Some of you know that Gracie is a “show dog.” I put that in quotations because it has the same stigma as saying your daughter participates in beauty pageants—only with more hair (barely), but minus the spray tan and sparkly tiaras.

If you haven’t seen that TLC show Toddlers and Tiaras it’s a behind-the-scenes look at child beauty pageants. The mothers all claim their daughters love getting dressed up and are having fun, and the second their kids say they don’t want to do it anymore, they’ll let them quit. These are the same moms who are standing up while their daughters are on stage, acting out the routine in the audience, pointing to their big smiles and reminding their little girls to smile big toward the judges.

Dog shows are sort of like that. All of us who compete in conformation (theoretically the dogs aren’t put up against each other; the judges are determining how well your dog conforms to a breed’s standard) are all convinced our dogs are having a tons of fun in the ring. They want to be there. They love to be there. Gracie is a ham, so of course she is all about being the center of attention. She also jumps up on every grooming table she passes when I walk her through the show grounds, so of course I think she loves to be groomed.

Maybe it’s true, maybe not.

I got into dog shows because I was contractually obligated to do so. The owners of Gracie’s father would take her into the ring. All I had to do was make sure she was clean when I dropped her off and they’d do the rest. Sounded easy enough.

I had no idea what I was getting into. Before her first show I scooped her into the bath tub, filled a big bowl with water and dumped it over her over and over to get her wet. I used a random dog shampoo that I got at the pet store. I dumped more water on her to get the shampoo out. I scrubbed her with towels and set my own blow-dryer on fire trying to get her dry.

When I showed up with her the next day, her handler and the team (yes, there’s a team) very gently told me she didn’t look so hot and then grilled me on how I bathed her. They went to work brushing her out and trimming her feet, fluffing her tail and even putting a little mousse in her coat to keep her groomed. But before I left that day, I was taken over to one of the booths to buy some appropriate shampoo and a good brush and comb and was told I should consider a professional dryer. Thank god I got the AKC discount through her handler because that blow-dryer cost more than mine—it was about $250 after the discount.

The next time she was shown, I used the new hose that hooked to the shower, the fancy shampoo and her industrial-strength blow-dryer. When I showed up with her I got props for my grooming skills, but I quickly realized bending over her to groom her on the ground was not only ineffective but it was wrecking my back. So I bought a grooming table. Fortunately, I found a grooming supply company that offered reasonable tables and it didn’t totally break the bank.

I put a huge investment into this. Supplies, supplements, special food, entry fees, travel fees, handler fees. Oh yeah, and time. I thought it would be fun, but I did go into it with the attitude that I’d show her, get her points, and be done with it. I wanted to just have a dog.

But I underestimated my competitiveness.

I hate to admit it—I’m extremely competitive. I’ll take the most minor thing and make sure I’m the best at it, and apparently dog shows are no different. I found myself sizing up the competition—even the dogs that show in our group—and comparing Gracie to them. If Gracie didn’t win—even if she did act like a moron in the ring, jumping, barking and sniffing the ground for food—it was like a personal affront that the judge didn’t pick my dog. My Sweet Grace Face. Because seriously? She is the cutest damn dog (she’s the cutest bitch if you want to get technical!) in the show circuit.

So here we are, just one point away from Gracie becoming a champion. And it’s been a hard damn point to earn.