The Great Buchanan County Dog Show

There are some childhood memories that never leave you. They sit in the corner of your mind like an old faded Polaroid, waiting for somebody to mention county fairs or cocker spaniels before they come rushing back in full color. This one happened sometime in the early 1980s and still has enough embarrassment packed into it to make me grin and cringe at the same time.

I've written before about my cocker spaniel named Scotch. Scotch was a handsome dog. He had long, beautiful hair, those floppy ears everybody loves, and just enough personality to keep life interesting. The best way I ever figured to describe him was that he was like an old Winchester 1911 SL gun. Beautiful to look at... but every now and then it'd accidentally go off for no apparent reason. Scotch was built about the same way. Most days he looked calm enough. Then, without warning, he'd decide life needed a little excitement and he would get all randy.

Being a young boy overflowing with confidence. I had already taught Scotch two remarkable skills. He knew how to eat, and he knew how to use the bathroom. In my young mind, I was well on my way to becoming the next great dog trainer. The future looked brighter than chrome on a new pickup.

One afternoon I proudly announced to my mom and dad that I wanted to enter Scotch in the Buchanan County Fair Dog Show I had seen in the paper.

They looked at each other.

Some people would say they believed in me.

Personally, I think they believed failure was an excellent teacher.

Either way, they said yes.

The only problem was the dog show was about three days away.

That meant three days to turn a backyard cocker spaniel into Westminster material.

I started by teaching him to walk on a leash. Well... "teaching" may be a generous description. Scotch understood pulling with Olympic-level commitment. Cooperation, however, never made it onto his résumé. The next two afternoons we'd circle behind the house. I'd pull one direction, he'd pull another, and if anyone had driven by they probably would've thought we were rehearsing for a water skiing competition.

Eventually I convinced myself he was improving.

Then came grooming day.

Since Scotch spent most of his life outside, his long hair had collected enough burrs, stickers, and tangles to qualify as a Rastafarian. Dad helped me give him a bath, and afterward I spent forever brushing knots out of that coat. By the time we finished, I stood back and admired him.

He actually looked impressive.

I could almost picture myself standing on the winner's platform accepting a blue ribbon while the crowd applauded. In my imagination they were probably asking if I'd be available to train their dogs too.

Reality, however, had other plans.

When we arrived at the Vocational school where the dog show was held, my confidence started leaking out faster than air from an old tractor tire.

There were what looked like a few professional handlers there.

They stepped out of fancy vehicles wearing nice clothes while their perfectly groomed dogs walked beside them like royalty. Their dogs stood perfectly still, heads high, almost like marble statues. Their leashes weren't the thick Ben Franklin specials I had. They had those thin rope-style show leads that looked like they belonged to the queen.

I suddenly realized my two practice sessions I'd had were in my backyard...

By myself...

With one distracted cocker spaniel.

I whispered to my dad, "I don't want to do this."

Dad didn't even blink.

"It's too late," he said. "We're here. Finish what you started."

That's one lesson dads seem to know better than anyone else. Quitting feels good for about five minutes. Finishing builds character that lasts much longer.

So I swallowed hard, tried not to cry, and waited for my number.

Finally they called us.

I walked into the ring determined to act like I belonged there.

For about three seconds.

Then Scotch took one look at all those strange dogs, dozens of people, loud noises, and decided this was the greatest party he'd ever attended.

He lunged and turned backwards on his lead.

His collar, which I had apparently adjusted with great optimism and very little common sense, slipped right over his head.

Suddenly there, in the middle of the show ring, was one half-cocked cocker spaniel running free while every eye watched the performance.

I was frozen.

Embarrassment has a strange effect. It makes everything happen in slow motion.

I heard laughter.

Then I saw something even harder to take.

Pity.

Dad sprinted into the ring to catch Scotch. Looking back, I think he was less concerned about winning ribbons and more concerned about lawsuits afraid Scotch would eat someone up. After what felt like an hour, but was probably thirty seconds, he finally cornered Scotch and handed him back to me.

I quietly put the collar back on tightened it, walked him to the car to put Scotch up, and announced I wanted to go home immediately.

Dad, being Dad, wouldn't hear of it.

"No," he said. "You're staying until it's over."

At the time I thought he was being mean.

Now I know he was teaching me that if you win, you win well and if you lose, you lose well.

When the judging ended, one of the judges walked over with the kindest smile.

He handed me an Honorable Mention ribbon.

He encouraged me to keep practicing and keep trying.

He genuinely meant well.

It helped... a little.

But let's just be honest.

I have always felt, "Honorable Mention" sounds suspiciously like, "Congratulations... you participated and failed."

I stuffed that ribbon in my pocket and wished the earth would open up.

Years later I've come to appreciate that judge's kindness. Encouragement matters.

But I've also realized something else.

Today we live in a world that often lowers the standard so nobody feels uncomfortable. Participation trophies are everywhere. We sometimes reward effort without ever asking whether preparation matched the dream. We lower standards so more people can reach them instead of expecting excellence.

The Bible paints a different picture.

Jesus said to the church in Revelation 3:15-16, "I know your works: you are neither cold nor hot. Would that you were either cold or hot! So, because you are lukewarm... I will spit you out of my mouth."

For years that passage puzzled me.

Why is lukewarm worse?

I think the answer is that lukewarm knows better.

Cold hasn't experienced the fire.

Hot is fully committed.

Lukewarm knows the truth but refuses to live it. It's participating but not practicing.

If I'm honest, deep down I already knew Scotch wasn't ready for that dog show. I simply had a dream without the discipline. I wanted the ribbon without the repetition. I wanted the applause without the preparation.

Spiritually, we're often tempted to do the same thing.

We dream of being faithful Christians while neglecting prayer.

We want strong families while rarely opening God's Word.

We hope for spiritual victory while treating obedience like an optional hobby.

Paul reminds us in 1 Corinthians 9:24-27 that the Christian life is like running a race. Athletes discipline themselves because they want a temporary crown. We pursue Christ for an eternal one.

Knowledge without obedience is spiritual self-deception. Luke warm!

Jesus said in John 14:15, "If you love me, you will keep my commandments."

One day every believer will stand before the Judgment Seat of Christ. 2 Corinthians 5:10 says each of us "must appear before the judgment seat of Christ, so that each one may receive what is due for what he has done in the body."

I don't want my testimony to come off the lead under pressure and look like Scotch running loose in the middle of that ring.

I don't want to stand before Jesus realizing I knew His Word, knew His grace, knew the Gospel, knew what faithfulness looked like... but never fully committed myself to doing what He asked. I don't want an eternal Honorable mention.

Dreams are wonderful.

Grace is amazing.

Encouragement is necessary.

But there comes a point where every believer has to tighten the collar, do the work, and faithfully walk with the Master.

And if we stay close to the One holding the leash, we'll never have to worry about running off in the wrong direction. That, unlike an Honorable Mention ribbon, is a reward worth living for.