and we’ll work hard in our quest for perfection. Skin color, hair texture, body size, cheekbones, muscle tone, nose length — we reward or penalize it all. Bad skin and an unusual shape for a woman are as damaging as a long coat and short legs on a greyhound. A prematurely balding scalp and poor muscle tone are often seen as faults in a man.
It’s daunting to realize that, like Biscuit, most of us won’t measure up to our species’ standards, no matter how loving we are, or what talents we possess, or how hard we work. Biscuit didn’t have the right genes to begin with — a born loser.
As so many of us are.
I wish we could move beyond our fascination with breeding. I think it’s long past time. It’s old-fashioned and even harmful to raise animals in the quest of a flawless specimen. It results in poor health and unwanted pets, suffering and euthanasia. As with so many attempts at control, it turns ugly fast.
In humans, the focus on breeding needs to go, as well. Now. Yesterday. It’s always been there, benefitting a tiny group at the top, turning the rest of humanity into also-ran aspirants to a never-attainable blue ribbon. It’s dehumanizing and cruel.
And it’s boring, as well.
Look at Biscuit, with his motley assortment of ancestors. He is the authentic sum of his many parts — nervous, protective, funny and affectionate. He is also irreplaceably unique.
As all of us are.
