The Westminster Dog Show at Madison Square Garden features the finest athletic specimens at MSG since ... well, since the last Dog Show. We don't consider competitive dog preening a sport, but we do find it funny, and we think Best In Show is one of the funniest movies ever made.

Therefore, we dispatched intrepid reporter Barry Petchesky to cover the show the last couple of days and give us the lay of the land and clock some bitches. Barry Petchesky is a journalism student, and he plans to use this as a clip, which is rather pathetic. We now hand the mic to him.

Welcome to day two at Westminster, also known as Manly Dog Day. That's right, no more poodles, no more rat dogs, and plenty of bitches to go around. Today's all about the hounds, the hunters, and other dogs that will not only track down a shot bird, but pluck it, batter it, deep fry it and bring it to you with a cold beer. Of course, it's not like you were watching on Monday, not while Jack Bauer was defusing a nuclear bomb - seven hours after being tortured! I'm naming my first three kids after him.

I digress. How manly is this show? Well, the day wraps up with hot dog-on-dog action. Follow me...

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On day two, the winner is crowned, the dogs can crap on the green carpet and not have to show their face in public the next day, and the sexual tension among all the dog hairdressers is boiling over. It's basically a big party. Look at this guy:

Tell me he's not stoned out of his gourd. This has officially become my kind of dog show. Well, no. My type of dog show would be the Puppy Bowl.

Now that I've spent some time in this bizarre universe, I feel ready to see if I can fit in around here. I spot a handsome-looking Rhodesian Ridgeback named Banjo and her breeder, an old patrician lady with a pillbox hat. I'm tempted to ask her if she was named after a classic "Space Ghost: Coast to Coast" episode, but I refrain.

"Nice haunches on that bitch," I say.

"Thank you," she says, without batting an eye. "I've been showing animals here for ten years, and it's always bitches. They're more likely to win, you know."

"Who, the bitches?" I ask, biting my tongue.

"Yes, statistically. I'm not sure what it is, but judges love bitches."

Content that I've discovered 2007's hottest new catchphrase/Snoop's next album title, I head out to the ring to see if judges really do love bitches.

If you'll notice, the only way the handlers can get the contestants to stand still is wave food in their faces. It seems cruel that they taunt them like that and don't give them anything to eat until the competition is over, but then I remember the exact same protocol is observed at the Miss Teen USA pageant.

I've asked around all week, and I still haven't been able to get a straight answer on what makes one dog better than another. Last year's winner Rufus, a Bull Terrier, won because he had a "perfect football-shaped head," according to one judge I spoke to.

I watch as the judge lines the dogs up and makes each run forward and back in turn. Then he makes them run in a circle one by one. Then all together. I wonder if he isn't testing their patience, just waiting for one to snap and rip its handler's throat out. That one would probably be docked a few points.

It's creepy as all get-out when the judge feels the dogs up. I understand he's checking the health of their coat, their muscle definition and numerous other factors I can't hope to understand. But damned if the judge and the handler aren't running the Eiffel Tower on poor Cannon here:

The Retriever apparently refused to cuddle afterwards, because some other dog won. I don't really know which; I was too busy scouring the Garden floor to see if I could find Eddy Curry's testicles. But they were nowhere to be found.

Dog shows are tough on the dogs. They're stuck in the holding pen, in stifling heat, for hours while snot-nosed children molest them. Even after they've shown, they're not allowed to go home until the entire day's judging is over. Even when they frigging die, they're not allowed to go home.

By the way, this may look like a huge furry greyhound, but it's actually called a Borzoi. Which, if I'm not mistaken, is Russian for "huge furry greyhound." It's also the same breed as Sassy, whom you see topping this article right before she eats a baby whole.

It occurs to me that I've been portraying the whole dog show experience as something negative, when it's really not. Yes, it's incredibly artificial. Yes, a lot of the people here are pretentious beyond belief. But even if it's only because their purpose is to be show dogs, all of them live pretty good lives. And the animals truly appear to be having fun. They're social creatures, and they absolutely love all the attention they're getting. They gladly pose for pictures and thrive on people fawning over them. Almost to a dog, they all look like their having the time of their lives.

And yes, that handler is my attempt to make up for all the cute photos pandering to Deadspin's female readers.

OK, I know you've only read this far because of the promise of Cinemax-quality pooch porn. I won't disappoint.

I'm walking in the back of the holding area where it's fairly quiet, and the dogs have room to roam about a little bit. Then I spot her: Kitty, a vision in black. Silky raven locks, deep brown eyes you could lose yourself in, just a true stunner across the board. If I weren't attached, I might've fallen for her charms.

I'm not the only one. Two stalls down is Charlie, who slowly walks over, clearly ready to put the Cocker in Spaniel. He hops up next to Kitty, and the two begin sniffing each other in the time-honored tradition of doggy foreplay. But Charlie's ready for the main event.

Sadly, Kitty's owner quickly brings about coitus interruptus. But as Charlie is dragged back to his cage, I swear I see him getting high fives from the other dogs.

This act of passion seems like a natural climax at which to end my Westminster odyssey, and holy crap, I did two days of this thing without once referencing Best in Show. It was a good time, if strange. Thanks to Will for the outlet, and thanks to the commenters. I'll see you guys on the boards.

Let's close with one more picture, because - well because Corgis are fucking awesome, that's why.

Starting yesterday and concluding today, the Westminster Dog Show at Madison Square Garden features the finest athletic specimens at MSG since ... well, since the last Dog Show. We don't consider competitive dog preening a sport, but we do find it funny, and we think Best In Show is one of the funniest movies ever made.

Therefore, we dispatched intrepid reporter Barry Petchesky to cover the show yesterday — he'll be there again today and filing tomorrow — and give us the lay of the land and clock some bitches. Barry Petchesky is a journalism student, and he plans to use this as a clip, which is rather pathetic. We now hand the mic to him.

Through a complex chain of events that began with me discovering my beer pong partner had mono, I somehow stumbled into a press credential for the Westminster Dog Show, better known as "Why isn't wrestling on?" Why not, I told myself, what's the worst that could happen? Well, other than being mauled by a pack of 200 lb. Mastiffs, or catching the # # # # germ just by being the presence of sculpted poodles, that is. So I headed down to Madison Square Garden, camera in tow, for two days of bad dog puns.

(more after the jump)

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I'm surprised, when I arrive, to see scalpers outside the Garden. "Want to see the mutts?" one asks.

Yes. Yes I do. I didn't realize how important this event is to some people. Is it even a sport? I guess so, since Sportscenter shows highlights, and I have faith that ESPN would never show anything that's not strictly sports-related. And nor would Deadspin!

I make my way to the press room and sign in. ("I wouldn't leave your jacket here," I was helpfully told, "I wouldn't trust the media.") Then down to the bowels of the arena to find the athletes themselves.

I am immediately overwhelmed by the smell. Since the Knicks are on the road, I know I'm getting close. Then, I see this:

Hello, Westminster.

The holding area for the dogs is an absolute madhouse. More than a thousand dogs in cages, rows upon rows of them. Plaintive wails filling the air. The overpowering stench of feces. It's a regular Doggie Dachau.

I immediate decide to help in the liberation of one, so I accompany Greggory ("That's with three Gs, if ya please," his 90-year-old owner tells me) the Siberian Husky on a quick walk around the building. He's stopped to bask in the attention of three young children, when Greggory spots movement behind a trash can. A mouse darts out across the floor, and before his owner can restrain him, Greggory pounces on that little bastard and tears it apart. Greggory, you're awesome. I hope you win.

Back to the holding area. You know how they tell you to react when you're undergoing a traumatic experience? Disassociate. Leave your body. Go numb.

Look at him. Look at those eyes. He's dead inside. After a quick prayer for his soul, I move on.

Meet Doozer.

He's an ugly little rat dog, yes, but he's now also my favorite animal ever. You see, Doozer has quite a little talent. I'm talking to his owner Alison Allison (someone had cruel parents) while the Dooze is taking care of business in one of the many "poop pens" scattered about. I look down, and I see something that shakes my faith in everything I've ever known. Somehow Doozer has managed to leave a turd on the side wall of the pen, about 18 inches up. It's a perfect spiral, good consistency, and it's fucking defying gravity. If I could do that, I'd move to Vegas and charge people to watch. Doozer seems impressed too, as he sticks his snout deep into his brown gift to mankind.

There's a stigma associated with cat people, and rightly so; they're generally a bit off. Why don't we look down on dog people the same way? I don't mean the average dog owner; I mean the kind of person who wears a sweater with three dog asses side by side, with the legend "Nothing Butt Cockers." This place is dog people heaven. For sale, there's dog jewelry, dog clothing, dog calendars, dog ties, dog grooming accessories and about 8,000 crates of dog food. I lean into one crate, and yell out "Barbaro?" No one laughs. They either don't get it, or don't think it's funny. I choose to believe the former.

Not everyone's having fun. Cricket the Papillon has already taken a nip at one of the curious fans who put their face up against her cage. "She hates children," Cricket's owner tells me. "And they're fucking everywhere."

It's time to head out on the famous green carpet to see the judging. Waiting on the sidelines is a Neapolitan Mastiff, an enormous wrinkled beast who seems to be getting restless. His handler, to occupy him, wrestles with him a bit. She pushes him down on the floor, massages his side, pats his belly and OH MY GOD SHE'S GIVING HIM A HANDJOB.

Ok, maybe that was some accidental contact there. But the old man next to me gives me a knowing wink and says, "I'd lay down for that too." OK, the dog show is officially freaking me out.

I hurry to one of the judging rings, where it looks like they're holding a Scooby-Doo convention.

And if you look at that picture, scratch your head and say, "wait a minute, they're going to objectively select the best of a half-dozen identical Great Danes?" ... I'm right there with you, buddy. But the judge, after watching the dogs run in a circle and getting to third base with each in turn, manages to decide which one best exemplifies its species. I dunno. It looks like every other damn dog out there.

Some other things happened, I guess. I was too busy hitting up the table that was giving away free chocolate. Yes, at a dog show, they're giving out unlimited free samples of the stuff that KILLS DOGS.

That's all from this abomination for today. I'll be back with more tomorrow. Let's close with one for the Deadspin Vaginarchy:

All together now: awwwww.