Going to the Dogs' Show

I have been watching the Westminster Dog Show ever since I was in grade school.  I may have missed a few years, here and there, but I have watched it fairly consistently since I knew it was being aired.  I usually only watch portions of the first night for my favorite groups of dogs, Toy and Non-Sporting, and then the Best of Show at the end of the second night.  I have some mixed feelings about this year's winner, though.  On the one hand, I could tell that "Flynn," a Bichon frise, could win it all.  He had this exemplary quality that could not be matched but any of his competitors.  On the other hand, he beat out my favorite breed to win the Best of the Non-Sporting group.  I kind of wanted him to loose because of that.  My favorite breed, the Boston terrier, came in third.  It is my favorite not just because it is the oldest American breed recognized by the American Kennel Club, but because it is the breed of the only pet I ever had.  Strictly speaking, my dog was a mixed breed of Boston terrier with another, probably bulldog or something else, and it was a part of the family even before I was born.  His name was "Robby," possibly spelled a different way.  I really liked him when I was really young, but as I got older, I started not caring as much for him.  As I started getting more stuff, I started getting afraid that he would tear something up or otherwise ruin one of my possessions.  I also started to see him as unclean, as a certain dislike of dirtiness and the outdoors grew on me.  I never treated him badly, but I did stop playing with him so much.  I never really was the one who took care of him; my mother must have thought I was not old enough or I didn't want to do it.  I did help out bathing him and getting him ready to be taken for his shots and such.  I never had to 'walk' him or clean up after him.  I just had to be there for him.  One day, when I was in second grade, or so, he died while I was at school.  He just fell asleep beside the big tree in the front yard, and never woke up.  At least that was what my grandmother told me.  Considering how she would sometimes treat me and my things, I now cannot be quite as sure.  She could have lied to me to protect my feelings or just so I wouldn't suspect the real reasons.  She had him buried well before I got home.  There was talk that we would get another dog, but it would never happen.  It wouldn't have been fair to raise a dog and leave it alone for so long.  I also couldn't let it around my stuff so it could destroy it.  The main reason was that I didn't think I could handle losing another pet.  I didn't break down when Robby died, but that was about the same time I started getting sensitive to such things.  Even today, I can fret for a good half-mile or so if I accidentally drive over a chipmunk.  I just care too much at times, even when I shouldn't.   I also developed a liking for cats, even though I may be allergic to them, but that is another story entirely.