Learning is often described as the acquisition of knowledge or skill. In dog shows, learning requires something more demanding: the development of skill paired with a clear understanding of what actually lies behind the big wins. It is more practical and far less romantic than many realize when they first begin showing dogs. Learning is the ability to adapt, adjust, and change direction in pursuit of a goal that truly matters. It is not the goal you wish you had, nor the one borrowed from someone else’s winning photo on Facebook, but the one that accurately reflects where you are right now. That distinction matters more than most exhibitors realize, because without it, effort is easily confused with progress.
After ten years of working closely with owner handlers, I have seen thousands of exhibitors arrive at dog shows with good intentions, a strong work ethic, and a genuine love for their dogs, yet remain stalled year after year. This stagnation is not because they do not care, nor because they lack talent. More often, it is because they misunderstand where learning comes from, who is responsible for it, and how meaningful goals are achieved in this sport.
Most owner handlers fall into one of two camps.
In the first, the exhibitor has a decent or even a very good dog, but lacks the skills and experience to present it effectively. They may not yet understand how to present their breed’s virtues clearly, manage ring patterns efficiently, or support their dog’s experience in the ring when pressure mounts. Often, they do not fully recognize the quality of the dog standing at the end of their lead.
In the second camp, the exhibitor is working with a dog of modest quality and hoping that effort alone will close the gap. These exhibitors tend to work very hard, travel extensively, and invest emotionally and financially, yet struggle to see results that justify the expense and sacrifice. Discouragement, understandably, sets in quickly.
Most of the time, however, we are showing the dog we need, not the dog we want. Beginners often earn exactly the wins their dog’s quality and current skill level support. The frustration arises when encouragement is expected in the form of ribbons rather than instruction, and when improvement is assumed to come automatically with time rather than deliberate education. Instead of seeking structured learning, many exhibitors rely on informal feedback from fellow owner handlers, from breeders who may or may not be effective teachers, or, most commonly, from judges. In order for judges to examine dogs on the table and evaluate dogs on the ground, the dog must be trained well enough to be gone over and walk on a lead.
And this is where the dilemma deepens, because reliance on these individuals replaces responsibility.
Judges are visible. Judges are experienced. Judges are powerful. It is understandable that exhibitors look to them for answers. But the expectation that a judge will teach, coach, correct, or guide handling during competition is both unrealistic and unfair. More importantly, it keeps exhibitors stuck.
When learning is accidental rather than intentional, progress becomes unpredictable. One judge may overlook a poorly executed exam; another may penalize it. Without a framework for understanding why something worked or failed, exhibitors are left guessing, and guessing is expensive. Gas is not cheap. Neither is hope without a plan.
As a judge with over twenty-five years of experience across five-plus Groups, I have written extensively on Breed Standards, judging education, and ring procedure. What I have avoided addressing until now is the growing expectation that judges should also function as part of an exhibitor’s training program.
Let’s be clear.
A judge’s task is to evaluate an entry fairly, comparatively, and efficiently within a very limited window of time. While AKC guidelines suggest a judge has “2.4 minutes per dog,” the reality is often closer to 1.5 minutes once logistics, movement, and ring flow are accounted for, according to one superintendent.
Many judges are generous. We will give young dogs additional time. We will repeat an exam or allow a second down-and-back when things unravel. We do this because we care deeply about the sport and want exhibitors and their dogs to succeed. But that generosity is neither an obligation nor an instructional service.
When exhibitors enter the ring with untrained dogs, inefficient handling, or no clear plan for presentation, they are quietly borrowing time from every other entry. Judges may accommodate these situations, but accommodation should never be mistaken for endorsement.
Your job as a handler is to support your dog’s experience in the ring. Ultimately, that responsibility belongs to you—not the judge.
When learning is left to chance, frustration inevitably builds. Exhibitors hear comments such as “nice dog” or “great job” without understanding what those remarks mean in comparative terms. They leave the ring encouraged one weekend and deflated the next, with no clear explanation for the change.
Over time, this inconsistency takes a toll. Exhibitors begin to question judges, the system, or themselves, often in that order. Entries decline. Motivation erodes. Good dogs disappear from the ring not because they lacked quality, but because their handlers were never taught how to move forward with intention and clarity.
“Winning” is not a goal. It is an outcome.
Specific goals may sound less glamorous, but they are far more effective. They look like:
These goals are measurable. They are teachable. And they can be practiced independently, away from the pressure of competition. A $36 entry fee is an expensive classroom. Exhibitors who lack specific goals often work the hardest while progressing the least. Motion replaces direction. Effort replaces strategy. Improvement does not come from repetition alone but from the right practice.
Clarity here changes everything.
When these roles blur, frustration follows. When they are respected, progress accelerates.
Winning teaches very little without reflection. Losing teaches nothing without guidance.
The exhibitors who grow are not those who avoid disappointment, but those who learn how to extract information from it. A poor class, a surprise loss, or even a significant win can all be educational if the exhibitor knows what questions to ask and has access to experienced guidance for the next step.
What mattered?
What did not?
What changed between last weekend and this one?
Without these questions, experience becomes little more than repetition.
Successful owner handlers eventually arrive at the same place: acceptance paired with ambition.
Quality owner handlers accept the dog they have, the skills they are still building, and the reality that progress is rarely linear. They recognize that frustration is often feedback in disguise, and they stop measuring success solely by ribbons.
Instead, they measure growth in clarity, consistency, and confidence, both their own and their dog’s.
Judges are not coaches in the ring. Ribbons are not report cards. And learning is not a favor bestowed by the system; it is a responsibility claimed by the exhibitor who chooses to pursue it intentionally.
The owner handlers who succeed long-term are not luckier. They are better students.
Your job as a handler is to support your dog’s experience in the ring. Ultimately, that responsibility belongs to you—not the judge.
