Best In Show

The only rule I broke was the skin

I was the first human allowed to compete in the Westminster Dog Show.

They said it couldn’t be done. That it shouldn’t be done. That it “undermined the spirit of the event.” But the rules never technically specified you had to be a dog. You just had to behave like one.

So I trained. Hard.

I pissed on a hydrant outside of Whole Foods and marked every corner of my apartment for spatial dominance. Slept in a crate. Learned to heel, to stack, to make eye contact with a judge while some guy fingered my rib cage and commented on the slope of my spine. I licked my arms raw to simulate a sheen.

My coat was a Patagonia fleece shaved to the grain. My tail was a fanny pack stuffed with jerky. My tongue? Out. Always.

Did I enjoy it? No. Did I understand it? Not even slightly. But I wanted it. God, I wanted it.

I was entered in the herding group. The Border Collies didn’t like me. The Australian Shepherds were split—some flirted, some growled. The German Shepherd, an aging legend named Sable, pissed on my crate and stared directly into my soul.

My handler was a retired cop named Dale. He’d handled five Best in Show winners and wore the same Dockers to every event. He communicated with a clicker and a pouch of freeze-dried liver. I slept at the foot of his bed and ate my meals on the floor.

Day of the show: I trotted. I stacked. I let the judge lift my tail and inspect my butthole with a quiet dignity that made Dale weep. The crowd made a sound I can only describe as startled arousal. The judge’s hand trembled as he gave me the blue ribbon for the herding group. Some cheered. One man vomited into his program.

Then came Best in Show.

The Pekingese floated in like a haunted throw pillow. The Golden Retriever looked like it did CrossFit and went to therapy. The Whippet wouldn’t stop staring at me and licking its gums. I could feel Dale’s pride radiating through the leash like heat. I barked once—not a fake bark, a real one. The judge flinched.

When they lined us up for final judging, I caught my reflection in the polished floor. I looked good. Too good.

And then the kid appeared.

Little bastard ran out onto the floor with a juice box and sticky fingers. Came right for me.

I don’t remember lunging. I remember the taste of Capri Sun. I remember a small Croc flying off. I remember the horrified gasp of the crowd and Dale whispering, “Jesus Christ, not again.”

I won the herding group and bit a child during Best in Show. The judges whispered about instincts and bloodlines. My wife won’t make eye contact. I sleep in the yard now.

And God help me… I still howl at drones when they pass overhead.

I’ve never felt more alive.