I should know better

Off on the show trail again, this time to the big Scottish Championship one, in my cousin`s new customised dog van, with Florian and Diamond the puppy, euphemistically described as "a bit raw". (At this stage of development he looks as if he had been hastily carved out of a chunk of polystyrene by someone well-intentioned but visually challenged with a heated teaspoon. "Needs to mature" is another polite way of putting it") Oh, yes and Prudence, all quivering and girly, wondering if they eat Papillons where she`s going.

I seem to carry half my worldly goods to these shows. Maybe it`s basic insecurity. Anyway, I made the usual spectacular entrance, staggering under a motley load of stuff and repeating the opening dialogue from 4 WEDDINGS AND A FUNERAL all the way to the ringside, ducking in under the tent just as annother downpour started.

And then it all went right.

Diamond behaved impeccably. He saw it as an interesting new social event. Unfortunately there were no girls - not surprising, in a class called Minor Puppy Dog - but he was well entertained and was an amazing fourth. (His brother was third. No, they don`t get on.)

I felt much more relaxed with Florian, who is reliable and by now very blase about all this. He showed himself off to win his age class, and qualified for the Dog challenge. There he stood, my little boy, competing for best of sex. And to my amazement he won the Reserve Challenge Certificate - he was second best male in his breed.

A great moment. Florian has now Arrived. He is really on the scene. He has an Official Portrait, to replace my back-garden efforts - one actually paid for. He has won his Stud Book Number. Several suitable girls have already been offered for his delight. A golden future beckons............

Well, maybe.

I foresee a long contest.

Florian is content with his special show dinner. But he gets that anyway.

The rest of the day was equally satisfying. Prudence decided (at last!) that judges didn`t after all dine on best end of dog, and managed to qualify for Crufts. And most of my friends did well. There was the usual social chat and speculation - would one acquaintance who had made up a champion be:
(a) drunk?
(b) spectacularly drunk and disorderly?
(c) found wandering in the next county several days later with no memory of the show?
Would Matthew (who used to be Martha) make it home on a local bus with a huge black hound and even more paraphenalia than I had?
Was "Gone fishing" an acceptable excuse for missing a committee meeting?
Would our combined collection of arthritic hips and bad backs make it to the next show? (Ours is not a young breed....)
Would the van start?

Of course it did.

Safe home in comfort after a great day.