“I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.” — William Butler Yeats

“Doh!” — Homer Simpson

When I'm at a dog show, the most frequent question people ask me is, “Mr. Glaeser, may I please have your autograph?” Without exception, dog show vendors refuse to accept my checks unless I sign them. Go figure.

Perhaps the second most frequent question people ask me is, “Hey newbie guy, why did you decide to get a show dog anyway?” Well that's an easy one to answer. It was the feet. That's right, dog feet.

In the months prior to getting a dog, I consciously observed the variety of dogs in our neighborhood with an eye towards selecting a particular breed for our family. I didn't realize it at the time, but there was always something peculiar about the feet. Take Ed Palmer's Rhodesian Ridgeback. He's a handsome dog to be sure, but his nails—I call him Saber—have never ever been trimmed. May I step in dog poop if I'm exaggerating, but Saber's nails must be nine inches long. They are the would-be prized possessions of a third-century Chinese emperor.

Down the street and one block over live Gertrude and her golden retriever Missie. Gertrude is a sweet lady who got her first dog during the Roosevelt administration. Teddy Roosevelt, that is. She's owned so many goldens over the years that she circles her chair three times before sitting down. Like Saber, Missie's feet have never been groomed either, and she has those adorable shaggy paws like the feathered shanks of a Burmese chicken.

One day Guido suggested we wander the grounds of a dog show in search of the perfect dog for me. That first dog show made quite an impression and I never will forget my reaction when I saw the well-groomed feet of the golden retrievers. Seventeen goldens were stacked in the ring, each with feet that were sculpted works of art like the paws of a majestic lion. “I want a golden retriever”, I told Guido, “with feet just like those!”

“I don't want to rain on your parade,” Guido interrupted, “but Goldens should be shown au naturale.” “Yeah, sure,” I snipped sarcastically, “maybe old lady Gertrude can take her Burmese chicken into the breed ring too.” At that, Guido whipped out a copy of the breed standard from his pocket and recited, “Primarily a hunting dog, he should be shown in hard working condition.”

Oh, I just hate it when Guido does that. I know the way his Lilliputian brain works. He keeps score on every single argument too. No doubt, he was thinking, “Guido 1,387; Christopher 0.” He's so petty that way. I stuck out my tongue in retaliation.

That was three years ago. Today I my own golden retriever show dog. I also own more implements to groom his phalanges than any other body part. My arsenal includes straight scissors for the bottoms of his feet, a miniature slicker to raise those pesky between-the-toes hairs, thinning shears to snip them off, a guillotine nail trimmer, a two-speed battery-operated Dremmel grinder with travel carrying case, and a Sears-Best electric variable-speed Dremmel grinder with sufficient RPM to send Tool Time's Tim Allen into an “Ogh-Ogh-Ogh!” orgasm. Aahhh, there's nothing quite like the aroma of freshly ground canine nail dust.

This morning I was out in the neighborhood exercising my dog when we passed Mr. and Mrs. Snodgrass. They, too, own a dog. Well, it's sort of a dog. I don't want to offend any owners of this breed—The last thing I want is for my editor to receive thousands of angry letters—and rather than use my own words to describe the Snodgrass dog, I'll cite an excerpt from their breed standard. It states, and I quote, “… body of a rat, head the size of a regulation Ping-Pong ball, large fruit-bat ears, Marty Feldman buggy eyes, and a natural ability to lip-synch Taco Bell commercials on the small screen.” I'm not exactly clear on how the breed judges evaluate lip-synch ability, but I digress.

As we passed the Snodgrass home and their little Fido yapping away, Mr. Snodgrass said to his wife, “There goes Christopher and his show dog Levi.” “How can you tell he's a show dog?” asked Mrs. Snodgrass. “By looking at his groomed feet,” answered Mr. Snodgrass. “Yes!” I shouted to myself. I danced the Dirty Bird to the deafening roar of a cheering crowd, and looked up at the stadium scoreboard to see “Guido 1,387; Christopher 1.”

© 1999 Christopher Glaeser. All Rights Reserved.