Yet when I set one foot on the roped-off grass area, I see the judge waiting, clipboard in hand, and cannot haul air into my lungs. My four-footed companion, sensing my panic, looks at me quizzically. My limbs are frozen.
The judge says “Breathe. I won’t have somebody collapse in my ring.”
I manage, but my movements are rough. We fail.
All my fault for making this a competition.