Carol’s Column

Every mutt has its day

EVERY mutt should have its day. And for the mutts of Sandton, last Sunday was their day.

Which is why the debonaire Len Ashton, jovial Ben Patterton, attractive Colleen Broadley and dishevelled Carol Lazar found themselves at Pamlula sharing a gaily-striped umbrella judging the Global Sandton SPCA Mutt of the Year Show.

An auspicious day made even more auspicious by the fact that it was the official open weekend of the Braamfontein Spruit and that the Mayor of Sandton and other dignitaries had dropped in.

The inimitable Des Lindberg, his kneecaps and teeth flashing in the sunshine, compèred the show with great aplomb, making even the dogs laugh.

Of course, it was all Gill Sagar’s fault. Known as the Travelling Dog Lady of Africa, this is now the second year that she and ravishing Rosemary Kell (SPCA’s PR) have organised this mutt show for the Sandton SPCA.

And believe me, her campaign started off exactly 364 days ago when, at last year’s show, she cunningly said: “What SUPER judges you were, we’ll see you at the next show.”

There’s nothing like a little flattery, so there we all sat, proud, honoured, hot and terrified. Ready to do our thing for the dogs of Sandton.

Pink

Now Sandtonians are controversial people. They hose their gardens, they live in the mink and manure belt and many of them bath in Dom Perignon to conserve the water that they are using to hose their gardens.

But one thing’s for sure, they have the muttiest mutts imaginable.

As the sun beat down relentlessly and the organisers plied us with liquid refreshment, we spoke serious dog-talk, as judges are wont to do. Such as: “Which end of a dog is which?”

“The open end is the mouth” — the open end sans tail, that is.”

Or: “I say, look at that English sheepdog.” “Isn’t it an Italian airedale?” “No, it’s a Rumanian pomeranian dog.”

Yes, we were a particularly well-qualified bunch.

Des Lindberg introduced the special guests — so many of them — and all so important — but it was actor Gordon Mulholland and Jason the Gravy Dog who got the largest round of applause.

“I’d like to take him home with me,” muttered the blue-rinsed grandmother under the bent umbrella.

“Isn’t he a bit big for your townhouse?” asked her companion.

“No, I think Gordon will fit in just perfectly,” she answered. “He could even share my bidet.”

Meanwhile, the first advent had started.

The most typical South African dog and handler.

There was some dissension at the judges’ table.

We took one look at the contestants, a group of endearing kiddies, each dressed the part, accompanied by their even more endearing mutts similarly attired in traditional South African costumes.

“You’ve got the most children,” growled Len Ashton and pushed me off to the ring, where my high-heels (judges have to look elegant) stuck in the grass, and I was literally rooted to the spot.

What an impossible task to choose any of these perfect children and their cuddly mates.

Indeed, as we took it in turn to judge, we’d come back in tears, due to the fact that we could only choose three winners instead of 15.

The category ‘The best German dog and handler’ caused a ripple among us.

“Just look at that magnificent specimen,” Colleen Broadley whispered in my ear gazing at a sleek Dobermann and his equally sleek owner. I didn’t dare mention that I remembered him from the previous year and had dreamed about his long, lederhosened legs ever since.

Class followed class.

The most look-alike dog and handler.

The most lovable children’s pet’, ‘Happiness is ... puppies four to nine months old’, ‘The best cared-for ex-SPCA dog’, ‘The cutest trick’.

Oh, it was a formidable task to judge. Made more formidable by the ice-cold white wine placed on the judges’ table with our lunch.

Of course, it was the heat that made us sip it less than delicately. But I only realised the effect of the heat and wine when I noticed there were indeed several eight-legged dogs among the contestants.

Halfway through the proceedings, we were entertained by the Mayor of Sandton and the Jolly Dogs Team. They jumped through hoops, over hurdles, sat or lay dead, or came when commanded. The Jolly Dogs, not the Mayor. But then mayors never do.

Scarlet

And then, at 4pm, the team of judges looking like a bunch of scarlet radishes were called into the ring to judge the grand finale — the final class.

The Global Mutt of the Year.

Drums rolled, aircraft flew overhead, the London Symphony Orchestra (or was it Dolly Parton?) played some stirring music and into the ring they marched.

The biggest, smallest, most beautiful, ugliest, wispiest, scraggiest, finest mutts of Sandton.

Oh, they were grand. There was much debate and deliberation to choose the winner.

But finally, in true democratic fashion with no-one agreeing, more debate and even further debate — a decision was reached. It was unanimous.

The honours went to a large, round, ex-SPCA powderpuff of a dog.

No matter that the photographer couldn’t distinguish one end from the other.

Neither could the judges.

Nobody noticed that I shook his back paw and that he received his congratulatory kiss on his bottom. Such are the trials of being a judge.

We staggered out of the ring — a herd of assorted dogs and four bedraggled judges, and said our farewells fondly.

“See you next year,” beamed the indefatigable Gill Sagar. “Same time! Same place!”

We agreed instantly. Once a mutt judge, always a mutt judge.

Rumour has it that due to the success of this year’s show, the categories are being extended to cats, horses, rabbits and hamsters.

We’ll have to do a little more homework, of course. For instance, do hamsters jump through hoops or do horses wag their tails?

Nevertheless, I felt we’d done a pretty good job, all things considered. In fact, I would have wagged my tail had I one.

But it was obvious not everyone agreed.

As I approached my car, what looked like a cross between a dalmatian and a dachshund lifted his leg against my front wheel in a gesture of defiance.

Ah well, you can’t win them all.

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