Sunday morning begins at 4 a.m. for Jerry Grymek. What with the red carpet rollout, the preparations for the Green Room – its spa, exercise facilities and Paw Mall boutiques – plus the camera set-up for Telemundo, the interview with satellite radio and live coverage on ABC, Jerry is a man in demand. Rather, the 800-plus furry critters checking in at the stately Hotel Pennsylvania in the heart of the Big Apple are in demand. You see, these guests are the crème de la crème of canines arriving from all over the world to compete in the 131st Westminster Kennel Club dog show, the highly prestigious event of which “there is only one.” Everything has to go perfectly today on this, the day before the show begins, and Jerry is the man to “make it so.”

“I have the best job in the world,” brags Grymek, a 29-year-old Toronto boy (4-1/2 in dog years, he points out). He works for the hotel’s public relations throughout the year, but for one week in February is promoted to “pooch relations,” where he dons his doggie tie and pinstripe suit, clips on his official Doggie Concierge badge and loads up his pockets with star-shaped doggie treats. (“Because every one of these dogs is a star.”)

The Penn lobby is, without doubt, the social epicenter of Westminster. By mid-morning, all is abuzz and Jerry is in surprising good form considering he’s going on precious little sleep: last night was the gala doggie fashion show and live auction for the Animal Cancer Foundation, followed by the annual whooping-it-up parties for the owners and handlers that go until dawn.

“See,” explains Grymek, as he hands out a treat to ‘Ace,’ a Borzoi sniffing at his trousers, “I handle the puparazzi.” The owner at the end of Ace’s leash, having observed me taking notes, tells me, “His dad is ‘Sly’ – the breed’s specialty record holder. Ace is sired by frozen semen.” A rather unexpected disclosure at this time of the morning, I think to myself, as I watch the big beauty give Jerry his best puppy eyes, working him for a second helping. “My clientele are as appreciative and as cuddly as you can get,” laughs Jerry, moving in closer to my ear, “but they have their demands.”

Jerry is bombarded. “Where is the closest park?” “I need an extra pillow and cot for my dog.” (“Don’t let them fool you,” Jerry confides. “The dogs get the beds; the owners, the floor.”) And, “Where can my dog relieve himself?”

There are dogs everywhere I look. Poodles, Pugs, Pekingese, a Doberman sniffing a Dachshund. Like Hollywood starlets, they bask in a pool of flickering camera flashes, besieged by a mountain of free merchandise, “wag bags,” delivered to the hotel for the canine celebrities.

Gone to the dogs
“Hotel Penn went to the dogs about six years ago,” he explains. “Although we accept dogs year-round, we decided to make this our specialty during Westminster week, with all the amenities and me, the Doggie Concierge. Just wait until I take you down to our Green Room and Spaw.”

In the lower level, Jerry leads me down the Paw Mall corridor, past vendors of every kind and into the Green Room. He provides the commentary. “We’re now entering the first in-line dog spa. On our left we have the Jog A Dog treadmills in all sizes, for the St. Bernard to the Chihuahua.” These machines get them limber for the show, and keep their coats free of city-sidewalk grime. ‘Chris,’ a Rhodesian Ridgeback from Arizona, is trying one out. “He’s used to running in the desert,” his owner tells me.

“Next we have the Canine Loo,” continues Jerry, “sectioned off into his and hers. On the right, fire hydrants for the men, and the left, the Pawder Room for the ladies – all glitter and lights.” I have to know – do they really adhere? “Oh yes,” affirms Jerry. “This is serious business.” And I see that it is. Some dogs wear bathrobes and headscarves to keep the sawdust off their coats. Other, more delicate dogs, like the Chinese Crested I see squatting in the back, are protected in a special area bordered by a tiny white picket fence.

The walkway is paved with green Astroturf to give it an outdoor feel; 134 bales of sawdust have been shipped in. Oddly enough, it’s a rather pleasant environment. Not a whiff of doggie doo-doo in the air, what with the housecleaning staff at the ready with shovels, spritzers and fresh sawdust.

Jerry ushers me over to what he refers to as the “Dog-tor’s Corner.” This is where Anni Germani, person- and pet-communicator, is stationed. Anni is absorbed in a reading with ‘Maverick,’ a Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever. Owner/handler Meredith Noreen from California listens intently at his side. They don’t seem to mind if I eavesdrop.

I ask Anni to tell me a little about the energy at the show. “It is phenomenal. These are primo dogs. But they do not like the airplanes. Or the New York City tap water.” Any Best in Show predictions? “No way,” says Anni. “I don’t give that up.”

At the next station is Debbie Zimmerman, certified animal-massage-therapist, hard at work on a 215-pound Mastiff. “The noise of New York is terrifying to these dogs. Plus they sense the nervousness of competition in the air. They are stressed. I am helping them calm down and relax with exercises and stretches so that when they get in the show ring they are shown like the champs that they are.”

I can hear the blow-dryers at the back of the Doggie Spaw where, on every tabletop, a pooch is being pampered. Retrievers with their gorgeous long hair being blown in all directions, Poodles getting manicures, a Husky having a trim.

And in the next room – the baths and a Jacuzzi – I meet Floridians Tanner Norris, 16, and his mom, Cherry. ‘Coda,’ a sweet Australian Shepherd, is being scrubbed down by Tanner, who’ll be showing him in his first Westminster Junior Showmanship competition. “Coda was a gift for Tanner’s 12th birthday. He started showing him at 13,” his mom brags. “But he is first a therapy dog, working in nursing homes and schools.”

Jerry takes my leave for his daily live phone-in with Animal Radio so I head to Jo O’s, the hotel’s bar and restaurant, for some lunch. Jo O’s is the hangout for handlers and owners, where the martinis flow freely and the talk is all dog, dog, dog. Over a huge turkey club, I chat with two tuckered-out ladies across the bar. One has a Havanese named ‘Sassy’ on her lap. The two friends flew in from Toledo, Ohio, on Friday to partake in the weekend parties. Their first year at Westminster, they drove. “We were four girlfriends in a van with only two seats! And all these dogs. We froze our asses off on the van floor! When we arrived, we looked like the Beverly Hillbillies,” the two howled. “But who cares? We won with Sassy’s brother that year!”

Diva diets
Jerry shows up. “It’s time for the food runs. The real doggie-diva demands,” he says as he pulls me outside onto the busy avenue. “I’ve got an order for a cheese pizza and a meat lovers. Thick crust, extra tomato sauce.” Is he serious? “Oh yes, this is the last bit of comfort food before the competition,” Jerry explains. In Spinelli’s, he asks the server to box up the grub and wrap it with a ribbon.

Up in room 440, ‘Comet,’ an Irish Wolfhound, is stretched out the full length of the bed, awaiting his food order. “He goes off his dog food when he travels,” explains Mike Genovese with his friend Judy Simon, who together breed and raise the dogs. Comet has just come in from a run on the streets of New York and he’s hungry. Before we leave the room, Judy points out the steak hidden high up on top of the TV cabinet. “That’s his real supper.” Oh, to lead a dog’s life!

“And now to Mickey Dee’s,” rushes Jerry. He has two orders for cheeseburgers, both asking to hold the onions. Which is a pittance compared to “Mr. McGoo,” a Pug from last year who ordered seven Big Macs, Jerry tells me.

‘Bandit,’ an oh-so-sweet Italian Greyhound, is the first burger recipient. “He’s retiring this year,” says Barbara Angelino. “Although he’s only 3-1/2, he’s done his fair share of shows. Besides, he wants to be home. He has a litter of puppies now.” Jerry has been bringing Bandit cheeseburgers for the past three years. “It’s our special thing: burgers and prayers.”

Bandit was blessed today at the noon-hour service across the street at St. Francis of Assisi Church (the patron saint of animals). “The priest was happy to do it,” explains Barbara. “He pointed out the picture of Calvary on the alter to me. A type of greyhound is depicted with St. Francis.” Everybody has their magic, I’m learning.

The day is coming to a close. Jerry throws on his heavy doorman overcoat, now covered in white dog hair, and heads outside to check in the last of the late arrivals. Madison Square Garden looms large across 7th Ave.

I haven’t asked him yet whether he has a dog of his own. “No. Knowing how much love and attention dogs need, I couldn’t do it because of my busy hours. I like to think of these dogs as my own. All thousand of them.” As I watch him clutching four leashed French Bulldogs for a woman hailing a cab, I swear he has become increasingly dog-like as the day has unfolded. So much enthusiasm; such keen, eager-to-please puppy eyes. I swear I can see a tail wagging.

By Dawn Matheson
Dawn Matheson is a writer and multimedia artist whose work has appeared in many print publications, on CBC Radio and Television, at the Stratford Festival of Canada, and through touring video art programs. She’s never lived a day without an animal friend. She rescued Poca, her current companion, in Toronto’s Kensington Market.

(Appeared in May, 2007 issue)