If you liked it then you should've put a band on it

Show season is approaching.

With it blows a familiar wind carrying mundane smells.

The shavings, the coffee, the hair product.

I can hear, taste, and smell the approaching season like an old intimate friend.

You’ve planned all year for this. You’ve hand selected, bred, culled, re-selected, decided twice on one you culled too early, and narrowed it down to a handful of attainable birds. You’ve been watching your young birds grow. Adding and changing things to their diets to make them look their very best. Ensuring they are growing to the breed standard. You’ve nit picked and hen pecked until there’s just a few select birds left. Those are the chosen. The ones who will carry your name to the arenas. Only the “best-of-the-best” can go on.

Early morning wake ups, after long overnight drives.

Arriving the morning of and desperately trying to unload and clean birds off at the same time.

Sleep deprived arguments as you rush to get your animals prepared for the judge.

The symphony of crowing roosters and cackling hens, quacking ducks and honking geese.

The off skirt shuffling of desperate handlers searching through their bag for the thing they forgot.

“You grabbed it!” “No you grabbed it!” “Well one of us HAD to grab it!” from a few rows down “…here borrow mine!”

Old friends exchanging hugs, high fives, or waves as they pass each other in preparation. The soft whirring of hair driers, blowers, and other machines twirling over the chaotic melodies playing overhead.

As the morning progresses the dull roar of voices begins to soften out the screaming bantams from a few rows down. Your bantams, most likely, have decided that they need to have a crowing contest with their neighbor. Someone behind you is exchanging eggs, chicks, or young birds while excitedly talking about the upcoming show season. What does it hold? “Which shows are you going to? -- Have you started planning your breeding season for 2020? -- I really like this young cock. -- I think this pullet is going to do phenomenal. -- She didn’t do well last season but she’s matured so much I had to try her out again!” A junior exhibitor nervously wipes their bird down for what seems like the thirtieth time in less than an hour. Concerned and near

A pale faced, long eared, dead eyed patron stares blankly at their mug of coffee as they swirl it aimlessly in front of them. The cream and sugar crash together and harmonize the feelings of regret with the pungent sting of sleep deprivation.

tears because they stepped in some poop and the judge is going to take points off of their showmanship cards later. The tension in the building rises to a crest and bursts forth like rocky waves against a sleepy shoreline. It’s time. The judges have hit the rows. Poles have gone up, exhibitors have been kicked to the edges of the buildings. New exhibitors anxiously pace the aisles, staring at the judges with looks of excitement-confusion-and fear. Old pros line the walls and pass along war stories. “Do you remember the Fall Classic of ’94?” --- “No no no, the worst one was the State Fair of ’88!” – “I can’t believe you don’t remember how COLD Fort Worth was in 2000!” They talk blood lines. Plans. How far they’ve come with the birds they have. How far they plan on pushing it.

Breeders that are a few years in and finally have a clear goal in mind listen in bright eyed wonder to the old pros. Taking mental points and jotting down notes. Swapping ideas like currency in the aisles behind the old pros. Deaf blind and dumb to those around them they cajole in a friendly fashion. Children scream and run rampant everywhere you look. The excitement uncontainable as they await the results. Some of them have no idea what showing is even about, they just enjoy getting to see their friends and talk about chickens. Older kids walk around with their favorite birds perched on their shoulders like a parrot. “This is Spike, he’s my favorite.” Show masters try and keep their guests entertained. There’s chicken dances, cluck offs, food and entertainment. Raffle tables and auction birds. They’re often seen bouncing like a flubber filled median between exhibitors and judges. Ensuring everyone has what they need, all are excited to be here, and letting everyone know how happy they are you’ve decided to come to their little (or large) show.

All for a pat on the back, an ‘atta boy’ and a long drive home on little to no sleep.

Maybe you won your class. Maybe you won your breed. Maybe you got a big fat DQ. Did the judge not like your bird because “scribble mark scribble mark” well that’s not English but ok. Did you win the entire show? Big fat check in your pocket? Less money than when you arrived? It doesn’t matter. At the end of the day ALL of your exhibited birds are winners because you CHOSE them. You hand selected and personally crafted them into perfection.

You go home. You complain because everything in your body hurts. If you didn’t book a hotel room then you desperately want a shower. You NEED a shower. The flies aren’t just after your chickens anymore.

You unload, give your birds extra special treats (even if they didn’t place, because let’s all face it they’re all winners to put up with us) and pass out on the couch. Potentially you made it all the way to the bedroom. Dreaming of the next show. The next time. Chasing that next ribbon.

Until next time.