Jazz is home!
Our other three Weimaraners are running around the living room, barking, wagging tails furiously as they watch from the living-room picture window while Jazz excitedly drags me up the driveway to the house.
It is always like this when Jazz returns from the dog-show circuit for a few, all-too-brief days. He struts into the house. I follow, carrying the trophies and the purple and gold ribbons that are the symbols of his most recent victories.
The other dogs sniff him, absorbing the smells of his adventures and travels. Jazz and his brother, Rocky, circle each other, hackles up, tails rigidly erect -- a posturing ritual of male dogs. But, in their case, it is bravado, not aggression. Within 15 minutes, the two are lying together on a living-room couch, Jazz resting his head on his brother's rump. Their mother, Fleur, and Cita, a young, beautiful Weimaraner we acquired to breed to Jazz, lie on another couch watching the boys.
Lying together on the cushions, the dogs seem more like relaxed kids than bearers of a legacy. They are the Gray Ghosts of Weimar. That's a sobriquet derived from their silvery gray color and their origin in Germany, where, in the early 1800s, Weimaraners were first bred by the noble families of Weimar to hunt big game and, later, small animals and birds.
The breeders wanted a hunting dog of endurance, determination, loyalty and devotion, one that could cover ground in the field with a floating, easy power of movement. They got that and more than they bargained for: The Weimaraner is a wonderfully proficient hunter, and when it's not in the field is much of the time at its owner's side, on his couch, in his bed.
In a few days, Jazz will be gone again, so this time at home is particularly precious. We spoil him terribly. He plays with the other dogs, retrieves sticks from Middle River near our home, sits on the front seat of the car during our neighborhood errands -- all the things he did before he became a show-ring hotshot. He's usually away three to four days a week -- sometimes longer -- at dog shows where he is achieving star status. When he's on the road, Jazz is No. 1 in his breed in America.
FOR THE GOOD OF THE BREED
To get to be No. 1, a purebred dog must not only look good but have fine bloodlines, a distinguished family name. Jazz, whose formal name is Champion Gaul's Jazz V. Reiteralm, has that: His mother, Fleur, is a champion; his father, Champion Arco, was bred in Germany.
Owners and breeders constantly work at improving the physical and temperamental traits of the 148 different breeds recognized by the American Kennel Club, so a dog show is not just a beauty contest. It is an arena in which quality wins. Participating isn't easy. It's a lot of work, time and expense.
To be exhibited in these shows, a purebred dog must meet standards that define the physical and psychological characteristics that the breed ideally should possess. For a Weimaraner, this includes standards for the dog's height (25 inches to 27 inches at the shoulder for a male), coat (short and distinctly gray, not blue or black), bone structure, gait and temperament (friendly, fearless, alert and obedient).
A show judge picks the dog he or she believes best meets those standards on that day in that ring. In winning, a dog acquires points. It takes 15 points to be a champion Weimaraner, and this process often takes a year, sometimes two. The owners do this for the prestige: There's no money in winning championship status. The payoff is in the breeding.
Jazz earned his champion points in three consecutive weekends of shows in Massachusetts in June 1991.
Now I can keep Jazz at home with me for good, I thought then. But Pam, my wife, and my Weimaraner-owning friends had other ideas:
"You've got to 'special' him," they insisted. "He's one of the best dogs this breed has seen in a long time. He needs to be a special for the good of the breed."
In show terms, a special is a champion dog good enough to compete against other champions in his breed. For a shot at making the top 10, Jazz would have to be campaigned: exhibited all over the country in 100 or more shows in a year by a full-time, professional dog handler. It is a dauntingly expensive proposition: a minimum of $15,000 for that one year. But, beyond the intimidating expense of it all, I was stunned by the realization that Jazz would have to go away. The travel and logistics usually require that the dog live with its handler during the campaign period.
I would not agree to it. I could not hear of being without Jazz for so long. How will he fare without me? This wasn't what I'd bargained for; he's my dog and I want him home.
It took a year -- and two promises -- to persuade me. First, Jazz would be handled by Peggy Kepler Roush, whom I considered the best handler of Weimaraners in the country. And second, no matter what, Jazz would come home between shows -- even if it meant I'd have to drive to show sites or to Peggy's home 120 miles away in Pennsylvania to fetch him.
Peggy has shown Weimaraners professionally for the past 35 years. Her "specials" have won the Pedigree Award -- the prize given annually to the dog that has won more points than any other in its breed -- for the past six years. She will not take on a dog she doesn't believe in. More importantly, she loves and cares meticulously for her dogs.
She was a little apprehensive about how Jazz's constant commuting between shows and home might affect his performance, but she was willing to give it a try.
And so it began.
GO, DOG, GO
A dog show is a spectacle. Rows of brightly colored tents stretch out on fields or fairgrounds encircled by the motor homes, vans and station wagons that are the gypsy caravans of the exhibitors. Vendors sell dog food and jewel-studded collars. Dogs are everywhere -- hundreds of them -- gentle, giant Irish wolfhounds, coiffured poodles, squat-faced English bulldogs, graceful and aristocratic Afghan hounds and bright-eyed, ever-inquisitive border terriers. Everything is movement and curiosity.
At a Specialty show, one breed is represented; often these are the most prestigious and largest events for a specific breed. More than 100 Weimaraners may compete. Jazz is an old hand at showing now, but in April 1993 when he began campaigning, he was a novice at this level of competition.
Pam and I accompany Jazz on his odyssey as often as we can. The rest of the time we follow his progress vicariously. We study each days' judging program at home. We speculate about the judges and their possible biases and about the qualities of Jazz's competitors. We calculate, to the minute, when he will enter the ring. We live in a perpetual state of anxiety, waiting for Peggy's phone call.
It's much more bearable, though, when we are with them at the shows.
At shows, we are active participants: We help Peggy with all the dogs she is showing, load and unload crates, sometimes take a dog into the ring when she cannot. There, we are not the owners of her special, we are kennel help. Peggy clips Jazz's toenails, brushes his teeth and grooms his coat; short-hair dogs are low-maintenance. When his turn comes, she walks Jazz from the grooming area to the Weimaraner ring, usually one of dozens of fenced-in, grassy rectangles.
At his first critical Specialty show, Pam and I clutched hands and stood at some distance from the ring, afraid that our closer presence might distract Jazz.
One after another the handlers presented their dogs to the judge; the dogs take a position called stacking -- head and tail up, alert and motionless as if in the field staring down a bird.
The judge was Anne Rogers Clark -- Mrs. James Edward Clark in the formal, AKC lingo -- tall and elegant, with unflinching eyes for a good dog. She has almost legendary status in the dog show world.
Now it was Jazz's turn. Gently, Mrs. Clark moved her hands over his entire body. She was feeling the structure of his bones and muscles, along his top line (spine), his teeth, even his testicles (there must be two). She was determining how well he meets the standards of his breed and if he has the quality to improve the breed in his progeny.
Then she asked Peggy to trot Jazz up and down and around the ring so that she could observe him in motion. Rhythmically and powerfully he circled the ring, gliding, almost floating, head up, tail up, alert, strong and graceful. This required element is crucial: How well he moves, how his front, his top line and his rear synchronize will, more often than not, greatly influence the judge's final decision.
All the dogs had a turn. Their handlers presented them again, stacked, for the judge.
Mrs. Clark walked slowly along the line of dogs, her eyes searching. She paused briefly in front of one dog, touched his head lightly. She moved by three others and then stopped in front of Jazz, moving backward a few steps to view him better.
The crowd around the ring was silent. Pam crushed my hand.
The judge motioned Peggy to move Jazz to the front of the line. She placed another dog, a female, behind Jazz, and a third dog behind her. The judge still had time to change her mind.
Pam's lips were moving. She was praying.
Mrs. Clark raised her right arm and, with a sweeping motion, points; the gesture means, "Take them around."
Led by Peggy, all trotted their dogs around the ring one last time.
Now the crowd clapped and cheered for the champions. Mrs. Clark stood in the middle of the ring and watched each dog pass. It took only seconds but felt like an eternity.
Finally, her finger pointed -- at Jazz first. He won!
"Yes, yes, yeah, Jazz," we screamed. Pam was crying then. My vision was blurred. Jazz was jumping up onto Peggy, licking her face, almost knocking her down in his excitement.
Later, after the show, Jazz returns to Peggy's mobile home for a well-earned dinner. Show dogs are fed after, not before, competing.
The time after the shows has an intimate quality. The spectators are gone. A few workmen move slowly through the grounds collecting the day's debris. There are the sounds of ice clinking against glass and plastic as people relax with a drink after the day's work; of laughter; of handlers playing with their dogs. This show day is over. It's time to sit and talk of who has won and who has not and what tomorrow may bring.
Peggy pours herself a drink and props tired feet up on a chair inside her motor home. She has earned the rest. Two neighbor handlers are visiting us.
We talk the language of show people, a language that is a mystery and sometimes an annoyance to outsiders.
Once, after a show, seven of us gathered at a restaurant table -- dog-talking, as usual. Seated at the adjoining table, an elderly, stiff-looking couple tried hard not to eavesdrop, unsuccessfully.
"I'm telling you that bitch has no front," Pat O'Brian, a friend and fellow Weimaraner owner from Howard County, said to Pam. She nodded in agreement. "Yes, but she has a rear end to die for."
Peggy chimed in: "You're right. I've had my hands on her and she's got a beautiful tush."
The elderly couple had enough. The woman stared at us in furious indignation. Her husband took her arm.
"I think we better leave," he urged.
It happens all the time.
BEST IN THE BREED
All through 1993, Jazz and Peggy were on the road. And by September, he was on a roll. He won at least eight of every 10 shows. Before long, he matched the number of breed points earned by his closest rival, a Weimaraner called Phoebe Snow.
And then it happened, an unspoken fear realized.
After chasing a rabbit in the woods behind our house, Jazz returned hobbling on three legs. He broke his toe, fractured it in five places.
It was not a serious injury, but we were devastated. The toe would take at least six weeks to heal. Jazz could miss 10 or more shows and, quite probably, his chance to win the Pedigree Award.
We had come so close. We had stretched our limited resources to the breaking point: We'd sacrificed vacations and Saturday-night dinners out for Jazz. We were feeling sorry for ourselves.
By the time Jazz healed, it was December and there were only five shows left in which he could be entered to continue his 1993 campaign to win the most points in his breed. He need to win four of them to go over the top.
Pam accompanied Jazz to Cleveland for the shows. I couldn't bring myself to go. I stayed at home with our other three Weimaraners trying to find a frame of mind that would accommodate loss.
The first day of the Cleveland shows found me almost catatonic. When Pam called to tell me Jazz had lost that day, all I could feel was a sense of mournful resignation. But Pam wouldn't hear it.
"Snap out of it," she demanded. "He'll do it. Jazz will do it."
She was right. He won the next four breed shows, earning more points than any other dog in his breed in 1993.
He did it! We did it!
His accomplishment was celebrated in March of this year, at Churchill Downs in Louisville, Ky., home of the Kentucky Derby and the 1993 Pedigree Awards banquet. There, I gazed proudly at Jazz's photograph as it was flashed larger-than-life on the wall of the Kentucky Derby Museum. At a cocktail party, Peggy and I raised our glasses to him.
Here's to you, Jazz. What a year it was.
THE HERO COMES HOME
It's now May. Two of Jazz's litters are due this month, and he will breed many more. A show-quality puppy will sell for about $800, a pet-quality puppy about $400 to $500; this year, Jazz will help pay his way.
And he's out to repeat or better his performance this year. We've grown accustomed to his schedule. I still miss him when he's on the road but I know that every week or so, he'll be back.
Jazz is home, and as I write this, his head is resting comfortably on my knee.
I like to think he knows, somehow, that I'm writing about him, but he's really waiting for me to finish so I can take him for his daily run in the park. To him, that's special.
CHRISTOPHER GAUL is the producer and host of the "Health Express" television program in Baltimore.