When our story left off, Caroline and dogs (Omen, Prophet and Luna) had just survived flipping her van...that's the inside of the van above (after the accident---it was actually significantly neater before). The dogs were riding on the bed where all the cabinets are now lying. Note that I could no longer camp in it comfortably, what with the windows being blown out. And it being kind of messy. And in a junkyard.

We now resume our story:

Part 2:

The van is on its side, being sprayed by the firemen. We are directed to the fire truck. I have as possessions now three salukis and a camera battery (which for some reason somebody handed to me after they found it on the Interstate). They ask if I will need anything else, and I'm thinking, yes.

I make a quick mental list of what I need  to survive for a day and come up with purse, dog food, glasses, cell phone.  After the van is righted somebody fishes through it and hands me a small  canister of dog treats and my dog grooming bag. This is not what I would have
chosen. But now I own three salukis, a camera battery, dog treats, and dog  grooming essentials. Thank God the dogs will look good. I do finally locate my glasses  (broken) and cell phone (dead) myself. Now I am set.

I bundle them together and we ride in the fire truck until they hand us over to the wrecking truck guy with the van on a flatbed. I see the new hot pink show lead I'd just bought hanging from the van's outside mirror. I snatch it and add it to my loot. Definitely set now.

The tow truck driver takes us to a motel---no vacancy---and another---no vacancy---and we discover every motel in town is full because of the recent hurricane. The driver makes a deal to get an abandoned truck towed from a motel lot in exchange for letting me stay at a condemned motel in an "adventurous" part of town. Only when they discover I have dogs the motel operators are not so wild about letting me stay in their palace, even when I metion I will be staying an entire night, not just by the hourly rates. They demand a big deposit, which they state they will keep if the dogs get on the bed.

I offer the tow truck driver $20 to take us to Wal-Mart and park with the dogs for 15 minutes while I get stuff.  The dog grooming bag turns out to be a life saver. In it is the sweepstakes money we just won, so I have cash to pay him. Also my credit card, because I had done some shopping at the vendor booths before I left the shows. 

I run through the Wal-Mart snatching things from shelves: dog beds (I figure this will at least look like
I'm not letting the dogs on the bed), a sheet for the bed once dogs get on it, cans of pop-top dog food, paper bowls, milk bones and a phone charger. Food for
me: Somehow a good diet seemed like it would be Crunch n Munch, peanut brittle, bananas, apple and Pringles. This may have been the first sign I may have had a concussion.

The second, and most definitive sign I was concussed, however, was in my choice of clothes to replace the bloody ones I was wearing. I somehow thought a lime green shirt with purple shorts would be particularly fetching, not realizing that I would look like a Barney clone once I put it on. I would wear the Barney outfit night and day for the next four days. 

Back at the motel room, I discover it is aimed at people who must be very concerned of their appearance, as there are low mirrors on three  sides of the bed plus one above it on the ceiling. Omen is fascinated by the
ceiling one.

I discover my appearance is frightening, as my hair is stiff with a solid mat of dried blood, and the back of my shirt is much bloodier than the front. Yet nobody let me cut in line at Wal Mart?

The other motel inhabitants are roofers who are busy dropping anvils on the roof above us all day. And are those gunshots once the sun goes down? Of course the dogs wait until 2 AM and 4 AM to just really HAVE to go out. There is more foot traffic out and about at this
time than there was when it was light. I discover my dogs are actually protective as we are approached by shadowy figures lurching down the roadway. Until they get close, then they just want to be petted by muggers.
Did I mention my door did not seem to have a lock? I try the chair-against-the-door-knob as seen on TV.

We're all going to die.

Yet we survive. The next morning begins the HUNT FOR A RENTAL CAR. After being led on by Enterprise (repeat
after me: Enterprise SUCKS) they finally say they don't rent to people with dogs. They take three hours to reveal
this, and I am being evicted from my motel room at 11 AM. The motel reluctantly agrees to let me stay another hour for $10 (below their normal hourly rate, they assure me). 

Hour's up. Still no car. And the motel is banging on my door. I am homeless. I am wondering how I will look standing by the road with my salukis and Wal-Mart baggies and dog beds. Eventually they agree I can stay another night. 

Finally I find a car in the next town (Hertz = good). Fellow salukite Cindy Najera, AKA the best person in the world, is on her way from Houston area to help, and she
takes us to get the car. We hide the dogs in her van, just in case they've been talking to Enterprise. We score! A rental car is mine! But now it is dark.

Cindy says I am not allowed to stay in the room by
myself.  She spends the night at the scary motel with me!  She is obviously impressed by the mirrors, which is probably why she wanted to stay. We get to eat my first non-peanut-brittle meal in almost two days: Taco Bell, nectar of the gods! Life is good. The next morning, Omen tries to bury Cindy's face in her pillow, his way of saying thanks.

Next morning we find my van's graveyard. I recall the propane is still own---something it would have been nice to remember before sitting in the shadow of the wrecked van on the interstate (there was no other shade and it was Texas in October) or letting the firemen and wrecking guys near it, but oh well, it didn't blow up, and all's well that end's well. I turn off the propane--and geez, the tow truck guy didn't have to look so stricken when I pointed it out. Like I said, it's not like it blew up or anything), go through it and salvage lots of stuff, Cindy takes pictures, we say goodbye, and I'm on my way home.

Note: New minivans have a door behind the driver that can open mysteriously, like when you are in the Taco Bell (nectar of the gods---yes, I know I said that but it bears repeating) parking lot for lunch, and people start yelling and pointing and that's when you happen to see your puppy sauntering toward the highway because the back door has taken it upon itself to pen. Apparently hitting random buttons on the key thing does this. But to continue...

Fall out of car yelling, try to get door closed so other dogs don't follow, run toward the six lane highway where Luna is now trotting between cars stopped at the light, peering in windows (a "friend" would later claim she was looking for a better driver. Yeah, haha, that's funny.)  I'm running, I'm freaking, I'm calling, the light turns green...and every car stays stopped. They wait for the crazy person in the Barney outfit to catch the skinny dog before going--- a few drivers even wave (hey, it IS cheap entertainment). I make it back to the minivan and try to prevent myself from retching. Order comfort food (which is pretty much anything from Taco Bell).

Put leashes on dogs and hold them tight as I drive because who knows, maybe these doors can open when you're driving down the Interstate. Talk to somebody and find out no, that won't happen unless you hit the key thing when it's stopped. Make a note to self that I need a more modern car.

Stop again at Taco Bell for dinner. I deserve it. Keep fingers away from key thing.

That night at the motel half-way home, I trip over a parking lot thing, fall flat on my face and people think I am drunk. I would have to be, after all, to be dressed like Barney. This accident hurts more than the car
wreck. But the motel has only one mirror, and the door locks, so things are looking up.

The next morning I am freezing in my Barney outfit. I
try to stand next to a pine tree for cover from the wind, and of course ended up standing in a fire ant bed. I dance around a lot. I am pretty sure the same people from the might before were the ones staring.

I make it home.  Can't wait for the shows this weekend!

With two columns and two articles due this week, I'm having to resort to anoter re-run. This happened several years ago, right after Hurricane Katrina, when we were on our way home from dog shows in Houston. This was my e-mail account:

***Part 1***
I'm back, sore, but dogs and I are basically OK. Omen got the worst of it. Here is the story of when a dog show trip goes bad: 
 
I'm on a long stretch of I-10 east of Houston where they are doing work. There are two lanes, with a concrete barricade to the left and no shoulder to the right. I
am driving my big class B camping van. The dogs are loose because it was just too much hassle to set the crates back up, and besides, they hate being crated. They are lounging on the bed in the back. I am actually paying close attention to traffic. 
  
I hear a little screech and then see right beside me a black car climbing the concrete barricade.-- /interesting/oh shit-bad-swerve/
--so I try to swerve but no time it's ricocheting toward me WHAM!!! It smacks me real hard and real loud up front on the driver's side, hurtling me off the road onto the grass and dirt, toward a ditch and then a temporary off-ramp embankment that's built up high. --/must avoid bank/might roll/take it easy/-- I actually get it back on the road, but have overcorrected and am now swerving too much --/still a chance you can straighten it/--- WHAM!! We are hit hard and loud again, this time in the
rear driver's side, and we are now spun at right angles to the road way and going at 65 mph straight into the concrete wall --/"Oh NO!"  (I actually did yell this out loud) /small chance I will live/no chance the dogs will live/I'm sorry dogs/---  WHAM!!!! We hit the wall (this is a really hard jolt in case you are wondering) and now we are going up in the air and rolling to our right, and I see us going over the concrete wall and we are upside down and then WHAM!!! We hit the ground and we are rolling and rolling and rolling and rolling ---/hold on tight/ride it out/sparks/so this is what it's like/ --- unbelievably noisy and bumpy and we are flying upside down and all around and now we have finally stopped and the noise changes to a high shriek as we are sliding and spinning and spinning and sliding and then just sliding on the driver's side and I can see the dotted line going by right next to my face so I know we are in the middle of the interstate, the windshield is too cracked to see out of, and we finally stop, and I wait to be hit by oncoming
traffic, and I am terrified at this thought, and I brace for the impact, but nothing comes.

 And then I see dog legs standing over my head. Somebody is alive! Omen! Then gold legs join him. Prophet! Then little cream legs! Luna! All three dogs are standing on my head. I grab them all, I don't know how much of the rear of the van is left, and I think if I let them go they may bolt away. I know I can't actually hold three dog legs with two hands, but I try. I realize the van is filling with smoke---the engine is stuck on full throttle and I have to let go of the dogs to try to reach the ignition. I talk to them a while to tell them it's OK, trying to calm them, but the longer I wait the smokier it's getting. I tell them to stay and let go of them and try to reach the ignition and can't because of my seat belt. I can't get the seat belt off because I am hanging from it. I wedge myself up, get the belt off, pull myself up by the steering wheel and dig around through debris and find the ignition and turn it off. Now I see the shadow of people legs outside the windshield, hear voices. They are trying to pull the windshield the rest of the way off. I yell
for them to stop. I tell them I have three dogs that may bolt and I need to get them on leashes first. They seem to understand, but I keep repeating it. I can't find the leashes because it's a mess everywhere-there were six leashes hanging by the door before the crash. I find one, put it on Luna. Find another, get it on Omen.  The people are not waiting now---they obviously think I am delirious---and they are pulling off the windshield. I hand out Luna, telling them to hold the dogs tight, then Omen, can't find a leash for Prophet, am on my way out with him by the collar then I spot a leash caught beneath the debris and pull it out. 
  
I see we are all pretty much fine. Prophet has a small cut under his eye. Omen has some bloody feet (later I realize he has more damage, but X-rays show it to be just bruising rather than cracked ribs). Luna is unscathed. She wants to do it again. An amusement park ride, people to pet her---what coudl be better?

Somebody mentions I have blood gushing out of my head but it feels fine to me. They tell me I am too calm so must be in shock.

Police and fire trucks arrive. Traffic is routed off the Interstate. People gawk. The paramedics arrive and want to take me to the hospital but they say the dogs will have to go to the pound. The animal control truck pulls up to load them in. I say no. Then later they say dogs will have to ride in animal control truck anyway. I say surely they have a vehicle with a back seat they can ride in. What about a police car? They confer, and decide that even though the dogs are the wrong breed, we can all ride in the really big fire truck...

TBC
 

It's happening: The AKC is really going to realign the groups. Probably. Maybe. Eventually.

But really, I think they are.

There's been talk of it for at least a decade (or two---they're starting to run together). There was serious talk back in 2009, when a committee (formed in 2007) recommended to increase the groups number from seven to ten. But some concerns were present, and it went back to committee in 2010. Now it's back---with eleven groups, as follows:

Sporting--Pointers and Setters (19  breeds)

Sporting--Retrievers and Spaniels (21 breeds)
 
Scent Hounds (21 breeds)

Sight Hounds (15 breeds)

Working--Utility (19 breeds)

Working--Molosser (20 breeds)

Working--Spitz (24 breeds)

Terriers (31 breeds)

Toy (23 breeds)

Non-Sporting (14 breeds)

Herding (30 breeds)
 
It's still not a done deed. The change in groups has to be
approved, and the selection of which breeds to go in which groups subsequently approved. The vote will be in March 2012. If approved, the change would occur in mid-2015. Yes, your current special will be retired.

Why the change? Besides the obvious difficulty in comparing Borzoi to Basset Hounds and other wildly dissimilar breeds sharing the same group, the numbers will soon become unreasonable. AKC has streamlined its
recognition process for new breeds (translation: they need the money so come on in!) and at this rate some groups will have nearly 50 members by 2014. Winning or placing a group should be an honor, but odds like those will make all but the most advertised dogs walking away winless---and their owners eventually
choosing to spend their weekends elsewhere. 
 
Still, the numbers remain disparate. Terrier and Herding groups won't catch a break--in fact, they're still growing. Sighthounds will increase their odds the most, going from a current 29 Hound group members at present to 15 (versus 49 projected Hounds by 2014). 
 
Handlers should fare well, as they can now win more bonuses for group wins and placements. Clubs will be spending more money; they'll be buying four more group trophies and 16 more rosettes. Groups will take a little longer, but probably not that much longer. 
 
But will it help the dogs? Dogs won't have to stand around in the ring so long, although for some dogs, that might be a disappointment. 
 
The main concern is that of breed assignment. A case in point: the Italian Greyhound. Breeders disagree about whether it should go in the Toy or Sight Hound group. AKC wants it in the latter, if for no other reason than to
even out the numbers a bit. The parent club will be (re) voting on the issue soon, but AKC doesn't have to follow their wishes. Many IG breeders fear that this breed, which was never a hunting breed bit always a companion breed desired for its delicate  beauty and prancing gait, may lose its breed type in an attempt to keep up with the long-striding big guys. 
 
Where does your breed stand in the new groups? How do you feel about it? Here's the list  of groups and breeds:
http://www.akc.org/pdfs/news/Realignment_SuggestedBreedList.pdf

Paris Hilton is a genius. Or at least in the same league as Sir Isaac Newton.  That is, as far as what breed choice
says about a person's intelligence and creativity. A study carried out by the  Bath Spa University (and no, this is not a school where you go to learn to bathe or soak) that compared breed choice with how a person ranks in five personality dimensions found that people who own toy dogs (like Paris and her Chi, and Isaac and his Pom) score higher than other owners in intelligence and...uh...did I mention I don't own a toy dog?   Hold on, I'll remember what I was saying in a sec...oh yeah...creativity. Higher intelligence and creativity than
the rest of us. 

I'm not going to let it bother me. And according to the study, that should be predicted.  We hound owners have
the highest emotional stability. That's what the study says. 

Other findings: 

Toy  and Gundog owners are the most agreeable. Oh, yeah, sure, hmpf, I beg to differ! 
 
Pastoral and Utility dog owners are the most extroverted. I would comment more on this but I don't want to be in your face.

Utility dog owners are the most consscensus. Conscietious. Isn't that close enough? OK, OK, 
conscientious. Most conscientious. 

The study was conducted in England at The Kennel Club's Discover Dogs event. Last year the same group found that dog owners were generally more agreeable than non-dog-owners, and that people can match dogs with owners based on appearance only with high degree of accuracy. 

I wonder if the study designers own toy dogs. I wonder if they will win a Nobel prize. Or at least a little statue of a toy dog.

I wonder if these findings fit with your perceptions...I'll get back to you with mine...

Meanwhile, I may go buy one of those little doggy purses. Carry it around so people will think I'm...uh...what was that word? Oh, yeah, smart.

Or whatever.

At its October Board Meeting, the AKC Staff presented the following:

###
 Breed Standards for Docked Breeds
Based on a Board request, Staff presented its guidelines for description of the tail and dewclaws in the standard of a new breed. Staff also explained how it will  handle any future breed standard revisions to the ear and tail sections of a breed standard if those sections are being revised.

There will be the following two-step approach:

1. Discuss with the club the feasibility of revising the
description of the ear and tail to include a description of the natural ear and tail if these sections are being revised.

2. The most severe language that may be used is to severely penalize natural ears or tailwith the understanding that it is the judge’s discretion to
interpret the standard.
###

This seems pretty innocuous, and dare I say, even reasonable. So I was surprised to see a number of breeders on various e-mail lists up in arms about it. Now---I have to admit---I am not a cropper or docker. I have serious misgivings about "doing" dewclaws. My breed, saluki, is occasionally cropped in its native lands, and one of the breed's most famous imports was cropped, but fortunately, it has never been the practice in the west. But I digress; the subject here is docking, not cropping. And if you think cropping discussions can
get heavy, docking discussions can get downright nasty. 
 
So here's the situation: Many other countries now ban docking.  When dogs of traditionally docked breeds come to America, the AKC standards don't address how their tails should look. After all, most breeders have never
seen an adult entire tail. Nor do they want to. Docking the tail of an adult dog is not a humane alternative (although it is a reason given for docking in some
breeds; some dogs, notably working pointing breeds, suffer tail injuries that often require amputation of the tail as adults). But if the dog is shown, how should the tail be judged? Should the judge just look at the first inch or so? Ignore the tail altogether? Or ignore the dog
altogether?

The guidelines for new breed standards urge fanciers to describe what a natural tail ideally looks. How could that be bad? Those who are upset cite two reasons: 1) It's the AKC bending over backwards to the puppy millers
and backyard breeders who don't want to have to spend the money to dock their puppies. (Really? Do you think these breeders are overly concerned with how their dogs' tails will be judged in the ring they will never be in?), and 2) It's the AKC bending over for the Animal Rights movement who claim docking is cruel. (First tails, then ears, then dewclaws and next thing you know, hair
spray will be banned! Oh wait...)

Anyway, I may end up writing about this in an upcoming Breeder's Notebook column. What's your take?

Back in 2004, a question came up on the Dogwriters' list about how writers manage their time. Being a pro, and always willing to share my knowledge with others (and having other actual real and pressing deadlines) I of course responded. I was reminded of it as I was writing my column today. Looking over it, not much has changed, except that you should now replace the phrase "spider solitaire" with "facebook."


6:30--- wake up. Get ready for busy day.
6:31--- check e-mail
7:00--- feed dogs, eat breakfast
7:45---check e-mail
8:00--- walk dogs
9:15---return, check e-mail, answer saved e-mails
10:00---write
10:02---time for spider solitaire
10:25---check e-mail
10:30---writing seriously now
10:45---walk around house randomly
19:50---get snack
11:00---check e-mail
11:05---write
11:30---play with dogs
11:45--uh-oh, almost lunch time, better buckle down 
11:46---check e-mail 
11:50--write 
12:30--check regular mail 
12:45--back from checking mail (too early, not there), better write something
1:15--check regular mail again---it's here!
1:30---lunch!!!!!!!
2:00---write, damn it!
2:01---check e-mail
2:05---writing for real now
3:30---fix dogs'dinners
4:00---check e-mail
4:10---this is all I've written today??? Start writing for real 
4:40---chack e-mail; vow to stop checking e-mail
4:41---spider solitaire
5:00---check e-mail 
5:30 walk dogs
6:15---dinner 
6:45--practice dog agility 
7:00---check e-mail 
7:05--writing scared now 
7:24---answer e-mail describing how I waste time on a typical day (check e-mail for responses approximately once every five minutes for rest of night) 
10:45---spider solitaire, give out dog treats for tricks 
11:00--read novel, go to bed, vow tomorrow will be different. Get ready for a busy day...

Should I be upset that my most requested story is "The Goat Story," an e-mail I wrote of our morning's adventures several years ago? It stars several of the dogs in the photo above, who have since passed on. They look so sweet, don't they? Read on...

The e-mail was entitled: Free Salukis---to any home. It took place on (or next to) our acreage in rural Georgia.

###
This morning we were walking the dogs when I heard barking that seemed to be coming from the far side of the fence. That area sometimes gets a tree over it, and sure enough, a limb was on the fence and the barking was coming from the far side. Dammit. I crawled over and started calling, following the barking, and eventually came upon Jeepers. Jeepers, being my good dog, came almost right away, and I used one of the three leashes (Bad decision #1: three leashes for 13 dogs?) I had with me to hook him up and start leading him back. 
 
Problem was, I sort of thought I’d heard two different dogs barking, so I called to my mom to find out if anybody else was missing. Before she could answer, I spotted Kitty, also outside of the fence. Mystery solved. Crisis over. Probably just a bunny. Kitty was on the other side of a downed tree so I just casually called her. Bad decision #2: not taking the chance to grab a loose dog when I had it.

Suddenly, more barking---it was Wolfman barking in the distance with his “I GOT SOMETHING BIG AND I NEED BACKUP!” bark. Dammit again! I lunged for Kitty but she was already crashing off through the underbrush to help Wolf. I started toward the barking, pushing through kudzu up to my thighs with legs as heavy as dream legs, dragging Jeepers behind like an anchor under a kudzu sea. I lost one shoe. Kept going. Jeepers seemed to be doing his best to help his buddies just by slowing me down, an evil plot, so I finally decided I had to let go his leash and plow on without him while he stayed behind. Bad decision #3: A dog in hand is worth two in the bush.

I finally clawed my way through some thickets, scratched, bleeding, and one shoed, to stop and stare at Wolfman, Kitty, and Beanie (where did he come from?) attacking a giant feral goat (where did HE come from?). A GIANT feral goat! Kitty and Beanie each had one of its hamstrings, and as fast as the goat could kick them off they were coming back for more. Wolf had the goat's head and neck—mostly head, between the horns (this seemed a bad choice, but I'm no goat killing expert). The goat butted him and sent him flying through the air, over and over, and as soon as he skidded to a stop he was back on his feet and on the goat again.  I snatched up a stick, since I knew hands are invisible to salukis in hunting mode, and began yelling and pulling and swatting and doing what I could to get them off, but the dogs were oblivious even though I was using all my strength and voice. Finally... I was able to hold Kitty and Beanie off enough to turn to Wolf, who didn’t care what I did. But eventually I had all three in a stand-off, the goat and I facing the three of them as I brandished my stick. The goat stood firm, even allowing me to hold him by one horn. Time for some quiet talk, goat whisperer stuff, and to decide who would get the last two leashes. The goat was closest---keeping him calm was the key to keeping them off---but would a 200  pound feral goat walk on a leash? Would ia leash even hold him? Should I...Bad decision #4: Put the leashes on somebody, anybody, don't just stand there!

Because that was when I heard a loud crashing, and out from the woods hurtled another two goats with three more salukis—Sissy, Stinky, and Jeepers (with his leash flying behind) right on their tails. My goat threw me to the ground and took off to flee with his friends, and Wolf, Kitty, and Beanie took chase. DAMMIT! Now I had three crazed goats and six blood thirsty salukis running amuck in the woods, and on the other side of the fence, still in our yard, but barely, was my mom trying to contain seven more salukis who were going berserk. I was so out of breath from breaking through kudzu I kept falling as I tried to chase them.

I began to realize just how bad a situation this was—if the goats ran out of the woods and across the field, the dogs would follow, and eventually they would cross a 55 mph highway. Unless the goats stopped. I decided if they got another goat down, I would have to let them kill it so I could catch as many dogs as possible while they were diverted. I was horrified at the thought, but even more so at the idea of my six salukis running across the highway.

Fortunately, the goats kept running in circles, wisely I suppose avoiding the open field. I could hear them crashing through the woods, catch an occasional glimpse of a goat or dog part.  I realized the key to the situation was Wolfman, who lived for the hunt—catch him and the others may not be so keen on continuing without their “headman.” One of the goats broke away from the others, with Wolf on his tail. My mom had now climbed over the fence to help. I tried to yell for her to catch Wolf when he went by her, but I was too exhausted to get the words out, and just managed to squeak “Catch…him!” Bad decision #5: Be explicit, even when you can't breathe.

And so my 70 year old mom threw herself on a giant feral goat (she told me later she thought that’s what I meant by "him") and somehow, she says, this goat seemed to know she was trying to help, and he stopped and backed into a fork between two trees next to the fence. Problem was, this allowed the seven dogs inside the fence to reach through and try to bite him--not to mention Wolfman saw his chance now that his quarry was cornered. I saw my chance too. I lurched and stumbled, gasping, to them—and was able to tackle Wolf! I got  the leash on him, but now what? There were still two running goats and five chasing salukis. I tied Wolf to a tree where he started going crazy. Bad decision, but for once, one that didn't bite me in the butt. 
 
One by one I was able to catch the other dogs as they came to see the "caught" goat---or in some cases as they barreled past still chasing or hanging on the others. One by one each dog was passed through the other property's barbed wire fence and then over our field fence---while we tried to keep the cornered goat still and while making sure the excited/jealous dogs inside didn’t jump them. Then we had to try to use our too few leashes to secure them so they didn’t run back around to the downed fence area. Finally we had everyone but Wolf, and we got him through under great protest.  I lost my other shoe somewhere. I am bloody, bruised all over, and I can’t stop coughing from being so out of breath. 
 
Anybody want a saluki? Good with livestock. 

###
There was post script to this: Two days later I went in for my annual physical. I was covered in bruises from goats and dogs. The nurse nodded politely as I explained, and handed me a brochure for battered women. 

OK, out with it: The designer dog--er--elephant in the room. Or on the website. Yes, I wrote a book about designer dogs. "But how, Caroline, how could you write about those overpriced mutts that are helping bring down apple pie, dog shows and the American Kennel Club?"

It took some soul searching (and a glance at my bank statement). When I was first approached by Weldon Owen, a book packager (and we can talk the differences between book packagers and publishers in a future entry) to write it, I sighed and regretted I'd be turning them down.  I've been an AKC participant for most of my life, and I enjoy the perks my AKC dogs allow me. Writing about designer dogs seemed so traitorous.

I thought some more. I studied my bank account some more. And, as I try to do every decade or two, I opened my mind. Not everybody wants to compete. Not everybody wants one of the 150 or so AKC breeds, or even the 450 or so breeds registered elsewhere. And this IS America, home of the free, and home of the freedom to choose an AKC dog, a mutt or even a designer dog.  Withholding information is never the answer, and I'm egotistical enough to think I'm the best source of that information. Who better to present the truth about designer dogs? Who better to say we can't subtitle it "Better than  purebreds" or some other unsubstantiated claim? So I agreed. Well, yeah, I did try to convince them I should write under a pseudonym, but that was a no. Apparently my name has value. How inconvenient.

So, here's the truth about designer dogs: In some cases, they work. Look at the huskies running the Iditarod; most are mixes.  Look at the lurchers (sighthound x non-sighthound mixes) favored for poaching in Britain. The longdogs (sighthound X sighthound mixes) so successful at coyote and jackrabbit hunting in the western United States. Want to succeed at flyball? Get a BorderJack or BorderStaff or one of the other crosses bordering on insanity. Breeds, like cultures, evolve. We strive to hang on to cultural artifacts and antiques, but that doesn't mean we don't stop inventing. Every pure breed we now have was once a novel invention---perhaps even sneered at in  its infancy. 

But let's be truthful: Most designer dog breeders aren't out to make a better hunter or worker. They're out to make a better companion, and their main claim that these dogs are better (besides the fact that most are cute as h**l) is that they're healthier. 

Here's an excerpt from the book: 

When kennel clubs began registering purebreds, they allowed any dog of that general family type to be registered as the breed. At some point, registration closed, leaving a fixed number of potential sires and dams. What wasn't known at the time was that all of us, dog or human, carry from five to seven recessive genes that, if we carried two copies of any one of them, would
result in some type of hereditary disease. Because humans are a bunch of mixed breeds, we don't often end up with a mate who carries the same bad recessive gene
as we do, so it's unusual to produce an affected child. Because those early canine sires and dams carried some random bad recessives, and because all present-day purebred dogs descend from them, there's a fair chance that dogs carrying that same recessive gene might mate, creating a puppy with the disorder caused by that gene. 

The solution? Widen the breeding options, deepen the gene pools to create crossbreeds that don't share the same bad recessives. That's one argument for breeding dogs by design. The trouble is that idea works only within limits. Cross two breeds that share the same disorders and it doesn't work at all. Cross two hybrids again after the initial cross, and you're right back where you started---maybe even worse off: those hybrids will stand a good chance of carrying recessive genes and producing pups with two of the recessives and thus
two disorders. A designer dog should never be just a random mating to "see what happens." Instead, the best mixes blend breeds that can reasonably be expected
to produce desirable physical and behavioral traits.

I can't stress this enough: Just as with a purebred, your source is critical. Most of the designer dog breeders I interviewed left much to be desired in their knowledge of health or genetics. One memorable one had a clearly hydrocephalic designer dog puppy that was being touted as their poster puppy for good health; another had a puppy with a leg I swear was attached backwards! Well, it WAS a novel design...

Too many internet breeders jumped at the chance to produce puppies they could charge twice as much for as they could puppies from same-breed matings. To be fair, many purebred breeders are equally naive and money-motivated. Cave canem, buyer beware and all that. 
 
As for the book, it turned out to be one of the most beautiful  books I've been associated with--and fun. The folks at Weldon Owen were a dream to work with, my editor, Peter Cieply, made me look smart, the photography by Anna Kuperburg was stunning, the models captivating, the owners thrilled and the text gave me a chance to be both fanciful and factful (Is that a
word?). And I got to meet some pretty cool dogs!

For example, there's the Chesador, whose profile begins with:  Attaboy--shake it out! This sportsman loves a good dousing, be it from splashing along in the surf or dog-paddling around the lake. If you share the  Chesador's enthusiasm for all things active, you'll get along swimmingly...

The Jack Chi: All saunter and swagger, the Jack Chi acts like he's the biggest deal on the block. But despite his bold braggadocio and bad-boy image, he's a trickster and a charmer. And though he's happy to be scrappy, he
also craves a cuddle...

 ...And 34 other breeds, all represented by dogs who are very special to someone, and just as cherished and deserving as any purebred.