USDAA World Cynosports Games 2024 Review
Harbinger of mass deportation
It is my family tradition that I dog show in Arizona during dire presidential elections. What was different, the last time of 2016, than this time of 2024 was, the last time, which we wish truly was, dog people wandered around in a daze weeping. All I can remember now, since most of it is supressed down deep, was a darkened pre-dawn car park, as far as the eye could see, and wanderers attached to dogs, weeping. Waking up, seeing the results, and heading off to the first day of big time dog showing. Don’t make eye contact with anyone, or else the tears start to flow. In the far distance, looming saguaros, flocked in needles that could poke out your eyes, the only vegetation on the rocky, desert mountain. The flag was raised over the stage, someone croaked out the National Anthem, and the weeping flowed, unchecked, pooling over gore tex sneakers and running pants. Let the dog show begin!
This election year was different. For one thing, I knew who would win in 2024. None of that being taken by horrified surprise that happened last time I was in Arizona. No more trusting in the goodness and moral grandeur of democracy. Over the summer, I’d driven my newly purchased hybrid car to Missouri pre election. Because, another dog show, a very fancy one where they give you money and put you on tv. I enjoyed eleven states in ten days, rolling green forested hills, large deserted parks that always had a lake or a river featuring skeletal remains of fish or possible racoons, purchasing freakishly cheap gas at massive gas emporiums featuring dog parks and palacial bathrooms with decorative tile, with nights spent observing the varietals of drug dealing styles from Motel 6 parking lots depending on which part of the country we were in. The Lawrence, Kansas dirt bike version was the most creative, and the guys in trucks outside my room were the most concerning in Albuquerque.
It was the continual roadside two story high hay bale/hand painted monster truck monuments to His Magnificence Dumb Ass that were the magic 8 ball prediction clincher. There wasn’t a single Kamala bumper sticker to be seen across any of the southwestern or midwestern states. Not a one outside of California. My hybrid car stuck out like a big fat thumb. These were his people, from Tonapah to Amarillo, from Tulsa to Kansas City, they flew his flags, they painted his name on their roof, they denied climate change in their massive vehicles, and they all apparently took the time to vote because they thought a guy like him would make their world better.
Were there immigrants out there? Kids of immigrants? Legal or not? I know there were, but we sure did see a lot of white people driving over the speed limit in V8 and diesel 4WD. What about the waiter at the gas station Mexican restaurant where we all endured together the neighboring table of underage drinkers in Wranglers and big hats who came to hear their buddy cackle his way through Hank Williams covers? Could he and did he vote? The clerks behind the bullet proof glass at every dicey roadside motel across the country? What were those Missouri cowgirls going to do if they got knocked up by their pimple faced roper wearing boyfriends? Would those young girls vote to undermine even more of their rights?
Before my knee exploded, pre this time election, I was a reasonable competitor, with fast running legs and faster running dogs, I was on the track where you win some prizes at one thing, then you enter the next thing and you win prizes there so you enter the next one. It’s all consuming, this quest. Win it by going the fastest without your border collie making the bars fall down or go the wrong way over there, and then the proof is beating 150 other dogs, and their usually well over 21 if not well over 41 year old people and standing on a tall, decorated box holding up a medal or a cup and ideally some money. Photo snapped and life goes on til the next one, which may be on the other side of the country.
As per tradition, back in Arizona for this time, with Cynosport World Games starting post election morning, November 7, 2024. That morning and for four more days after that, I dragged myself back and forth from a solar shaded car park next to a toxic looking fenced off watershed, to a gated and heavily irrigated sports park arena where the dog rings were. Because this is how we roll. Glamorous days spent with my dogs in a parking lot, punctuated by occasional less than 60 seconds of competition on the finest grass money can buy with stolen water. Ideally somewhat satiated by this week’s haul of corporate swag and dog food coupons. I have a lot of this stuff. Even though I identify as GenX, tossing a little high end swag my way buys a few minutes of staving off the existential dread caused by this lifestyle of hypocrisy. I love me a shiny, personalized Yeti mug.
I made this slog countless times per day. To walk the course, to run the course, to watch the course, to pick up the finalists shirts, to use the bathrooms with running water and always a quiet Spanish speaking lady hovering there, outside the janitor’s closet next door, with more toilet paper at the ready. Over and over, I limped like a zombie, but this year, not because the election results rendered me unable to jog, frolick or skip, but because my left knee had fallen apart and moved around and twisted around it’s bones to where I could barely walk. Every step like a shank being driven into my knee. A small pack of security guards held court over the grand main entrance gate, stopping every person waiting to enter and search them for firearms, booze, or glass containers.
“Sister, you gotta get that knee fixed!” hollered the the chunky lady security guard with the buzz cut and bad teeth, digging through my special dog accessories backpack that carries a water bowl, my water bottle, a dog toy and a few pieces of cheese.
Did she vote for him? What about the tribal members and hispanic kids guarding that gate all day, searching the dog ladies for contraband, in the desert sun for $14.35 per hour? Was the hope that His Magnificence was going to make their rent easier to pay, or get their gas prices down even lower, by the forces of deportation, tariffs, and stripping women of their rights? Were they part of the culture that had to be dumb as rocks, or else is so racist and misogynistic that they voted in a dangerous buffoon? I never asked, I guess I should have.
Once inside the sports park walls, not much weeping that first morning with the election results in. Maybe because the sun was out, another beautiful day in paradise. Occasional comments and knowing glances passed along by my friends, but that was about it. No one took a knee during the National Anthem. No one was that surprised, this time. We were all resigned, and trying to just buckle down and do the dog thing. Dog shows are sort of like Christmas movies, there’s a story arc of elation and depression and at the very end, you’re trying to have the happy ending where the small town large animal vet gets the girl in the high heeled suede boots, so you can sleep soundly. If the romance doesn’t work out, you drive home like I do, tail between your legs, and a third place medal, and probably sleep a little less soundly. If your Christmas movie turns out to be something more daring, like it did this time, where the ending is a creepy orange faced thug takes over the world so he can hand it off to the billionaires, not sure how, or where anyone sleeps that night.