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The Flamenco Kid! |
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| By Janice Campbell, Clansmen Gordon Setters (perm.reg'd.), copyright 1989. No glorious star sparkled in the heavens the night little José Gordon was born. Not even a meteor heralded his arrival into the world. Halley's Comet certainly wasn't available. A previous booking took it light years away, fulfilling a prophecy in another part of the galaxy. The dark skies of northern Spain remained empty, aloof, indifferent to the wonderful event taking place far below. But a warm light glowed in the heart of little Rosa, for she had just given birth to six beautiful babies. Lovingly, she licked their plushy black coats dry. They whimpered in answer and thrust blindly into her sparsely furnished underbelly. Rosa Gordon was a good mother. Had her friends and neighbours in Dog Town been asked to describe her; words like "sturdy", "sensible" or "efficient" would have been mentioned - never flamboyant or elegant or glamorous. But they didn't share Rosa's secret. They didn't know about the flashy young courtier who had swept into her life sixty-three days ago. She thought back… His name was Carlos Gordon (what else?) and he had been sent out from the Imperial Court of Madrid to assess food production in the provinces. King Ferdinand the Pug's new open immigration policy had encouraged many new ethnic groups to come to Spain, bringing with them their specialized talents. Carlos had come to observe Newfoundlands working side-by-side with Rottweilers; to see Maremmas and Great Pyrenees co-operate in Flock security/production; and to watch whippets and Dachshunds in a "hare-raising" demonstration of teamwork. Could it have been Rosa's well-muscled thigh, her short strong loin, maybe her lovely forechest, or perhaps her intense and methodical hunting manner that caught Carlos' eye as his Mastiff-drawn carriage wheeled past the partridge patch where she worked? Certainly her warm and practical but unfashionably short black and tan jacket did not disguise her shapely sturdy body. Whatever the reason, Carlos stopped. They met. She was awe-struck (as many have been) by his flamboyant courtly costume, his devil-may-care attitude and his roving eye. How different he was from the honest leather-collar workers she met daily on her job site! Rosa was enchanted, made giddy by his tales of adventure and of the high life at court. She surrendered. It was the season for taking chances…. Plaintive cries brought Rosa back to the present. She glanced down at her newborns to see "big boy" shouldering the others back from her warm belly. His ambition as much as his lustrous coat seemed to set him apart. There was an electric air of energy about him, even now, and oh, those glorious rich tan markings! Her own seemed muddy by comparison. How like Carlos he was! She would call him José. Rosa's pride in little José grew along with him. It seemed only fitting that he should suckle more vigorously, that his eyes opened before his brothers' and sisters' did, that his teeth appeared sooner and that he was the first to learn to talk. There was no denying it; José had style! AND he had a sense of rhythm. She noticed how he loved to stamp his little feet and how his eyes danced as he spun and twirled excitedly to the village musician's lively tunes. Her neighbours noticed too. Rosa tried to ignore their muttered comments about his apparent disinterest in learning the family trade. Already José's brothers and sisters had advanced from "Quartering 101" to "Wind Dynamics 202" at the local vocational school. When Rosa learned that José was skipping scent classes, she was angry: when she found tooled bone castanets hidden at the bottom of his grooming box, she realized the depth of his commitment to show biz and her heart was troubled. Her scathing remarks about up-holding the Gordon Family tradition seemed to leave José unimpressed and unrepentant. Why had she ever told her family about their dashing young sire and his thrilling life at the Spanish Court? It was true, José was obsessed with his appearance and his dancing. He would spend hours bathing his luxuriant coat, oiling and wrapping it in hopes of even lengthier and more profuse growth. When he began sprinkling the "Secret Spice" given to him by his Afghan friend, Fakir, over his daily kibble, his brothers and sisters shook their heads in sorrow and turned away. José didn't care. He had ambition, energy, coat, and he had a dream. Each morning after his family had left for the partridge patch, José would loose his flowing ebony tresses, take up his castanets and throw himself eagerly into the delerium of dance. And my, could he dance! As the pulsating rhythm of the flamenco possessed his body and his very soul, José would twirl, spin and leap, arching his back to the beat, the staccato tap-tap of his cat-like feet keeping time to the feverish clackety-clack of the castanets! Occasional glimpses of a sparkling white bite would flash through the swirling cloud of black and tan. As he spun, his wondrous coat would billow and flare like petticoat flounces. Yes, José Gordon was quite a spectacle indeed. But José was too spectacular to find happiness in that sleepy little Spanish town of typical solid canine citizens. He knew his destiny lay elsewhere and one day he set out to find it. He joined up with a motley troupe of wandering minstrels and troubadours passing through Dog Town and, with them, travelled from town to town throughout the country. They criss-crossed Spain from southern Seville to balmy Barcelona, Bilbao, Leon and finally on to Madrid. The troupe was welcomed at every stop. Juggling poodles, St. Bernard clowns and lithe Ibizan acrobats vied for the crowd's approval; but, it was José's passionate dance, performed to the frenzied accompaniment of his flamenco guitar quartet, The Pointer Sisters, that always stole the show. José was a novelty. Because his astounding appearance and performance belied the Gordon family's traditional role and behaviour, José became a curiosity, a sensation. Crowds flocked to see him perform, to marvel at his extravagant costume and to cheer him on to greater excesses. If a few traditionalists were heard to mutter disapprovingly from the back of the crowd, no one seemed to heed them.  The troupe's reputation preceded them to Madrid. Upon arrival, they were met with an invitation to a "command performance" at the Imperial Court. (It was rumoured that King Ferdinand the Pug had a taste for the bizarre …). If José felt a flutter of nervousness as he approached the palace, he hid it well. He passed two burly Bouviers on sentry duty at the Throne Room entrance, the gilt braid on their Beefeater uniforms gleaming dully as they saluted him smartly. He entered. The Pug King was waiting and José did not disappoint him. He outdid himself: it was an inspired performance filled with excitement, noise and heart stopping action. Once he nearly tripped on his glorious coat, but he quickly recovered. The old King was well pleased and asked José to stay on as a Court entertainer. It had been several years since Chief Minister Carlos Gordon had met an untimely end (shot, it seemed by the enraged husband of the lovely young Airdale in Salamanca…) and the King still missed his waggish company. Something about his young José reminded him of the rascally Carlos.José proved to be a hit with the glittering Court too - for a while. But the interest of courtiers is soon jaded and before long José found himself to be about as popular as week-old tapioca. His flamenco routine was no match for the marvel of scent-hurdling Bulldogs. He felt neglected. He felt confused. He felt depressed. His fickle friends at Court ignored him. He lost interest in dancing. His appearance suffered. Un-oiled, un-wrapped, his once wondrous coat became dull, tattered and tangled. Poor José. Where could he turn for love and support, for comfort and a sense of purpose? He thought of home, of Rosa and his brothers and sisters. Would they take him back? Tail tucked against the wind, José journeyed back to the little village where he was born. His family were overjoyed to welcome him back into the fold. They had always known he would return to his roots again some day. They lavished him with love and sage advice. He registered for remedial scenting classes with Adult Education at the College and, to his surprise, found that he enjoyed it. Why, bird-work could be even more fun than the flamenco! Soon after, he got a steady job in the partridge patch working alongside the other Gordons. They treated him as an equal and he tried especially hard to make them proud of him. Pausing for a break, he would sometimes glance 'round at the eager, contented faces of his co-workers, and would realize again how deep was their pleasure in ably performing their traditional roles. José felt it too. He had learned a valuable lesson. Never again would he distort his true purpose. "Self-fulfillment depends on being true to one's instincts." Olé! |
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