http://www.sacpaws.com/home/Blog/michelemc/131     I'm told that there are places in the US, especially in the midwest, where obedience trials are all held in virtually identical locations.  These are large buildings - because the weather is unsuitable for so much of the year - with nicely separated, babygated rings, pristeenly matted floors, observer chairs set well back, and an emphasis on hushed tones.     That sounds so perfectly lovely.     Here in Northern California, we exhibitors don't often encounter such ideal circumstances.     Which is why, more often than not, my first thought upon arriving at almost any trial is:  Oh my goodness!  My dog can't possibly work in these conditions!     I know I'm not alone in this sentiment.     What are the conditions I so deplore?     If the show is outdoors, it could be the grass is too long, or full of itchy weeds, or wet, or even frozen.  He'll never heel properly if he has to fight the elements at every step.     Perhaps the day is gray and drizzly, or worse yet, bright with warm sunshine.  If it's hot, my dog will surely go down on the long sit.  If it's cold, he'll likely refuse to down on my signal.     If the show is indoors, no doubt the rings are exactly adjacent.  My dog may well be distracted by action in the next ring, and fail to see my hand signal.  Or there could be people crowded up against the ring rope, which is usually the flimsiest of plastic ribbon set at waist height.  How is my little dog even supposed to know he's in a ring?     Then there are the stewards.  If I'm greeted by a hefty tall man as I enter the ring it could cause my dog to lose all confidence on the spot.  Or what if the steward stands frighteningly near my articles or gloves?  My dog may refuse to approach the article pile at all.     And let's not talk about the judges, several of whom are apparently blind, not to mention the numerous others who must make a hobby out of sharpening their pencils.     The list of unfair, but generally fatal potential environmental interferences is endless.  People  eating.  People talking.  Hands clapping for awards in the next ring.  Glaring lights.  Excessive shade.  Thoughtless conformation handlers prancing by.     Nearby mountains.  Mars rising.  El Nino.     Yes, as I arrive and look around, I experience that sinking feeling.  I am doomed.  We are going to fail.  My entry fee was a huge waste.      I wish I lived in Iowa.     And it isn't just me.  This is the relentless chatter before every show.  "Did you notice?" "Can you believe it?" "Have you heard what happened . . . . ?"     It takes about 30 minutes to get over it, every time.  Then I realize, I don't want to live in Iowa, no matter how perfect the show conditions.  We are here and we can do it.     My dog is waiting, not noticing all the annoying details of our current circumstance, but noticing me.  If I'm ready, he will be as well.     Or so we'll soon find out.             I'm told that there are places in the US, especially in the midwest, where obedience trials are all held in virtually identical locations.  These are large buildings - because the weather is unsuitable for so much of the year - with nicely separated, babygated rings, pristeenly matted floors, observer chairs set well back, and an emphasis on hushed tones.     That sounds so perfectly lovely.     Here in Northern California, we exhibitors don't often encounter such ideal circumstances.     Which is why, more often than not, my first thought upon arriving at almost any trial is:  Oh my goodness!  My dog can't possibly work in these conditions!     I know I'm not alone in this sentiment.     What are the conditions I so deplore?     If the show is outdoors, it could be the grass is too long, or full of itchy weeds, or wet, or even frozen.  He'll never heel properly if he has to fight the elements at every step.     Perhaps the day is gray and drizzly, or worse yet, bright with warm sunshine.  If it's hot, my dog will surely go down on the long sit.  If it's cold, he'll likely refuse to down on my signal.     If the show is indoors, no doubt the rings are exactly adjacent.  My dog may well be distracted by action in the next ring, and fail to see my hand signal.  Or there could be people crowded up against the ring rope, which is usually the flimsiest of plastic ribbon set at waist height.  How is my little dog even supposed to know he's in a ring?     Then there are the stewards.  If I'm greeted by a hefty tall man as I enter the ring it could cause my dog to lose all confidence on the spot.  Or what if the steward stands frighteningly near my articles or gloves?  My dog may refuse to approach the article pile at all.     And let's not talk about the judges, several of whom are apparently blind, not to mention the numerous others who must make a hobby out of sharpening their pencils.     The list of unfair, but generally fatal potential environmental interferences is endless.  People  eating.  People talking.  Hands clapping for awards in the next ring.  Glaring lights.  Excessive shade.  Thoughtless conformation handlers prancing by.     Nearby mountains.  Mars rising.  El Nino.     Yes, as I arrive and look around, I experience that sinking feeling.  I am doomed.  We are going to fail.  My entry fee was a huge waste.      I wish I lived in Iowa.     And it isn't just me.  This is the relentless chatter before every show.  "Did you notice?" "Can you believe it?" "Have you heard what happened . . . . ?"     It takes about 30 minutes to get over it, every time.  Then I realize, I don't want to live in Iowa, no matter how perfect the show conditions.  We are here and we can do it.     My dog is waiting, not noticing all the annoying details of our current circumstance, but noticing me.  If I'm ready, he will be as well.     Or so we'll soon find out.         en-us