Part 4: The Show Ring
Continuation of the short story, The Pick
Aunt Eugenia was right about one thing: Olive needed a dog. A cat would have never done—too self-sufficient. Olive needed to be needed. As for the rest of it, the showing business, she was less certain. She wanted a pet, not a champion specimen destined for breeding.
She’d been researching online since agreeing to the deal. The whole idea of showing and breeding revolted her. She felt no better about putting her dog in a beauty pageant than she would about putting her future daughter into one.
Lily was barely three months old when Eugenia came over for coffee. Sitting opposite Olive at the small kitchen table, she dug through her oversized tote and dropped a glossy dog show catalogue in front of her.
“You’d better start studying.”
Olive looked down at the cover. A “Best in Show” Bichon Frise had been teased and fluffed into a ridiculous hairdo. It looked more like a meringue dessert than a dog.
“I’ve been studying—on YouTube,” Olive said. “You know, Gen, I don’t really agree with this whole showing and breeding mentality. It’s weird. The people who do it seem kind of looney. It’s not me.”
Eugenia pursed her lips and straightened in her seat. “It’s the deal you made.”
“I know, but—”
“There isn’t any but about it. If you don’t want to keep the dog, I’ll take her back and find someone willing to do the work.”
“I want to keep her,” Olive said. “And I’ll do the work. But just this one litter.”
Eugenia’s face relaxed. “Well then, you’ve got three months to get her stacking properly, moving in a straight line, and learning to stand still while someone fondles her teeth and genitals.”
Olive scrunched her nose. “Gross!”
“I’ll help you. This is gonna be fun. You’ll see.” Eugenia flipped through the pages of the catalogue, pointing out training workshops and local matches. “These are just fun matches—practice shows. No points. But if you want to build her confidence, you need to start early. She has promise, Olive. Look at that topline, that coat. She’s got it.”
Olive glanced at Lily, who was currently trying to lick her butt. “I’m not seeing what you do, but if you say so.” She got up and put her cup in the dishwasher, signaling that she was done.
Olive had agreed to a lot of things in the past few months—most of which she didn’t fully understand until she was ankle-deep in them. Training a show dog, it turned out, was nothing like training a barn dog or a house pet. It was choreography. Theater. An entire vocabulary of posture and movement she had to learn by watching YouTube videos with titles like Perfect Paws: Handling for the Novice and Ring Ready in 30 Days.
She ordered a grooming table, a noose collar, and a show lead. Every morning before work, she practiced standing Lily on the table, brushing her coat into silky submission and feeding her treats for standing still. Lily was unimpressed. She squirmed, barked, and sat down abruptly at the exact moment she was supposed to strike a pose. Olive tried patience, tried bribery, tried pretending it was all very fun and casual. Lily knew better.
Eugenia fetched Olive and Lily for their first match. It was as if she didn’t quite trust Olive to fulfill her obligation. On the way, she gave incessant advice. Annoyed, Olive finally said, “If you don’t trust me, why don’t you just do this yourself?”
They drove in silence the rest of the way.
The event took place in a community center just off the interstate. Minivans and campers covered in bumper stickers like Dog Hair, I Don’t Care and My Other Dog Is a Champion filled the lot. Inside, folding chairs lined a makeshift ring of plastic piping and duct tape. The smell of cleaning products, hot dogs, hairspray, and dog breath turned Olive’s stomach.
She watched a woman in sequins spray hairspray onto her Pomeranian while whispering affirmations into its ear. Another man held a lint roller in the reverence of a priest preparing communion. These were not her people.
“Wow,” Olive said to Eugenia. “These people take themselves way too seriously.”
“Shhhh!” Eugenia hissed. “Some of these people will make or break Lily. Try to be kind.”
When it was their turn on the mat, Lily and Olive walked out confidently together. Everything went fine—until the end, when Lily decided she couldn’t wait to get off the mat before leaving a steaming pile of poop in front of the judges.
Even so, they placed third in their class, to Olive’s chagrin.
“That’s a respectable start!” Eugenia said.
“Not what I hoped,” Olive replied. “I thought we’d fail so spectacularly that we could be done already.”
“They only care about the breed conformance. Your job is to make her look good, and you did that.”
Lily, for her part, slept the entire ride home, oblivious to the fact that a retired veterinarian with a rhinestone pin shaped like a corgi had judged her perfect.
Over the next year and a half, the matches became shows, and the shows became weekends. Olive’s Subaru developed a permanent crust of dog hair and liver treat residue. They crisscrossed the state—from Gresham to Grants Pass, Coos Bay to Bend—staying in budget motels with signs that said Dogs Welcome (many more suited to dogs than to humans).
Lily soon learned the rhythm of the ring—the little bounce in Olive’s step that signaled a turn, the tap on the thigh that meant focus. Her coat filled in, her gait evened out, and somewhere along the way, Lily started to look like she belonged.
Olive, on the other hand, did not. And she didn’t particularly enjoy the people she met or the atmosphere of the circuit.
Still, Lily started earning points: a two-pointer here, a three-pointer there. Olive began to understand the language of “majors” and “entries,” and how many dogs had to show up for a win to count. She learned which judges favored Tibetans and which ones inexplicably didn’t. She curried favor by politely nodding at women in sequined skirts and men in matching dog-and-owner bowties, and faked small talk while Lily got her mouth pried open.
She also learned how to win. Not always, but often enough to keep going. The first major came at a show in Spokane. Eugenia cried. The second came two months later in Roseburg, and Olive allowed herself a moment of quiet satisfaction.
When Lily finally earned her championship—with fifteen points, two majors, and a judge’s comment card that read excellent expression, clean topline—Olive bought a bottle of Prosecco at Trader Joe’s and shared it with Eugenia on the porch.
Eugenia raised her glass. “You did it.”
“We did it,” Olive said, patting Lily on the head. “And now, we’re done showing.” Fifteen had been her goal. “I have no interest in dog show stardom.”
Olive wasn’t sure what they had really accomplished—other than spending a lot of money and burning a lot of gas. She felt proud, yes, but also complicit. She had played a game that ran counter to her values—and won. Lily was a champion now. Official. Certified. Valuable as a breeding specimen.
And just like that, the terms of the deal came due.
Looking Eugenia in the eye, Olive said, “I’ll breed her once, and you can take your pick. But that’s it. After that, she’s getting spayed.”
Part 5: The Conclusion of The Pick
What a fun read—I love casually watching televised dog shows, but I often wonder about what it would be like among the dyed in the wool folk for whom it is a way of life.
Is this story part of your story?