“Everything you know is wrong!” — Firesign Theatre

“He's DEAD, Jim! Get his ears!” — Spock

We were standing at ringside, my friend Guido and I, discussing the three most important criteria of Golden Retriever conformation. “Head, coat, and color”, he said emphatically, “in that order.” I rubbed my chin and concurred with a slow, thoughtful nod, as we watched the 6 to 9 puppies enter the ring.

To our right, several professional handlers began to file past us with dogs in tow. I whispered to Guido using my Hanna Barbara impersonation, “Exit, stage left.” Guido whispered back, “Hey, you do a perfect Snagglepuss Lion,” as the two of us cleared a path for the pros.

Guido and I weren't just ordinary dumb newbies; we were well-informed dumb newbies. We had heard all the stories about what could happen to a greenhorn that didn't make way for a pro, and we weren't about to take any chances.

In the ring, the first handler and dog began a down-and-back when Guido sounded the newbie red alert, “Danger, Will Robinson! Danger! Danger!”

At first, I thought he was just foolin' around, but I quickly realized he was serious as a coronary bypass. Standing at ringside was a pro handler with an open dog, and he was looking straight at me. It was Bruce Schultz. I recognized him from his many pictures in GRNews, though in person he seemed much bigger than the cropped photos.

I only glanced in Bruce's direction, not wanting to agitate him with a stare. Responding to my innocuous provocation, he began to walk in our direction. My brave and fearless ex-friend Guido performed a speedy retreat crying, “I'm kinda thirsty,” and made fast tracks towards the concession stand. Me, I was frozen in place, a deer caught in the headlights, as Bruce swaggered towards my heart-pounding, bullet-sweating, shrinking frame. He was wearing a big friendly smile, but I'd heard all the stories about newbies that just disappeared, never to be seen again, so I knew better than to fall for his sinister ploy.

Instinctively, I assumed the subordinate newbie posture: head bowed, shoulders slouched, knees weak and wobbling, feet toed in. As my insignificant life flashed before my eyes, I could hear the far-off whistle of the high noon train a comin', and the ching, ching, ching of the spurs on his boots. I tried my best to steady my nerves. Surely he would not kill me in front of all these witnesses, I reasoned.

The time continuum slowed to a crawl until finally, we were face to face, as the fates prepared to cut my life's thread. Bruce was holding the lead of what appeared to be a trusting Golden Retriever, but I didn't let my guard down, watchful for any sign it was a trained attack dog used to ferret out and maul unsuspecting newbies.

“Excuse me,” Bruce politely asked, “Do you know what time it is?”

Seizing the opportunity to spare my life, I glanced at my watch, and stuttered the time, “Um, um, 8, uh, 45.” Bruce's friendly smile grew to a cheerful grin. “Thank you,” he replied, and left me slouching there while he went to retrieve his armband.

I was still recovering, sighing with relief and checking my limbs for missing parts, when I heard Guido walking up from behind, slurping the last few drops of refreshment through a straw. “Thanks for sharing,” I sneered. “Hey, what are friends for,” he shot back and then asked, “What did Bruce want anyway?” “Oh, nothing really,” I evaded, “He just wanted to ask me a question.” “Get out of town!” Guido shouted, “Bruce Schultz, THE Bruce Schultz, walked all the way over here to ask you a question? Boy, he must really like you!”

I stood there for a long time, wondering if there was a lesson to be learned from everything that had just transpired. Was it possible the stories about professional handlers eating newbies for breakfast were exaggerated? Was it possible professional handlers were, perhaps, just perhaps, friendly?

Guido's words continued to weigh heavy on my mind. Maybe Bruce did like me. Maybe he liked everyone. After all, he did use the polite phrases “excuse me” and “thank you”. If he didn't like newbies, wouldn't he have used the more direct “give me your watch!”?

I critiqued the puppies doing their final go-round, overwhelmed by doubt. After my brief yet enlightening conversation with Bruce, I began to doubt that any professional handler had even maimed a newbie, much less killed one. I began to doubt other things that Guido had said, too, such as his selection for the three most important criteria of Golden Retriever conformation. Was it possible that structure and movement might be more important than head, coat, and color? Nah.

© 1998 Christopher Glaeser. All Rights Reserved