TO SOME people, ringcraft is what boxers who don't lose very often have. To others it means something quite different altogether.

It still involves the pursuit of winning over the judges, takes place in a square arena called, bafflingly, a ring, and can get quite testy.

This type of ringcraft is what show dogs must have if they are to be recognised for their skill at being the very best sort of whichever sort of dog they are that there is. You remember Crufts, it's like that.

But this particular skill does not come naturally to your average canine, not even the super-duper fantastic ones with triple-barrel names and more breeding than the person who gives the royal family lessons in being posh.

It must be learned, both by dog and human, practised at length and perfected if you and Fido want to wake up and the smell the rosettes.

And if you really want to have a go, perhaps the very first thing you should make sure you have is an actual dog.

I have many things, but a dog is not one of them, so I would have to borrow one. But which one, and from whom?

A quick poll of the Herald Express office threw up very little in the way of choice regarding potential four-legged friends, although at least two small terriers were offered as near-certain enemies.

It seemed, as I had always suspected, that my dog for the night would be Zeb, the faithful friend of my nextdoor co-worker Mike, a chocolate Labrador of not quite two years (that's Zeb, not Mike), and renowned lunatic.

I should qualify. That a certain reputation preceded him was partly Mike's fault for telling me all about Zeb's exploits on some of South Devon's beaches and woodland paths. But I also have absorbed a certain knowledge of chocolate Labradors from acquaintances past and present.

"It's like they took all the best bits from a normal Labrador, and removed the brain," is how one of my friends describes his bonkers pet.

And so it transpired that I would be taking Zeb to ringcraft lessons run by the Newton Abbot and South Devon Canine Society.

I called the club's secretary, Tracy, to let her know I had located a dog and would be attending. She immediately asked what sort it was.

When I told her, she said: "Well, okay. That's good," and then the line went silent for a moment.

I took that as confirmation that very few other Zebs would be there to keep him company.

After work on the big day I go to pick Zeb up from Mike's house and he greets me like an old friend, performing his usual trick of walking through my legs half-a-dozen times and shaking a paw (that's Zeb again, not Mike, in case you were wondering).

And you can say what you want about chocolate Labs, they sure are friendly. I get the impression that Zeb would be happy for me to whisk him off and allow Mike an unbroken evening of Man United on the telly, but we agree that it's probably best if we all go.

Zeb sits on the back seat of Mike's car and assumes that uniquely regal posture favoured by Labradors: back legs down, front legs planted, head up, mouth open, tongue out.

We arrive outside the small hut which is the Bradley Barton Community Hall. It doesn't look big enough for even one Zeb to be kept in captivity.

Mike hands me the lead. This is a pivotal moment. I feel like I used to when someone made me hold their baby in the days before I had one of my own. I think the word would be: unqualified.

I've never owned a dog, only briefly ever walked one, and have certainly not ever taken one to a hall full of other dogs in anticipation of it doing what I ask of it.

It is at this point that I wonder whether this might be a bad idea.

But then Zeb takes off, yanking my hand as far from my body as it will go, and careers down the path to the front door, dragging me behind.

I swear I can see Zeb's eyes light up when all three of us peer inside.

There are dogs everywhere. Big ones, small ones, baby ones and two absolutely enormous ones. Each has a human on a lead and is taking it in turns to stand in front of one of two judges at the front of the hall before walking down and back along a long, black rubber mat.

Tracy is there to greet us and Zeb returns the compliment with gleeful vigour, wagging his tail, and his entire body it seems, panting wildly and barking two very excited barks. She tells us to position ourselves at the far end of the hall and watch for a bit, before giving it a go under the watchful eye of judge David.

I wrangle Zeb past a long line of dogs and owners to a spot between a medium brown one and two huge brown ones.

To our right, a Finnish Lapphund is not helping Zeb's state of extreme stimulation with bursts of high-pitched, enthusiastic barking. To our right a Great Dane looms over both of us like a Derby winner. If that thing barks I shall to be returning to the door pretty sharpish.

As we edge closer to our special moment, Barbara, the owner of the Lapphund, tries to put me at ease.

"Don't worry, they all take time to learn this," she says. "But you do have to learn ringcraft. That's where all dogs start."

Barbara is an old hand at it herself, being the owner of four Leonbergers who all 'showed'. She's even got a picture of one of them on her jumper.

When she leaves and her current pupil does exactly as is expected I try to make Zeb watch how it should be done. "You see," I say, for some reason which escapes me, "look what he's doing."

It feels like I'm standing again in the line for school injections. And then it's our turn. David beckons us forward. "Place your dog," he says.

There are just two problems with that: it's not my dog; and Zeb will not be placed. He bounds over and proceeds to walk round David's legs, looking for an opening.

"That's the trouble with Labs," says David with the air of a man who has owned them, "they tend to place you."

David suggests some treats as reward to curry my dog's favour, but Zeb eats all his snacks with one gulp, yanks my arm off and strains at the lead as I attempt to steer him down the mat and back.

It's not textbook, but it is his first go and no one seems to mind. "If this was puppy training we'd be getting told off by now," says Mike, who seems to remember puppy training well.

Tracy appears to have enjoyed Zeb's first attempt and assures me that just because this is a ringcraft session does not mean that the owners are all stuck-up sticklers.

"My dog is a pet first," she says. "He jumps on the furniture, has the run of the house.

"I've never spent as much time with a dog as I do now. Brushing his teeth and coat, making sure he looks just right. There is a bit of vicarious pleasure to showing dogs.

"But you speak to a lot of breeders who are successful and you'd think they had cured cancer or brought about world peace. All they've done is breed a dog. They were all doing that perfectly well long before we came along."

We are edging closer to it being our second turn. The Great Danes are still next to us. One of them is trying to sit on Zeb to keep him still while his owner, Heather, makes valiant attempts to stop him.

"Someone could have given you a small dog to try this," says Heather, without a hint of irony.

"He's only eight months," she adds, with a mixture of pride and incredulity, regarding the giant creature she has named Fraser ("The Scottish spelling"). "He's my fifth. Ann has had 34."

Ann's current Great Dane, Hugo, being slightly more mature than Fraser, is not attempting to sit on anyone. Which is a good thing.

"I just like the breed. I don't like little dogs," says Ann. Then, remembering where she is. "Well, I like them, they're just not for me.

"This ringcraft is good for them. It makes them mix, even if you don't go on to show them. And they have to be obedient. They just have to."

Obedient, eh? It's not exactly Zeb's forte. But he's an infectious character, even if he has made my right arm six inches longer with his constant attempts to escape.

When we're called forward this time David tries to look at Zeb's legs. But he sits down. So he tries to look at Zeb's teeth. He stands up.

We go through this charade for a minute or so before David decides to let us practise the walking part. Zeb actually does do a bit better this time and when we get back to David he seems happy enough that we have made progress of sorts. I think Zeb picks up on it.

He hasn't stopped wagging his tail all night, but I think all the excitement of ringcraft might finally have tired him out.

"Look at him, he's knackered," says Debbie, the society's treasurer. "He definitely got better towards the end. They often come along to their first week and go completely bonkers. Then they calm down and start to learn."

But why even put yourself and your dog through it? I mean, everyone likes an obedient pet, but isn't this taking things just a little too far?

Tina, who is holding a handbag-sized Tibetan spaniel, called Tia, tries to explain. "I think you've got to be completely mad. You go to all these lengths, drive all over the country and all you ever win is a rosette.

"It becomes a bit of an obsession. Because of the time it takes up you only meet people who have dogs, so the only people you know are dog people. It sort of takes over your life.

"And I've been doing this for nearly 30 years now."

As the hall empties and the other dogs leave Zeb is still too tired to even acknowledge their passing. "It's one of the best nights he's had in ages," says Mike. But it's about to get slightly better.

Debbie and Tracy rummage about in the cupboard at the back of the hall and emerge holding a red rosette which they present to Zeb with a degree of flourish.

He sniffs it, tries to eat it, and wags his tail before looking up at me with those bright, trustful eyes as if to say: "What? What have I won?"

"Good dog," I say. And leave it at that.