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Randy Colson
Dog shows are supposed to be about dogs.
That sounds obvious. Almost too obvious to say.
But sometimes the obvious question is the one worth asking: What are we really judging? Are we judging the dog standing at the end of the lead? Or are we sometimes influenced by the presentation, the reputation, the kennel name, the handler, the campaign, or simply the version of the breed we have become accustomed to seeing?
I don't ask that question to accuse anyone. I ask it because I care about where the sport goes from here. If the purpose of Conformation is to identify the dog that most closely represents its Breed Standard—and, ultimately, the type of dog we should want to preserve—then the conversation has to be bigger than who wins.
We have to ask: What are we rewarding? And more importantly: What are we preserving?
I've come to believe the Breed Standard should be treated like a blueprint. The blueprint tells us what we're supposed to build. It shouldn't change because a particular dog is successful. It shouldn't move simply because something has become fashionable. And it shouldn't be rewritten by whatever happens to be winning today.
Breed type has to be the gatekeeper. From there, we should be looking at the entire dog—structure, bone, substance, balance, feet, mechanics, movement, temperament, and soundness.
No dog is perfect. That's important. The judge isn't searching for a mythical animal without a fault. The judge is comparing the dogs in front of them and determining which one puts the greatest number of important pieces together. The dog closest to the ideal should win. Maybe it really should be that simple.
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A dog show isn't supposed to be a beauty pageant where the most dramatic picture wins. A beautiful head doesn't compensate for poor mechanics. Substance without balance doesn't make a complete dog. Flashy movement shouldn't erase incorrect breed type. And one spectacular feature shouldn't become a free pass for everything else.
I once watched a judge at a B Match explain why she favored a particular dog. She specifically pointed to the dog's chest depth. It was a good feature. There was no argument that the dog had depth. Then the dog moved. The movement wasn't as strong as the feature the judge had just praised. That moment stayed with me—not because of the dog and not because of the judge, but because it raised a question: Are we judging the whole dog, or are we sometimes allowing one impressive characteristic to overshadow everything else?
That's why the checklist matters.
Judge all the dogs. Then find the dog that checks the most important boxes.
Here's how I think about it.
Take an antique car. You can spend $30,000 making the body absolutely beautiful. Perfect paint. Straight panels. Polished chrome. Beautiful interior. Sitting still, it can look like a million dollars. Then you turn the key. The engine is tired. The transmission slips. The steering is sloppy. The brakes aren't right. You've got a beautiful car that doesn't function like one.
The paint matters, but so does the engine. That's how I see a dog.
Grooming matters. Presentation matters. Handling matters. Breed-specific presentation matters.
But those things should reveal what's underneath—not replace it. When the gate opens, that's when I want to see what's under the hood.
Some breeds require hours of grooming and preparation. That's part of the sport. A properly prepared dog should look like the breed it's supposed to be. Good grooming can reveal structure, coat, outline, and breed character.
But there's a line worth discussing: At what point does presentation stop revealing the dog and start becoming the dog? A perfect stack can't create correct structure. A beautiful coat can't change a skeleton. A skilled handler can't manufacture bone, substance, feet, or rear construction.
And no handler should have to disguise what a dog doesn't have. The same applies to reputation.
A professional handler may be extraordinarily skilled. A respected breeder may have decades of experience. A famous kennel may have produced tremendous dogs. All of that deserves respect.
But when the dog enters the ring, the dog should still have to earn the ribbon. The dog should be judged—not the reputation behind the lead.
Presentation should be the frame around the picture. It shouldn't become the picture.
There are certain things I believe should never get lost because a dog is beautiful or impressive.
The bite. Temperament. Mechanics. Those are parts of the dog.
Temperament especially deserves serious consideration. A beautiful dog with a significant temperament problem isn't automatically a good breeding prospect because it can win a ribbon.
That's where showing and breeding become two different conversations. A Championship tells us that a dog succeeded in the show ring. It doesn't automatically tell us that the dog should become part of the next generation.
Before breeding, I think we should ask a harder question: Can we improve what we already have?
For me, breeding decisions should involve much more than a Championship. Breed type. Bone. Substance. Structure. Movement. Mechanics. Temperament. Health. Genetics.
And ultimately: What does this dog contribute that moves the breed forward? Maybe it's an outstanding feature we desperately need to preserve. Maybe it's a combination of qualities that is becoming harder to find. Maybe it's genetic diversity. Maybe it's health or longevity. Maybe it's function. Or maybe the honest answer is that, despite winning, the dog isn't the right answer for the next generation.
That's not an insult. That's responsible evaluation. Winning and breeding are not the same decision.
I also question the idea that a breed needs two different versions of itself.
A show line. A working line. I understand how we arrived there in some breeds, but ideally, shouldn't they still be the same breed? The dog that represents the breed in the show ring should still represent the animal that the breed was created to be.
Form and function shouldn't be enemies. Structure exists for a reason. Feet exist for a reason. Movement exists for a reason. Temperament exists for a reason. A Working dog shouldn't have to sacrifice breed type to work.
And a show dog shouldn't have to sacrifice function to win. If we've created two distinctly different versions of the same breed, perhaps we should ask which one we're actually trying to preserve.
I watch movement closely.
Not because movement is the only thing that matters, but because movement tells us things a photograph can't. The down-and-back matters. The side movement matters. The topline matters. The feet matter. The rear has to contribute. The front has to work.
The dog has to move as a whole animal.
Sometimes the difference between two excellent dogs isn't obvious until you watch them move. That's why I don't believe movement should become a formality. We're not judging a photograph. We're judging a living animal.
Maybe the sport could benefit from going a little “old school.”
Know the breed. Know the Standard. Study the dog. And judge what's in front of you. A judge shouldn't need to know who bred the dog, who owns it, who handles it, or who is sitting ringside. The dog shouldn't become more or less correct because of the name attached to it.
Don't scan the audience looking for particular breeders. Don't let familiarity become influence. Don't judge the handler. Judge the dog. When that gate opens, everything outside the ring should disappear.
The question should be: Which dog best represents the Standard today?
There is another point worth making. Judges are human. They will have preferences. They will see dogs differently. Two knowledgeable judges can honestly disagree about two excellent dogs.
That's part of competition. The goal isn't to eliminate judgment. The goal is to make sure that judgment is anchored to the same blueprint. I don't expect every judge to pick the dog I would pick. I expect the judge to know the breed, understand the Standard, and be able to explain the decision through the dog—not through reputation.
That distinction matters.
Disagreement isn't the problem. Losing sight of the Standard is.
This is where I think the dog world could learn something from another type of animal show. In poultry exhibitions, the bird is presented in a cage. The owner isn't standing beside it while the judge evaluates it. The breeder isn't personally presenting the bird to the judge.
I'm not suggesting we put dogs in cages and copy poultry shows, but I think the principle deserves consideration. Could some portion of dog judging be designed so that the judge doesn't know the owner, breeder, handler, kennel, or campaign behind the dog until after the evaluation?
Judge the dog first. Find out whose dog it is afterward.
Would that eliminate every possible form of politics? Of course not. Nothing involving people ever will. But if we can remove some opportunities for familiarity, reputation, and relationships to influence perception, why wouldn't we at least investigate the possibility?
The goal isn't to accuse anybody. The goal is to make the system harder to influence and easier to trust.
Breed clubs are important. Breeders are important. Their knowledge is invaluable.
But there should always be enough independence in the system to ensure the Standard remains bigger than any individual breeder, kennel, campaign, or circle of influence.
The people participating in the sport shouldn't be the only people defining the rules, interpreting the rules, and deciding what success looks like.
That doesn't mean distrust. It means accountability. If a Standard needs to change, there should be a transparent process based on the breed's history, purpose, soundness, health, and long-term preservation.
And in my opinion, the conversation shouldn't stop at national borders. For breeds with significant international populations, why shouldn't we ask whether countries should ultimately be working from the same fundamental blueprint?
In the case of the Bloodhound, I believe Europe and America should ultimately be working toward the same fundamentals.
Not identical dogs. Not identical breeding programs. But the same understanding of what the breed is supposed to be.
The blueprint should belong to the breed—not to the people currently building the breed.
There's another danger that doesn't require bad intentions. Familiarity. If judges repeatedly see a particular type of dog winning, that appearance becomes familiar.
Breeders see it. Exhibitors see it. New judges see it. The public sees it. Eventually, something that was once simply common can begin to feel like the definition of correctness.
But: Familiar doesn't necessarily mean correct. This is where the Standard becomes so important.
Because if the Standard is the blueprint, the blueprint has to remain the reference point.
Not the last winner. Not the current trend. Not the dog everybody is talking about. Not what looks impressive on television. The Standard.
Television and social media have done something wonderful for dogs: they've introduced millions of people to breeds they may never have encountered otherwise. But visibility comes with responsibility.
A spectacular dog on television can make someone fall in love with a breed in thirty seconds.
What they don't see in thirty seconds is the rest of the story.
The energy. The grooming. The exercise. The temperament. The drool. The shedding. The cost.
The original purpose. The things that make the breed wonderful—and the things that make the breed difficult. The goal shouldn't be to sell the picture. It should be to educate the person looking at it.
We should want someone to say: I want to learn about that breed. Not simply: I want that dog.
And there's another uncomfortable question. If we consistently reward exaggeration, should we be surprised when exaggeration becomes more common? What wins gets repeated. What gets repeated gets bred. What gets bred eventually influences the direction of a breed. That's why judging isn't just about today's ribbon.
Judging influences tomorrow's dogs.
If we're serious about breeding stock and preserving the future of a breed, health information shouldn't be hidden behind a curtain. Where appropriate breed-specific health testing exists, why shouldn't the results be publicly documented and easy to find?
A passing evaluation deserves recognition. An abnormal result deserves honest recording. An unavailable test should be identified as unavailable—not assumed clear.
That doesn't mean a health test tells us everything about a dog. It doesn't. But it tells us something important. A ribbon tells us what happened in the ring. A health record tells us something the ribbon never can. Health shouldn't be the only consideration, but it should never be an afterthought.
There's another issue we should be willing to discuss: the breadth of competition. A ring with ten dogs sounds like ten competitors. But what if six of those dogs come from the same kennel? Technically, those six dogs are still individual competitors, but six dogs from one breeding program is not the same thing, from the standpoint of breadth of participation, as ten dogs representing ten independent programs.
And that's where I think we need to be careful. I'm not suggesting that successful breeders shouldn't enter their dogs. They absolutely should. No one should be punished for success.
But we should ask: Are we measuring the health of competition simply by counting dogs—or by asking how many people and breeding programs believe they have a meaningful place in the ring? If entries were stronger and more independent exhibitors were participating, would any one kennel need to supply such a large percentage of an entry to fill a major?
Maybe the answer is yes. Maybe the answer is no. But it's a question worth asking. A healthy sport shouldn't just have enough dogs to fill a ring. It should have enough people who believe they have a realistic opportunity to enter that ring and compete.
A breed needs Champions, but it also needs people learning how to become breeders. It needs owner-handlers. It needs mentors. It needs judges who continue studying. It needs people willing to ask questions. It needs people willing to start at the bottom.
And it needs people who don't walk away because they believe the door is already closed. No one owes a newcomer a puppy. No one owes them a breeding program. No one owes them a Championship.
But perhaps the sport owes newcomers something else: A door. A chance to learn. A reason to come back. A place where hard work, knowledge and a good dog can eventually speak for themselves. You can beat somebody on Saturday and help them understand why they lost on Sunday. You can disagree with a judge without deciding the judge is an idiot. You can compete hard without turning the sport into a war. The dog show world doesn't need less competition. It needs less ego.
Somewhere in all of this, we can't forget that dog shows are supposed to be fun. We should be able to compete hard, lose gracefully, win honestly, learn something, and still shake hands afterward. A person shouldn't have to choose between having a good dog and having a good time. If people leave the sport because they no longer enjoy it, because they don't feel welcome or because they believe the outcome is already decided before they enter the ring, then we haven't just lost an entry. We've lost a future participant.
And we don't know what that person might have contributed. Maybe the next great breeder is the person who almost quit. Maybe the next outstanding owner-handler is the person who never felt welcome. Maybe the next judge is the person standing ringside today trying to understand why the winner won. We don't know what we’ve lose when people walk away.
A ribbon tells you who won. It doesn't necessarily tell you why.
Watch the dogs. Watch the feet. Watch the toplines. Watch the down-and-back. Watch the side movement. Watch how the winner carries itself. Watch how the pieces work together.
Then ask yourself: What did the judge see? Maybe you'll agree. Maybe you won't. Either way, you've learned something.
That's how an exhibitor becomes better. And maybe that's one of the things the sport needs most:
People who want to learn more than they want to be right.
I don't have every answer. I'm not asking AKC (American Kennel Club), judges, breeders, handlers, or exhibitors to accept my opinions as gospel. I'm an owner-handler who has spent enough time watching dogs to start asking questions.
Some of my ideas may be impractical. Some may already have been tried. Some may be wrong.
I'm willing to be wrong. If I'm wrong, tell me why.
If there's a better solution, I'm all ears.
But I'd rather ask a difficult question and listen to the answer than stay quiet because the question might make somebody uncomfortable. That's how improvement happens. Not by pretending everything is perfect. Not by attacking everybody who disagrees.
And not by refusing to ask uncomfortable questions because somebody might take them personally.
The goal isn't to tear down the sport. The goal is to make sure there's something worth building for the people coming next.
Maybe the answer should be simpler than we've allowed it to become.
Know the breed. Know the Standard. Judge breed type. Look at the whole dog. Evaluate structure. Watch the mechanics. Watch the movement. Don't overlook temperament. Don't overlook health. Don't allow presentation to replace substance. Don't allow reputation to replace evaluation.
And when we're talking about breeding, ask the question that matters most: Can we improve what we have? Because the dog show should not simply tell us which dog was the most successful today. It should help us think about what dogs we want tomorrow.
The Standard isn't a suggestion. It is the blueprint.
And the blueprint should guide the breed—not the other way around.
When the gate opens, forget the kennel name. Forget the handler. Forget the campaign. Forget who won last week. Watch the dog. Watch the feet. Watch the movement. Look at the whole animal. Because the paint matters. But so does the engine.
And if we're going to preserve these breeds for the people who come after us, maybe it's time we make sure we're judging—and breeding—the whole dog.
All About Judging
