Today was Baby Diva’s second trial, and my first AKC Disqualification with a dog. OK, Baby is not a dog exactly, she’s a Diva. And whether she is born a dog, a human, or a cat, she is going to be a Diva. That’s who she is. It was a hard sell this morning for me to get up. I had ideas that the day wasn’t going to be equally impressive as yesterday was, but I had to live it to find out. I pushed any negative ideas about Baby failing the stand, or getting up on her stays, far out of my head, and focused on all that she would do. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, Baby had evil ideas brewing. Here we are shortly after waking up. One of us is not trying to be happy.
We arrived at the arena. This is such a lovely statue.
In the ring, Baby started off with a good sit or two, but slowly, she crept out in front of me each time, until the last one before the recall, where she stopped turned her rear end outward, and sat sideways right in front of me. Oh, I was so happy to hear the judge chuckle at that. Oh ha ha ha. Because I knew what was going on. Baby was testing her boundaries. I couldn’t correct her rude behavior, and she now knew it as we set up for the last of the moving exercises – the recall.
The judge asked if I were ready. A frog kept the answer in my throat until I ribbeted it out. “Yes.” So he told me to leave my dog, my Diva, the Queen Mother of Fort Doberdale and walk and walk and walk till I got to the other side of the ring. I did that. The whole time wondering what Baby had in mind for me. I halfway expected her to be up when I’d turned around, but she was still seated, with an evil gleam in her eye. The judge told me to call my dog.
Baby’s head turned. “Dog?”
Loud and clear, I said, “Baby come!” That’s when the Diva started paying me back her grudge dollars. She took about five steps straight toward me before the look in her eye and her body’s direction turned, and she took off – right out that ring. I stood there the whole time waiting for my dog to come because I knew THAT could not be MY dog! No no no. Until the judge stepped in, and asked people on the outskirts to catch that wretched beast that just embarrassed me and forfeited our $22, I had no idea WHOSE dog that was.
Well, there went Baby’s chicken wings. I promised her a week’s worth of raw chicken wings for breakfast – her favorite – if she passed Sat and Sun. Just passed. Nothing spectacular. She didn’t pass, but she did get her minutes of spectacular fame. And do you know what happened next? The judge told me Baby and I were NOT allowed back in the ring for the long sits and downs due to some uppity rule by the AKC that dogs running amuck are not permitted to rejoin the civilized members of the class.
I walked out of that ring after someone fetched her for me, and I nearly smacked a woman on the head with my arm which was connected to that Divabeast’s leash being I was not paying attention. That went over well.
I started to crawl back to our station when I ran into the man with the red/tan Dobergirl and we chatted. He told me about the day his other Dobie, a red boy named Scout, ran out of the ring on a recall because on the way into the ring, Scout eyed the pile of Frisbees on the judge’s tables that were awards and wanted one. So he made a beeline to that table on his recall, grabbed the Frisbee on top of the pile and went looking for someone to throw it for him. He, too, was caught – caught red-handed with Frisbee in mouth. He had to give that Frisbee back, too, because they are for that same civilized group that Baby didn’t belong to today.
Well, I wasn’t talking to Baby most of the rest of the day, and she continued to be obnoxious to me.
We did get an award for the previous day, so she then tried to work me with that look that said, “You know you love me.”
This is the High Working Dog in trial awards – a lovely ribbon, tote and stuffed toy. (We won the red soft crate in the raffle. Annie will fit in that one. We also won a chair in the raffle and a nifty cushion in that soft-sided crate.)
We also got a cookie jar with a really cute duckie that wags its tail feathers when the toy is squeaked. There were also treats in the jar, a clicker, and that was for High Dobermann for Saturday.
After we finished the raffle, I had a chicken sandwich. Baby wasn’t allowed to join me due to regulations of the arena, but to make amends, I sneaked some back in and gave it to her. She took it and spat it on the ground. SPAT IT ON THE GROUND! That’s all sister. I said, “Baby, you eat that and you eat that now before I shove it up your nose!” She looked at it, flipped it around, and with her front teethies, pulled the chicken off the bread, ate the chicken, and left the bread behind. I guess she’s on a low-carb diet. Or she was just being a bee-othcy Diva. Here’s a picture of Baby snubbing her leftovers.
She didn’t want the Animal crackers she usually loves, the Beefeater’s stick, or the chicken flavored bread. She’s a Diva.That brings me to this boy.
Morris will not work for his Rottie mom, aka Raffle Goddess, in the ring anymore. Yesterday, he got a total of 27 points out of 200 in Open B. I say he is a Divo. A few weeks ago during obedience night practice, I said hello to Morris. He was lying down by the bleachers. Baby greeted him too. During this time, I gave Baby an Obey treat. She loves them. Morris’s eyes swelled, so I offered him one. Most dogs as big as Morris would take it and swallow it whole. Not Morris. He took the treat – size of my pinky finger nail – crunched it in half as he lay there on the ground, spat the 2 pieces out, sniffed, OK not bad, so took one half in and crunched it and swallowed. OK, not bad. Took the other half and ate it. This while Baby watched. Baby LOVES to do that to her subjects at home…she is the Queen Mother. If she can prolong eating something, so they can watch her eat, all the better.Then I watched Morris in the ring with his handler, and saw how he, too, was paying back grudge dollars. That is when I had to come to the conclusion that Morris and Baby are cut out of the same cloth – the Diva/Divo cloth. Morris is a Divo.
His Rottie Mom is handing Morris’s obedience reigns over to his Rottie Dad, so we will see what transpires there. Morris seems to be a Daddy’s boy, and no matter what, you can’t change that. A Divo Daddy’s Boy! God bless him, and his Rottie parents. (I wish someone would say that to me and my Rotten…er, Royal DoberDiva.)
To end this story on a sweet note, here’s a red rose that was blooming in my garden over the weekend.
Helen
