Where Champions Rise and Legends Never Fade

The first time I stepped into the PCA arena, I didn’t breathe—I held my breath without realizing. It wasn’t nerves. It was reverence.

There’s a pulse in that place—an energy you feel before you ever hear the roar of dryers or the snap of shears. The floor doesn’t just support you—it remembers you. It holds the memory of every great dog who floated across the mat, every trembling first-timer, every breeder who sacrificed sleep, savings, and sanity in the hope of seeing their line come alive in the ring.

When I walk into PCA, I don’t walk in alone. I walk in with the ghosts of greats. With the weight of pedigrees built on purpose. With the eyes of mentors who shaped me. With the legacy of dogs who were more than champions—they were stories made flesh.

The air hums with purpose, thick with the scent of freshly bathed coats, crisp hairspray, and the faint metallic tang of show leads clinking against ringside tables. The sound of dryers roars in one corner, the rhythmic snip of shears in another. Quiet conversations ripple through the grooming area—exhibitors perfecting every detail, adjusting angles by mere millimeters, sculpting elegance from fur and patience. The tension, the dedication, the love—it’s all here, woven into the very atmosphere.

This is not just where champions are made. It is where the breed itself is built, refined, and honored.

No breeder walks into PCA with just a dog. They walk in with decades of decisions, etched into pedigrees and sealed in the structure and spirit of the Poodle before them. Every silhouette that steps into the ring represents years of planning, pairing, and pursuit of something greater than the individual. It is not about producing winners—it is about preserving, protecting, and elevating the breed.

That is why there are no shortcuts here. The finest grooming in the world cannot sculpt what was never bred to be there. Structure, balance, health, temperament—these are not things that happen by accident. They are the marks of a true breeder, the invisible signature behind every great dog.

Every time I walk into the PCA arena, I carry that knowledge with me. I am not just stepping onto a show floor—I am stepping into the past, walking alongside those who built this breed, and looking toward the future, where the next great ones will rise.

But this time, something is different.

This time, a seat is left empty.

The last time I saw Kaz Hosaka, he was standing at ringside, watching intently. His face was calm, his eyes sharp, absorbing every detail with the quiet intensity of a man who had spent a lifetime perfecting his craft. Kaz never needed to say much—his presence alone spoke volumes. When he did speak, it was with purpose. He had a way of offering wisdom without pretense, of making you see what could be done better without making you feel lesser for not seeing it sooner.

Kaz was always there—watching, guiding, elevating. He had walked this showground for decades, shaping the breed with each carefully executed trim, each flawless performance, each champion that bore his touch. He was a fixture in this world, a legend who didn’t demand attention but commanded respect.

But this time, he is not here.

Not in the way we want him to be. Not standing by the rings, watching with that knowing expression.

Yet, somehow, he is still here.

I feel him in the effortless arc of a Poodle moving across the ring, in the quiet concentration of a handler perfecting their dog’s stack, in the determined set of a groomer’s hands as they sculpt a masterpiece out of coat and patience. I hear him in the murmured conversations between mentors and students, in the steadying breaths taken before stepping onto the mat, in the unspoken language between a handler and their dog.

And if I listen closely enough, I can almost hear him.

“You are competing against yourself.”

That was his lesson to me. It was never about the ribbon. It didn’t matter what was handed to me at the end of the day. If my dog didn’t perform well, if I didn’t present well, if I didn’t execute the grooming to perfection—then I hadn’t done my job. It wasn’t about luck, or the judge, or the politics of the sport. It was about me. Did I learn? Did I improve? Did I refine my eye and my skill? That was the real competition.

Kaz had an almost effortless presence in the ring—like he and the dog were moving as one. But behind that effortless grace was uncompromising discipline, endless patience, and an obsession with perfection. His hands shaped legends, his dogs entered the ring prepared down to the last hair, and his legacy is woven into the history of this breed.

One of the first things I learned under his mentorship wasn’t even from him directly—it was from Sanae and Mizuki, the first to teach me how to properly wash a Poodle. And let me tell you, washing a Poodle isn’t just washing a Poodle—it’s a process, a science, an art. Every step matters. Every detail, from how you rinse to how you dry, affects the final outcome. If you don’t master the basics, you’ll never master the finish.

If you’re just stepping into the world of show poodles, choose your mentors wisely.

There are people in this sport who are truly here to better the breed—to preserve, protect, and perfect the Poodle. And then there are those who just want to win. Be around the first kind.

Surround yourself with people who have decades of experience, who have built lines with consistency, who handle their dogs with respect and excellence. Watch them. Ask smart questions. Take in everything you can.

And most importantly: Don’t be negative. Don’t make excuses.

It’s easy to blame the judge, the competition, or the politics when you don’t get the ribbon you wanted. But that attitude won’t make you a great breeder, a great handler, or a great dog person. What will? Learning. Improving. Perfecting your performance.

Kaz trully cared about the performance. Did you do better today than you did yesterday? Did you handle the dog well? Did you bring out the best in your dog? That’s what mattered.

Kaz’s legacy isn’t just in the champions he handled—it’s in the handlers and breeders he influenced. It’s in the way we set up our dogs, the way we watch a dog move and recognize balance, the way we work tirelessly to perfect every detail.

And even though he isn’t standing ringside anymore, his voice is still in my head every time I enter the ring.

The lights shine just as brightly, the rings stand just as beautifully, the excitement hums just as it always does. But this time, I walk into this arena knowing that a piece of its soul is missing.

And yet, he is still here.

He is here to crack a joke or make you reflect when the tension is high, to remind us that at the end of the day, we are here because we love these dogs Nd we are shaping poodle history.
He is here to keep us serious, to demand excellence, to push us to perfect perfection.
He is here to remind us that there is no such thing as “good enough”—there is only better, sharper, finer, stronger.
He is here to challenge us to be worthy of this breed.

As long as we continue this work, as long as we fight to preserve the brilliance of this breed, Kaz will never be gone.

Every time I walk into this arena, I know I am walking in his footsteps. But I am not walking alone.

And as long as there are breeders dreaming, handlers training, judges guiding, groomers perfecting, owners loving—Kaz will never be gone, and neither will the spirit of this breed.

Every time I walk into this arena, I know I am walking in all of their footsteps.

And I will keep walking.❤️