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Chick Wit: A fleetingly furry flirt with destiny

I never thought I would be a stage mom, but as I envisioned my baby posing for a photographer, I couldn't help but feel a surge of vicarious excitement.

I never thought I would be a stage mom, but as I envisioned my baby posing for a photographer, I couldn't help but feel a surge of vicarious excitement.

My dog was slated to star in an advertisement for the American Kennel Club's Meet the Breeds event at the Javits Center.

It started with an e-mail from my dog's breeder and official secretary of the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel Club of Delaware Valley, or CKCSCDV.

The acronym could use an abbreviation.

The breeder wrote me saying that the AKC's Meet the Breeds event was having a promotional photo shoot in a week's time and that the advertisement would feature only a Cavalier and a Bulldog, "so I thought immediately of Pip, since he is so charismatic and photogenic."

My heart began to beat faster.

Then she wrote, "Pip's picture will be all over NYC and possibly the Northeast."

Now I was bouncing in my computer chair.

I was already seeing my dog's adorable face plastered on fliers, brochures, posters, and - why not? - billboards up and down I-95.

This gig could be a stepping-stone for the cover of Milk-Bone boxes, maybe even a featured role on the next tear-jerking Purina Dog Chow ads.

Pip could be great! So, so great!

I was slipping deep into a Mama Rose fantasy, when I remembered: I had just gotten Pip a short haircut. The classic Cavalier King Charles look has long fur or "feathers" on the ears, legs, and belly - none of which Pip currently possessed. The weather had been hot, so I'd gotten him groomed with his comfort in mind, not his show-dog potential.

What was I thinking?

I quickly wrote her back saying I'd love to do it, but I confessed to the minor hairstyle hiccup. She responded that she didn't think it'd be a problem, but asked for a picture of him to show the director.

I saw it as an audition.

Pip was curled up, sound asleep, on my couch, but I jostled him awake. I dragged an armchair across the room and positioned it in front of the window for the best natural light. Then I plopped Pip on the chair and encouraged him to look at me by holding one of his favorite liver treats.

I snapped the first pic on my iPhone.

He looked handsome, of course, but a little too intense. Perhaps the liver treat was a bad idea. I let him eat it before we tried again. This time, I distracted him by waving my arm out to the side.

Soft eyes, Pip, soft eyes.

The second set was better, although half of his face was in shadow.

I considered the ethics of covertly running the photo through an Instagram filter before sending it to the breeder.

#overthinkingit.

I didn't end up altering any photos, but I did take about 15 shots before settling on two to e-mail back to her. One headshot, one full body.

Thank God I'd had him on a diet all summer.

I e-mailed the photos and waited for her reply.

And waited.

I must have refreshed my Gmail account 20 times in two hours. Three days passed with no word, so I bit the bullet and called her. She delivered the blow: The director decided to go with a "full-coated" dog.

I was crushed. I bit my lip and turned away from the phone. I didn't know how I'd break the news to Pip, who was asleep on the couch again.

"I understand," I said, trying not to sound as crestfallen as I was. "Well, you know, keep us in mind for next time."

But like any good stage mother, my disappointment curdled to indignation. How dare they overlook my baby's potential? One little haircut can't dull his sparkle. I can't walk this dog down the street without getting stopped by adoring passersby. You can't groom charisma, people. I don't need the stupid AKC's approval to know my dog is a star!

"I'll check back with you in February," said the breeder. "Maybe they can use him in the promotions for Westminster."

Westminster?

As in, the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show, the oldest and most prestigious dog show in America?

Pip's lucky the weather's cooling down.

Because somebody's growing his hair out.