The Lighter Side of Judging Continued FROM page 18
“Where are we going?” “My back is hurting and how much longer before we get there?” “Your back can’t hurt half as bad as my hip!” “I think these shoes are starting to kill my feet.” “Does anyone have an antacid that I can have?” “FTD – I will need your help getting out of here.” “Is this Friday or Saturday?” “How does my hair look?” The endless chatter continues and I find relief in the comforting regularity of the clicking sound of the van’s direction signal. Oh, that’s right it’s a dog show and it’s Saturday. Thank you so much for driving us!” “What did you say what your name is?” It continues as FTD swiftly parks the van in the special spot marked DOG SHOW JUDGES PARKING. Opening the side double doors, FTD places the Rubbermaid Step Stool close to the van. Mr. TT removes himself from the front seat and immediately enters the exhibit hall before any of us exit. “Probably going to see if his girlfriend is here,” giggles MS. NEW SHOES. “Girlfriend….Oh my, I had no idea he had a girlfriend,” remarks Mrs. I DON’T KNOW WHERE I AM. “His wife is such a lovely lady,” she adds. Mrs. NEW SHOES slowly exits. I continue to take deep breaths in anticipation of getting the hell out of the back of the van. Mrs. I DON’T REMEMBER, along with Mrs. MY BACK HURTS, accompany Mrs. NEW SHOES into the building, while Mrs. TIGHT FACE grabs hold of FTD around his broad shoulders, humping his leg while finding solid ground. “Oh my, thank you so much for your help and will you be coming back for us later in the day, I hope,” she inquires. “I’m not sure. If I do I will make sure I personally help you in and out,” FTD politely informs Mrs. TIGHT FACE as she gazes all wide-eyed into open space. Mr. NEEDS A HIP, hunched over, wobbles out of the van directly followed by a very impatient Mr. I’M IMPORTANT and Ms. I’M YOUNG TOO. I notice that Ms. I ATE THE WRONG THING remains in the van with me. “Please, I will follow you,” I quickly regret saying in anticipation of massive, unpleasant fumes drifting my way. “Oh no dear, you go ahead, as it will take me longer than you,” she implores. With this said, I grab my gear and fly out the van door in search of a cool place and a bottle of water. “Hi there. The judges’ lounge is to your right, down the hall and through the second door,” Tina explains, peering over her enormous eyeglasses, which are outlandishly big for her narrow face. Tina makes a big check on the clipboard held in her hands validating my entrance and her self-importance. I enter the judges’ breakfast room 86 Dog News
and find all of my colleagues, with the exception of Mrs. I ATE THE WRONG THING, sitting around two side-by-side tables. Mrs. FACE TOO TIGHT peels a banana, takes a small nibble and proclaims her need for potassium. “Michael would you be a dear a make me a cup of hot tea?” asks Ms. MY BACK HURTS. “My pleasure--cream and sugar?” I ask. “A little cream, my dear, and can you also bring a few of those little donut holes with you too?” “Sure thing,” I add. I come back to the table and serve Ms. My BACK HURTS. Mr. NEEDS A HIP gets up from the table complaining, “I am getting stiff and If don’t move around I will not be able to make it through the day.” “Don’t worry, I will be happy to take over your assignment.” Mr. TT shares. “That’s only because he’s judging your girlfriend’s breed!” laughs Mrs. NEW SHOES. “Hi there darling, my name is Ms. I DON’T REMEMBER and would you take me to my ring?” “Sure thing, follow me,” offers Trish, the Show Chairperson.
M
s. I ATE THE WRONG THING enters the judges’ breakfast lounge and looks as if she spent a few extra minutes in the restroom prior to arrival. I know this to be a fact, because of the two extra sheets of tissue attached insidiously to the bottom of her right shoe. I move quickly to her side and place my right shoe on top of the tissue—silently disengaging it---preventing her further shame. “Where’s the treasurer? Does anyone know the name of the treasurer? I want to make sure I get my check. I always affirm the amount is correct before I leave the show. You can never be too careful these days,” spouts Mr. I AM IMPORTANT. “And make them give you two checks, one for our expenses and one for your fee. None of this asking for my social security number and providing paperwork for the IRS – It’s just not right,” he asserts to an open-air audience. Ms. I AM YOUNG TOO rises from the table, collects her personal items and leaves for ring number four. Not wanting
to dig for my judge’s program, I ask, “Ms. I AM TOO YOUNG can you tell me what ring I am in?” “Ring 11,” she clearly states and walks on. “Michael, we are going to need your help. Please come give us ladies a hand with our things and escort us to the superintendents table,” Ms. TIGHT FACE barks at me. Like any good boy, I move forward and collect Mr. TIGHT FACE’S handbag and throw it over my shoulder, lift the handle on Ms. I ATE TOO MUCH’s roller case and offer an arm to Mrs. MY BACK HURTS. “Thank you so much Michael. You are such a dear. What would we do without you? Your wife is one lucky lady,” remarks Mrs. I ATE TOO MUCH.” All red in the face, I suppress a desire to laugh. “Oh please, what are you talking about? Don’t go embarrassing young Michael like that. For Pete sakes the boy’s wife is 6 ft. 4 and named Michael2,” blurts Mrs. TIGHT FACE. Giggling in unison, the three ladies and I find the superintendent’s table. “They are all yours, Mr. O. Have a wonderful day---I am headed to ring 11,” I say while retrieving a judge’s badge from the cardboard sleeve covered in plastic wrap. Unhooking the pin from the back of the badge, I slide the sharp tip through the lapel of my blazer and walk to ring 11. I always use the judges’ badges supplied by the superintendents, even though I have every make of metallic, magnetic and enamel pins clearly identifying me as Judge Faulkner in a small box on my dresser. I don’t have to worry about remembering or losing personal pins. I truly appreciate the convenience they offer and although they do not look as significant and professional as the ones surrounded by “Old Glory,” --- looking for all the world like a high military decoration--- I personally like their simplistic nature. “O.K. enough of this pin OBE – get back to reality and call your first class into the ring.” “Good Morning, I’m Michael Faulkner and it’s nice to meet you, Richard,” I say to my steward. “We are going to have a great day. I don’t do anything fancy. Please bring the classes in catalog order, over to your right and please ask them to free stack. I will examine each exhibit and work them on the diagonal. If I am judging a table breed, I will take them around the ring once before they are to go on the table---this includes single entries. When it comes time to judge BOB, please have them enter in catalog order, dogs first, followed by, bitches, WD and WB. Oh, I prefer water and Diet Coke to drink,” I inform him. Ms. I DON’T KNOW WHERE I AM is in the next ring. Our tables are connected and I overhear her giving instructions to a young lady, who appears to have little experience in ring stewarding. “Missy – I will need you to let me know when each class enters, please remind me of Continued on page 90