It didn’t feel right to go to the dog show. It felt wrong, it felt like walking around in a horrific tragedy. Looking at someone could make you cry. It made dog agility feel about this big. I’m almost touching my thumb with my pointer finger.

So the first run we had, Banksy had bars. And a wrong tunnel. That run didn’t matter. I felt like it didn’t matter. I felt like I could care less about it, actually. Our second run was in the early evening. It felt like it mattered more. Banksy had a bar. Some of our run felt funny, some of it felt great. It did matter, to move up into the semi finals for Grand Prix, it just needed to be clean. Clean it was not.

It still didn’t really feel like it mattered. In the context of how sad should you feel when you screw up in your Grand Prix run, this sadness fell away pretty fast. There’s an upside.

Banksy never hits bars. She hit three on the first day. Something doesn’t feel right to her. She’s a dog that can get very sad. Maybe she knows how sad I am.

All the dogs ran around at the house we rented in the night. Six border collies and an Otterpop. To get to the house, you drive thru a cemented over desert surrounded by cemented over walls. Scottsdale’s the color of despair, blending massive pieces of architecture into mountainsides. It’s all in colors of sadness, a pinky terra cotta, that looks off balance, like people with heads way too big for their necks. It’s endless, all the malls. There’s a lot of green, this is a land that feels like money, and the water comes from somewhere and people have lush lawns. We’re running on one. The dogs run around on the one in the yard of our house, in a cul de sac, which is deserted and looks like the thousand other cul de sacs we drive by to get there.

Maybe we’ll do better tomorrow. Maybe not. I hope Banksy is having a good time.