At our first terrier, lurcher and ferret club show of the new season, I was stewarding the ferrets again. I always get given the ferrets. I’d rather steward the terriers or the lurchers, or even stand at the gate taking the entrance money. But when the stewarding jobs are allocated at our pre-show meetings, no bugger else wants to do ferrets so they give it to old muggins.
The ferret steward’s job is to shout out the name of the class, take the 50p entry fees and ferrets from the competing owners, place each ferret in a numbered showing cage, then assist the judge by passing him a ferret when he asks for one. Once the judge has come to a decision, the ferret steward shouts out the numbers of the winning ferrets in reverse order, distributes rosettes and congratulations, returns the ferrets to their respective owners, and prepares the cages for the next class by mopping up any urine and faeces and spraying the cages with Dettol. With 12 classes and an average of ten ferrets in each class, the ferret steward is the loudest and busiest steward on the show ground. You’re too busy to chat, eat or drink, let alone exhibit your own dogs or ferrets. You get bitten. And after the show you go home stinking of ferret.
The ferret judge I assisted at our first show of the season was a silent, conscientious man. He had this little notepad. I’d pass him a ferret. He’d look in its earholes and make a note. He’d retract its upper lip to expose the carnassial teeth and make a note. He’d look at its feet and count the toes and make a note. He’d even blow on its back to see if the fur fell back correctly, and he’d make a note about that.
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