Not easy.

Even the most casual of observers would have detected a distinct chill in the greeting I received from Bertram, the resident Border Terrier, on returning from the dog show at the Cow Palace in Daly City. Clearly yon Border’s nose confirmed his worst suspicions, namely that I had spent considerable time with others of the canine persuasion. Thus the chill. This is not an animal who believes in divided loyalties. I placated him, if placation was at all possible, with a fresh marrow bone which I had specially defrosted in advance of my return, expecting the worst, but mollified he most certainly was not. I don’t know if a beast with but one lip can actually sneer, but Bert did a very solid imitation of that emotion on grudgingly accepting the peace-offering.

That was only the first of my troubles. Rarely have I encountered worse light than in the aptly named Cow Palace, a vast arena set in one of the worst areas of the SF Bay Peninsula where it seems hockey games and the like are played in modern imitation of the blood sports at the Roman Coliseum of yore. The attendees, for the large part, appear to be direct descendants of forbears who got off on watching the occasional lion munching on the dismembered limbs of hapless Christians.

Now I had more or less prepared for the few fluorescent tubes, suspended 100 feet in the air, passing for illumination. The Nikon D3x with its respectable sensor – though no low light master like the one in the D700 – was accompanied by the fastest lenses in my modest arsenal. Two pre-Ai MFs, the 28/2 and 50/1.4, and the plastic fantastic, the 85/1.8 AF-D. All well-known and true. Little did I know that my frightful success rate would serve to embarrass me despite this cornucopia of all that is best and brightest in Nikkorland.

First, your subject moves. He moves a lot. He has the attention span of a politician on election day. Second, AF simply does not work. I switched quicker to MF on the 85mm than a pure bred would switch from scrag end to filet mignon. This was desperation time. Looking at the ‘proofs’, the first 100 snaps were pretty much a complete write off. The second 100 showed some signs of life with a winner or two, and the last 150 began to suggest that all was not over for this blog’s snapper-in-chief. Not a moment too soon, for some deep soul-searching had ensued, suggesting that maybe a career in taxidermy was a preferred option.

And here is what I managed to salvage from the whole near-catastrophe:

Mastiff and master.

Face time.

Kids’ choice.

Nap.

Dame Judy Dench dropped in.

Love.

Beauty.

Class.

A note on the Irish Wolfhound, last picture above. One of the oldest breeds known, dating back thousands of years, this truly magnificent animal stands some three feet tall at the shoulder. An adult weighs 180-200 lbs (male) or 120 lbs (female). Few breeds have such abundant reserves of warmth, charm and dignity as the wolfhound, married to a wonderful sense of humor. As the owner of the brother and sister pair above told me “When these dogs want to play, it does well to remember that a 200 lb. adult male barreling toward you at speed is not something with which you want to make contact!” I would be hard pressed to think of a more distinguished breed of dog. And one thing you will never have to do with a wolfhound is bend down to tickle his ear, for he will be all too delighted to proffer it at your height. You can tell me all day how smart your mutt is, but a pure bred dog is what dogs are all about.

Ever mischievous and looking for fun, the Irish Wolfhound in repose.

On the way out these worthies made their case for adoption:

Good intentions. Dumb agenda.

Sadly, they are letting their hearts rule their minds. First, every mutt adopted hurts the pure breds, leaving one pure bred unwanted. Zero sum game. Second, the key is prevention, not adoption. You don’t see too many pure breds at the adoption center and this is simply because they attract a different class of owner, one willing to make a decade long commitment. As with cell phones, the cost of entry is irrelevant to the economics of ownership. The cost of maintenance will swamp the cost of acquisition, nullifying the economic argument in favor of mongrels and half-breeds. Requiring that all mongrels be neutered at birth would solve the problem of more dogs than owners in one (dog) generation. Oh well.

Now I have to work on the pup to see if he will come around. Things are decidedly ‘iffy’ in our relationship right now.

All on the Nikon D3x, ISO 800, lenses as above, at or near full aperture, except for the last. The body was set to Auto white balance and appears to have done a fine job of neutralizing the ghastly fluorescent lighting.