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Katherine Nevius, Minstrel Boxers

I’m a teacher. As such, I get about four and a half months off duty each year (barely sufficient!). I have the impression that the American Kennel Club consults the Master Calendar of the school at which I ply my trade, as most of the intriguing show venues celebrate the seasons during my free time – many of them during the solstice known as summer.

Thus it is that every other June through early September for five years now, I’ve been out on the road with a boxer watching it learn and finally master the ropes of the show ring. During that time, I’ve received copious instruction myself from those with whom we tag along. It’s clear that, when it comes to appropriate performance in dog show terms, I lack my dogs’ basic sense.

Let’s start with what I’ve discovered about handlers. I ask questions. Lots of them. Which is, of course, WAY too many. On top of that, I make suggestions. Like about where to go and under which judge to show. Handlers take this as evidence of an uppity nature and complain noisily.

Unlike my pups, who are clearly content to just do as they’re told, occasionally I stick my nose into the process as if I’m somehow supposed to be in charge of this relationship. ;-) It’s taken me pretty much the whole five years to understand that in no way am I at the helm. At best, I’m a first mate who should speak when spoken to by the captain of the ship. Failure to observe that important tradition has ended me up in the dog show equivalent of the brig on more than one occasion.

Then, there’s the relationship with my dogs. On our first championship hunt, I went to every show, no matter how distant, and my bitch slept in the motel with me. I got up at five-thirty to ex, feed and groom, and presented her ring-ready at the appointed hour. And I loved sitting there watching Hedy watch me. As she steadfastly refused to recognize the presence of bait, preferring instead to sniff the air in my direction, she made me feel needed. I doubt her handler shared my appreciation of our bond.

The next time around (initially gently and finally with a blunt instrument) the handler informed me that my presence was a nuisance and that if I wanted Rose to finish, I’d better darned well let her spend the night in the bus and, if I HAD to watch the show, make myself scarce at ringside. I learned that lesson on the January Florida circuit. Literally overnight, the bitch went from loping about the ring with her ears back, each time slinking by me delivering baleful glances in my direction to perkily prancing down and back and securing a 4 point major/Best of Winners.

I began to consider the possibility that my way might not always be the best one. (Of course, I didn’t tell her handler that.)

Another step in my evolution is the fact that what I perceived as thrilling during our initial championship foray has become, on occasion, an object even of derision. For example, I’ve gone from "Reserve to a 5 point major! Wow! Let’s get a photo to commemorate the wondrous event!" to "Reserve to a 5 point major. Damn!" To the handler: "Should we get a picture?"

Handler: "Are you crazy? That judge doesn’t know a boxer from a bowling ball. Wouldn’t give him the satisfaction." Much nodding of heads all around, along with promises never to show to THAT judge again.

And Lord, let me not forget a cardinal rule of dealing with those who show one’s dogs: Under no circumstances, not if there’s a fire in the building or his/her car’s being stolen or a gale force wind is approaching from the east do you ever, not EVER attempt to make any sort of communicative gesture toward a handler before they go in the ring in the morning. Oh, there’s a caveat, of course. You’re allowed to relay the only truly life and death information there is: "We’re out of coffee." Even that can be considered to be pushing one’s luck.

I’ve certainly come a long way in my dog show education. Human nature has been displayed before my eyes in plumage hitherto unsuspected. So much has been made clear that was not at the outset. Most important of all, in all likelihood, is the assignment of motive for any dog’s win – that is, when it’s beaten yours. The only honest judging on the planet seems to occur on those days when your boxer triumphs. It’s then when the crème de la crème of the judging profession makes a rare appearance, and how glad we are to have been so fortunate as to have chosen that show to enter.

But all too often, some cheating, fly by night, sporting breed specialist who, on top of THAT obvious affliction, thinks a boxer ought to come with a typey head and a smooth topline gets into a position of authority and all hell breaks lose. Hands are rightly thrown up in disgust. "Isn’t he provisional?" or "The handler used to handle for his aunt’s second cousin’s accountant." And of course the ever popular "It doesn’t matter what dog’s on the lead, all that judge can see is who’s at the end of it."

For someone who makes her living as a relayer of information, being cast in the role of student has been a welcome change. Yes, it’s been an education. Every bit of it. And a lot more interesting, I dare say, than the stuff that I’m paid to teach during the other eight or so months of the year. :-)