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  • Paul Davidson

I Spit On You, Westminster Dog Show (#3)

Oh, how I spit on you, you Westminster Dog Show, you.

Never before on the face of the Earth (prior to your existence) has man sought out to trim and cut, comb and frizz, shave and primp a dirty old dog. Never before have humans judged how they walk, how things hang and how dogs prance. Never before have I felt my saliva glands so full in preparation of a loogie the likes of which no mere mortal has ever seen.

Dogs lick their genitals. Dogs chase their tails. Dogs rip apart mail that shoots through mail slots. Yes, oh boy, they can learn 200 words. They have the intelligence of a 3 year old. Is that any reason to host some kind of a dog Olympics around them? Giving out medals and causing normal adults to enter into a world of OCD’s where the length of an eyebrow hair is worth their life?

What’s next?

If we are to believe that hosting a televised dog show, singing the praises of how they walk and show — well, would it not be a surprise for a cat show to come next? A show where owners take their fish out and see how suavely they flop on the ground with no oxygen? A show where kids dig up ants and caterpillars and see which one will be awarded the honourable award that will make them the talk of the town?

Right, I hear you. It’s all very very silly, those examples I just gave you. And, you know what — not too far from the inspiration of those silly examples… A silly show judging dogs. My loogie is ready. Is your silly little Westminster Dog show ready for it’s close-up?


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