Pixie · The Coat · The Seven Shows · Points & Majors · Show Day · Purple! · Thank You · What's Next · For New Exhibitors

Five pictures, all by David. Click one to jump to it.

Hello, and welcome. I'm Willie Duncan. I'm a dental hygienist in Westerville, Ohio, just outside Columbus, which means I spend my working days being particular about very small things in very small spaces. It turns out that is perfect training for showing a Yorkshire terrier.

On Sunday, August 8, 1999, in Fort Wayne, Indiana, my Pixie went Winners Bitch for four points and her second major. That made fifteen points, and fifteen points made her a champion. She is now Ch. Runion's Pocket Full of Posies, and I have typed that "Ch." more times than I'd like to admit, just to look at it.

I handled her myself at every show. No professional handler, not once. I have nothing against the pros, who are very good at what they do, but I wanted to find out whether an amateur with a day job and a stack of index cards could take her own dog all the way. She could. I'm proud of that, and I'm going to say so on my own home page. I started this page back in March so the family could keep up, and it grew. Here's the whole story, with David's pictures.

1.  PIXIE

I've been showing dogs since 1994. My first was a Cairn terrier named Duffy, and together we made every mistake there is to make, most of them in front of a judge. Duffy taught me how to pack a car, how to lose with a smile, and how much I didn't know. He's retired now and has the couch, which he considers his pension.

When I was ready for a Yorkie I wanted to do it right, and doing it right meant Wanda Runion. Wanda breeds Yorkshire terriers in Kentucky, and she has become my friend and my mentor, and the night before a show she's my voice of reason on the telephone. Pixie was born at Wanda's on Friday, October 3, 1997, and she came home to Ohio on Sunday, December 14, 1997, a black-and-tan puppy that fit in my two hands.

PLATE I.  The day she came home. Sunday, December 14, 1997. At our kitchen table, in my two hands, with the Christmas cards standing up behind her and a basket with a towel in it ready and waiting. That's my red sweater and my wedding band. David took this about thirty seconds after we walked in the door. And no, she isn't the wrong color. Read on.

Yorkie puppies are born black and tan. The black turns to steel blue as they grow up, a little at a time. For Pixie it took most of 1998, and I checked her every week under the kitchen light with my reading glasses on, the way I'd read an X-ray. By the time the Christmas cards came out again, she was blue.

Why "Pixie"? Look at her.

Today she weighs five and a half pounds. The breed standard says a Yorkie must not exceed seven, so she is well inside the lines, which is where I like everything to be.

A little history, for the newcomers. The Yorkshire terrier was developed in Yorkshire, England, in the 1800s, and before it was anybody's lap dog it was a ratter in the mills. I remind Pixie of this whenever she refuses to walk on wet grass. The American Kennel Club recognized the breed in 1885.

2.  THE COAT

People see a Yorkie in the ring and think she just grows that way. Bless their hearts.

The show coat is fine, silky and perfectly straight: steel blue on the body, and a rich tan on the head, chest and legs. It's parted right down the middle of the back from the nose to the tail, and it falls to the floor on both sides. The long hair on top of the head is tied up in a topknot with a bow. Pixie's bow is red.

Any hygienist will tell you a nice smile is made at home, between appointments, one day at a time. A show coat is the same. Here is Pixie's routine:

1. A bath and conditioner every week. At our house that's Sunday night, after the dishes.
2. Never brush it dry. Never. Ask me why and I'll tell you for twenty minutes.
3. Oil and wrap. The hair is oiled and folded into wraps: little packets of paper, each one banded shut with a tiny latex band, section by section, from her topknot to her tail. Doing the whole dog takes me the better part of an evening.
4. The wraps stay in. Apart from bath night, they come out only for a show, and they go back in the same night, no matter how late we get home.

PLATE II.  Her everyday clothes. Sunday, July 18, 1999. On the living room couch on a Sunday afternoon, six days before Cincinnati. Her whole coat is folded up in paper wraps, and the hair on top of her head is in one more wrap that sticks straight up like a chimney. That's my crocheted afghan on the back of the couch. Strictly speaking it's Duffy's couch. He let her borrow it for the picture.

Pixie wears her wraps like she was born in them. She doesn't fuss with them and she doesn't chew them. She just goes about her business, rustling a little. The man who reads our gas meter once asked me if she'd been in an accident. I told him she was in training.

3.  THE SEVEN SHOWS

Here it is, the whole 1999 campaign, owner-handled from the first show to the last. Every one was on a Saturday except the last, which was a Sunday.

* A major. See below.

4.  POINTS AND MAJORS, PLAINLY

I showed Duffy for a good long while before anybody explained points to me in plain English, so here it is, the way I wish somebody had told me:

• A champion needs 15 points.
• Points come from wins. One win can be worth as little as one point or as much as five.
• A win worth 3, 4 or 5 points is called a major.
• Two of the wins have to be majors, under two different judges.

That last rule is the one that trips people up. You can't get there on one-pointers. A dog can pile up fifteen points, or twenty, and still not be a champion if she doesn't have her two majors under two different judges.

So here's where we stood after Cincinnati: eleven points and one major, the three from Indianapolis. We needed four more points, and we needed a second major under somebody other than the Indianapolis judge. Two more two-point wins would have added up to fifteen and still not finished her. We needed a major. Period.

On Sunday, August 8, in Fort Wayne, under a different judge, Pixie went Winners Bitch for four points. Eleven and four is fifteen. Second major, different judge. Finished. If I had planned it on graph paper it couldn't have come out neater, and believe me, I had the graph paper out.

Winners Bitch gets a purple ribbon. (Yes, that's what they call it. I have heard every joke there is, thank you.) Pixie's is hanging over the computer while I type this, and now she gets to wear "Ch." in front of her name.

5.  SHOW DAY

People think dog shows are glamorous. Here is Fort Wayne the way it really went. Every show day goes just about like this. This one had a better ending.

PLATE III.  The last morning. Sunday, August 8, 1999. In the grooming area at Fort Wayne: wraps out, coat brushed and parted, and me putting the red bow in her topknot. You can see the reading glasses are on, and the chain is there so I don't lose them, which I have. All around us are crates, a blow dryer on its stand, and a whole hall full of people doing the very same thing at their own tables.

PLATE IV.  In the ring. Sunday, August 8, 1999. David took this one over the gate. That's Pixie and me going along the green mat, her coat swinging as she trots, on a lead so thin you can hardly see it. Outside the gate on the far side, other exhibitors wait with their little dogs up on top of their crates, and the folding chairs are full. I don't remember one thing about those few minutes, so I'm glad he got it.

6.  PURPLE!

PLATE V.  Champion. Sunday, August 8, 1999. A few steps from the ring, right after. Pixie is standing on a table with a black cloth over it, coat perfect, red bow still in, and I'm crouched down beside her holding up the purple ribbon and grinning like a fool. Behind us are the crates, somebody's dryer and the white gate of the ring. David swears I was crying. You can't tell from the picture, so I'm going with the picture.

I would like to tell you I was calm and dignified about it. I was not. I called Wanda from the pay phone by the door, and I don't believe either one of us finished a sentence. Then I went back to our table and sat on a folding chair next to Pixie's crate for a good long while, and she went to sleep, because as far as she was concerned it was just another Sunday.

7.  THANK YOU

To Wanda Runion, who bred her and trusted me with her, who taught me the wraps, who has answered the telephone at all hours since 1997, and who never once made me feel like an amateur, even on the days I was being one. Pixie is a Runion dog, and I hope I did right by the name.

To David Duncan, my husband, photographer, driver, carrier of crates and guardian of the outlet. David is a high school band director, so a 4 a.m. start and a car full of equipment don't faze him a bit. He says a five-pound dog is a lot easier to load than a tuba section. Every picture on this page is his, taken with his 35mm. Chauffeur of the year, every year.

8.  WHAT'S NEXT

Pixie has earned a rest, and she's taking it in her wraps on the couch, which Duffy has opinions about. Next year we may take her to a few shows as a special. (A special is a champion who keeps on showing.) Maybe. And Wanda and I have been talking about a litter some day. Some day. Please don't write asking for a puppy. There isn't one.

9.  FOR NEW EXHIBITORS

Since I put this page up, I've had letters from people who'd like to try showing their own dogs. Here is what I'd tell myself back in 1994:

1. Find a mentor. Your dog's breeder, if you're as lucky as I am. Ask everything, and write the answers down.
2. Watch before you show. Spend a whole day sitting ringside before you ever enter. Watch the handlers, not just the dogs.
3. Practice at home. Stand her on a table every day for a minute or two. Walk her on her lead around the kitchen. Make it boring. Boring is good.
4. Keep a packing list in the tack box. Mine is typed. Since Grand Rapids it says BOWS at the top, in capitals.
5. Wear flat shoes. You will be running, and nobody is looking at your feet anyway.
6. Be good company in the grooming area. Share the outlet, lend the comb, hold somebody's dog while she runs to check the ring. Somebody will do the same for you the day you need it. Somebody lent me a bow.
7. Leave the motel room cleaner than you found it, so the motels that take dogs keep taking dogs.
8. Do it yourself, at least once. Owner-handling is the slow way, and you will make your mistakes in front of everybody. Do it anyway.
9. Expect to lose. Pixie had a charmed year. Duffy never had one, and I loved him every bit as much. Don't measure yourself by anybody else's ribbons, or even by your own.
10. Remember who you came with. Your dog has no idea what a point is. Pixie thinks the whole business is about the cheese in my pocket.

You are visitor number

since March 1999

Questions about wraps, points or Yorkies? Write to me at [email protected].
I answer every letter, usually on Sunday night while the conditioner sets.

Pictures by David Duncan · Last updated Sunday, September 19, 1999