Killing a Sacred Cow

The Afghan Hound standard is not the perfect and totally comprehensive summation, and/or explanation, of what the breed, in toto, is or in fact ever was. My intention is to point out, in the never-to-be-humble-opinion I operate on, why and how this is so. 

To be fair, “killing” is too harsh a word for this particular sacred cow. But if you’re still reading, it got your attention. Another title could be “Houston, we have a problem,” although the cinematic reference is a bit obvious and would have been, I’m thinking, less of a hook.

To be clear: As dog standards go, the Afghan standard is a pretty good one. However, like other standards, confusion, and a number of questions, exist on several levels and come from a couple of different, but related, places: the first from the obvious and ever-present wild card—semantics — which leaves lots of elbow room for discussion and debate. I think there is universal agreement that there will never be a complete meeting of the minds on many things (politics, religion, art, etc.) as long as words and their meaning are intrinsically fluid, a truism that extends even to dog standards.

The second issue stems from the 1920s and the breed history itself.

To wit and as per the Afghan standard: low… slight … short … How low is low, how slight is slight, how short is short, etc.? And when is short too short, slight not slight enough, long too long, etc.? I ask myself: Could we find agreement on what is correct — according to the standard — in the simple and sensible notion of “balance?” Or “that which is in good and reasonable balance”?

Maybe on some basic level. But actually, no. Words, particularly adjectives, are not that simple. Again — semantics. What is sensible and in good balance to me is not necessarily the same as it is to you. Could we find agreement by considering how the dog actually functions? Yes. Probably. Some day. In the long run. But given this would have to be tested with living, breathing prey and judged on either a desert or mountain terrain? Or both? Not possible. The obvious limitations of our dog shows — time and space, to say nothing of money — have not and will not change to provide this kind of resolution. We can surmise functionality. But we can’t be sure judging it from the show ring or the whelping box. 

So then, to the history. Go back to the year 1926, when, at the urging of those folks who became the first registrants of the breed, the American Kennel Club opened its stud book to Afghan Hounds and adopted a descriptive standard taken (almost entirely) from the British one, which had been conceived and written in 1912. (In 1948 the American version was revised slightly. It exists in that form today.) This was the birth of the sacred cow and a problem that also became an elephant in the room. 

Which is? Answer: The critical reality — non-emphasized, minimized and almost, in fact, ignored out of consideration — that not one, but two, distinct and recognizable types made up the first imports coming into the United States from England: the “desert type” promoted by the Bell-Murray kennel and the “mountain type,” known as Ghaznis, from Mary Amps’ kennel.

Afghan Hound desert type (left) and mountain type.

And then what happened? The two were described as one breed and subsequently judged as such, with the Bell-Murrays and Ghaznis colliding in the same rings, battling it out at dog shows. Inside and outside the ring, breeders arm-wrestled over what “type” was, indeed, correct. With no other yardstick, the proof, ostensibly, was — and in many people’s minds to this day still is — in the pudding. Or in this case, the ring and the ribbons. The winner is always the right one. Right?

Regardless of the disagreement between the two camps, and even though a few breeders tried to hold on to the “purity” of their type by keeping a tight rein on their pedigrees, over the next seven to eight-plus decades, the Bell-Murrays and the Ghaznis were crossbred … and crossbred … and crossbred in what I’m sure was a sincere effort to improve the breed according to the standard, remembering, however, at this point that the one standard was being conceptualized and pursued from two (maybe more) clearly different points of view as to what was, in fact, the “correct” Afghan — the Bell-Murray or the Ghazni.

 Consequently, the Afghan Hound that we have had since the 1930s represents incalculable versions of both types, which were, and still are, similar and dissimilar at the same time. Occasionally a stark prototype steps out from the far reaches of a distant pedigree. An absolute throwback — clear and distinct — of one or the other type. (Of passing interest: The Bell-Murray strain introduced the brindling factor into the breed.)

The overreaching truth is that in the varied geographic origins from which the “desert” and “mountain” types evolved, there were other variations of the common and widespread pool referred to generally as “tazi.” Because the official breed’s name suggests it, we generally think of Afghans’ origin as Afghanistan. But their reach extended to a far larger geographic area. Notably all Central Asia, and including Kazakhstan, Turkmenistan and Uzbekistan. And who knows categorically where else. From the varied topography they came from, the differences in type, sometimes subtle as related to function, is broader than we can know for sure. Genetically this contributes even more possible variation to the present-day Afghan Hound.

There are still occasional “red flags” that pop up from the breed’s colorful and diverse background — indicators that the standard has been construed as narrower than it is in truth. Because of the Afghan’s highly heterogenous origins, and the often-unpredictable nature of genetics, the best-laid breeding programs might produce a swing to the far right and/or to the far left as to type, the results of which might also find their way into any show ring. Result: an inconsistent display to prioritize and sort out — for the breeder in the whelping box and for the judge handing out ribbons.

As a personal testament to unexpected genetic surprises, our first litter (1965) produced a male, Ch. Coastwind Gazebo (his photo was shown in a recent column of mine), who had unquestionably the longest and most voluminous coat we have ever had. In one of his first litters, he produced a completely smooth son. Not one long hair on his body. Mountain/desert integration of genes? Think about it.

 Variety creates confusion, disagreement and ongoing argument not only about what is “correct,” but how to sort out that which is impossible to pin down: Why impossible? Again — semantics when interpreting the standard. And factual history. In a few words: two types within one standard. Bigger problem.

It’s my feeling that variety in and of itself could have been, if not averted, then reasonably channeled to avoid some of the inevitable confusion. Afghans could have been divided into variety groups, like Dachshunds: smooth, coated, wire. For instance: Desert Afghan Hound, Mountain Afghan Hound. And unlike Dachshunds, there are greater differences in the two body types beyond the coat. The desert type is generally higher stationed, more linear and less angulated; the mountain type more compact, more angulated and more heavily coated. In those early first years, the two were fairly easy to recognize and separate. To a point, they still are. Not a difficult division. And wouldn’t consistently breeding a desert type to another desert type produce offspring that were more “true to type”— a phrase we, as breeders and judges, all love to own?

So, yes, Houston, we do have a problem. But not one we’re apt to address. With so much water over/under the bridge and the breed population clearly in decline with no inclination to change course coming from any source, we do … what? Redefine the whole breed? Create two varieties … now? Start over? It’s a little late. We know that’s not going to happen.

I personally have no solution. So why do I put it out there? No answer to that either. Just sayin’… The pedigrees of the desert and the mountain types are now so inextricably intermingled that a division at this point would seem to be an exercise in futility. To draw a conclusion — as my grandmother used to say with a twinkle in her eye — “Wherever you go, there you are.” Seems a simple, but appropriate, summation ...

So, to wrap this up — not on a revelatory, but a succinct, note: Maybe we should think of Afghans — and some other breeds — this way: A canine is not a cow. And cows are only sacred in a few places. Everywhere else, they’re on your menu and you can order them anyway you like. To a degree isn’t that also true of dog standards?