At Birmingham’s National Exhibition Centre, a woman dressed as Lawrence of Arabia has just placed a plastic palm tree in the middle of the arena before going to retrieve her dog. Moments later, the music starts and the woman begins a vaguely Middle-Eastern dance while her pooch stares up at her lovingly and tries to keep track of her movements. Every so often, just for the hell of it, he skips between her legs or shuffles sideways.
Now I love dogs. I even count how many I come across on the way to work: the more I see, the better the day is going to be. It’s an OCD thing. But even I have to admit I haven’t got a clue what’s going on. Nor, it turns out, does our Lawrence of Arabia as halfway through her routine she unexpectedly withdraws from the competition.
Next to appear is a woman dressed like something out of Riverdance. Her pooch also stares up at her lovingly, trying to keep track of her movements and darting between her legs to an Irish jig. Much the same thing happens with a woman dressed like an Indian, dancing to a bhangra soundtrack while her dog tries to humour her by tagging along.
“Make sure you’re here tomorrow as today’s winner will be taking part in the international final,” says the MC to an audience of about 1,000. As an afterthought, he adds: “Heel work to music is becoming huge over here.” I may have been missing something, but it felt rather niche to me.
Crufts is one of the largest dog shows in the world and over the course of its four days about 160,000 people will come through its doors. Yet even though it all happens under one roof, it feels like it exists in two parallel universes.
There are those who just like dogs and come along for the craic. A chance to see all the different breeds in one place. Pedigrees naturally, crossbreeds like my own Herbert Hound are only allowed in on the Saturday to take part in Scrufts – and maybe buy some doggy paraphernalia. A handmade sculpture of your mutt for £280 or a cushion handspun out of its hair. There’s even a pet food supplier who invites you to “live as well as your dog”. If it’s all the same, I’ll leave the dried biscuits to Herbie.
And then there are the hardcore exhibitors and performers who wouldn’t dream of travelling anywhere without their dogs. For them Crufts is both about the glory and the cash. It is a tense business. A Crufts rosette is not just reward for having spent much of the year travelling around smaller dog shows, picking up the championship prizes that will qualify them for Birmingham, but can add hundreds of pounds on to stud fees.
Anneli Varg and several friends have brought their bedlington terriers from the north of Sweden to take part. The journey has taken the best part of three days by car and Anneli insists she needs about seven or eight hours to finally primp each dog into shape. She combs the dog meticulously and scans for any stray hairs that are removed with scissors. By the time she has finished, her dog looks like no other dog I have ever seen. But almost identical to all the others it is in competition with.
Over near Ring One, Sharne Williams is waiting to show her wheaten terrier, Griff, who looks like he is having the time of his life. He clearly knows the score and chills out while he is given a last brush. Then he walks out into the ring with Sharne and goes through the motions. First, legs astride with his tail held up in the air. Then stand still while the judge gives him the once over and finally a quick run around to show off his gait. After about five minutes his perseverance is rewarded with third prize and a yellow rosette. Sharne tries to explain what category exactly he was competing in but there are so many subdivisions that I soon get lost. Ted, another wheaten terrier, doesn’t look at all put out to have come fourth. But then he was just having so much fun he couldn’t stop bouncing up and down in the ring.
Everywhere I look there are dogs in cages. Either waiting to be exhibited or waiting to go home. They seem quite used to the experience. Another day, another dog bone. After a while, I start to believe that I can match the owners to their dogs, as they look alike to me. You can spot a skye terrier owner anywhere. They’re all dressed in tartan.
Before long, I begin to feel almost at home. There is a weirdness to it all with which I identify. These people aren’t my tribe, but with a little more effort and weirdness on my part they could be. Back in the main arena, I fall in love with Sherlock who is taking part in a race against the clock obstacle race. Sherlock gets to the start line and … stops. He decides he can’t be bothered to run through a set of sticks and strolls off to be admired by the people in the front row seats. It strikes me that Sherlock might just be the sanest thing alive at Crufts.
