Sketchbook: Live Drawing the 2025 Westminster Dog Show in New York

So many good boys and good girls. So many.

Feb 16, 2025

February 8th, 2025
The Javits Center, NY

The Javits Center during Westminster Dog Show Weekend feels like what would happen if the Madison Square Dog Park merged with Fashion Week. Everywhere you look, there's another impeccably groomed creature being hurried along by a human who looks like they haven't slept in weeks.

This is my first time at the show, so I’ve decided to live-draw the day to really soak it all in. I have a cartoon book all about being a dog owner coming out in April, so I’ve become pretty good at sketching dogs this past year. They also happen to be my favourite things in the world. I’m excited. The whole place smells like dry shampoo and a LOT of anxiety. I'm happy to be at this canine carnival, watching New York's finest four-legged residents strut their stuff.

There's a bar in the corner—because this is New York, and we maintain our alcoholism even while watching dogs jump through hoops. The handlers are doing their own version of pre-show warm-ups, throwing back espresso martinis at 10AM. Only five minutes in I saw my first domestic argument between a couple with their competing dog— reminding me that the movie Best in Show isn’t a comedy, it’s a true-to-life documentary.

I’m told more New Yorkers now have a dog than have kids. This is a new statistic.

It does not surprise me. I'm perched on a fold-out chair near the warm-up area, watching a woman sprint past with what appears to be a moving cloud but is actually, I'm told, a Pekingese. She has bundles of dog-based products in several bags to keep this thing looking primped and preened right up ‘til showtime.

I've positioned myself strategically between the practice rings and this bar, figuring this gives me the best chance of catching people in that sweet spot between "too busy to stop" and "three drinks in and willing to let me draw a portrait of their Norwich Terrier.” A very anxious poodle was taking treats from its owner to stay still long enough for passers-by to grab a snap for the Gram. The dog had more followers than everyone in that room combined.

A woman with a Bernese Mountain Dog the size of a Smart car is peering over my shoulder as I sketch. Her dog, Magnus, is panting directly into my ear with the intensity of an incel trying to tell me about cryptocurrency at a party. "Could you make his ears a little more..." she gestures vaguely with French-manicured nails, "...ethereal?"

I've been at this for three hours, and I've learned that dog people have their own language—Ethereal ears. Regal stance. Soulful expression. Meanwhile, Magnus is now enthusiastically licking the back of my neck like it's covered in bacon grease. His owner tells me about his lineage, which appears to be more extensive and carefully documented than the British Royal Family's.

I see a woman taking a break on the ground with her pooch between events. She has a zipped-up bag of treats and a spray bottle next to her. I do not know what is in the spray bottle. The majority of puppy parents leading the dogs around the course are women— Every dog owner here has “proud parent at graduation” vibes anytime someone gives their pet the slightest compliment. I get it. Anytime someone says Morris is well-behaved, I lie and tell them, “He’s like this all the time. He doesn’t even bark!”

From my vantage point, I can see a small riot breaking out near Row 17: Someone has climbed into the ring wearing a dog costume and started running around the course, led by a skinny man in a tuxedo and sunglasses. Above us, drone-mounted cameras buzz around the ceiling like oversized mechanical flies, filming every moment of the absurdity. A small Danish Swedish Farmdog to my left looks so uncomfortable it’s making me sad. I can hear his tummy grumbling.

By late afternoon, I'd drawn everything from a statuesque Afghan Hound that looked perpetually windswept (even indoors) to a French Bulldog who seemed to be melting with anxiety.

The final main event is kicking off for the evening— the Agility Finals. The whole world is watching from their fur-laden couches with anticipation. Every time a dog beats a record, my eardrum bursts from the roar of the crowd. It rattles off the cement floors and bounces off the walls to create a self-sustaining fear dungeon for the pooches. I worry about their hearing. I worry about my hearing.

I'm on my last sketch page when a woman approaches with what looks like a dust bunny that's achieved sentience. "This is Princess Buttercup," she announces in a thick European accent, holding up the Maltese. "She's very particular about her portraits."

Of course she is.

Earlier, I watched Princess Buttercup eat human-grade food out of a crystal bowl while lying on a silk cushion. As I start to draw, Princess Buttercup fixes me with a gaze that seems to say, "I've seen your other work today, and I expect better." Her owner chatters away about Instagram doggy influencer meetups, and I realise I've somehow stumbled into a parallel universe where dogs have better healthcare than I do.

It's while I'm drawing Monty the Giant Schnauzer that it hits me: I've found my people. Not the handlers with their colour-coordinated outfits and sensible running shoes or even the judges with their way-too-serious expressions and measuring tapes. No, my people are the ones who look at their dogs —these weird little hearts on four legs that take up too much space on our beds— and think, "Yes, this thing deserves immortality. A portrait. By a strange boy with an indiscernible accent."

By the time I packed up my pencils, the Javits Center bar had switched from wine to straight shots of Makers Mark. Magnus is still explaining DogeCoin to anyone who'll listen. Princess Buttercup has fired her agent over creative differences, and a Chihuahua in a tiara is on her back, doing what appears to be an interpretive dance in the benching area.