Circus Dogs Run Rings Around Your Average Mutt : Performing: One of trainer Erik Adams’ talented canines does a handstand, and one of them balances on his master’s nose.

You think of the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus, and you think of big, right?

Elephants, big cats, big death-defying feats, big showgirls, big processions, the ringmaster with the big voice, big troupes (like the 40 Mongolians who are the centerpiece of the 122nd “edition” of the circus, which opens in Anaheim tonight), big, big, big.

But what about the small acts that give the circus its zip and its pace, and that grab the audience while the heavier-hitters are in the wings? Who are these people, and why do they do it?

Presented for your inspection: Erik Adams, his family and his dogs.

If audience reaction during the circus’s last two stops, Las Vegas and San Diego, is any indication (and why shouldn’t it be?), this act is a gem, a real crowd-pleaser, six solid minutes of fun in the center ring.

The dogs jump over each other and over Adams. The dogs walk on their hind legs, the dogs walk on their forelegs. One dog does a handstand, one dog balances on Adams’ nose. You’ve gotta see to believe.

A former acrobat, Adams is third-generation circus. His grandfather trained bears and lions, his father trained bears, chimpanzees and dogs.

There was never any doubt that Adams would follow the family tradition.

“I started with greyhounds,” he said before a performance last week in San Diego. “It was kind of a mistake. I know there are a lot of greyhound lovers out there, but I found greyhounds just not very intelligent.”

Still, he found he prefers dogs to the big cats (too dangerous) or chimps (too unpredictable): “I still have all my fingers, which is something I’m very proud of.”

At age 40, he’s had his own act for 18 years. He’s in his third year with Ringling Bros., having spent 15 years in smaller circuses and gigs across the country. He hopes there are casinos in his future. “My goal has always been to work in Las Vegas,” he said.

He is helped in the act by wife Bobbi, 38, and their daughter Jessica, 9. The family keeps a home in Tampa, Fla., but constantly is on the road. They prefer their own transportation to the circus train. Jessica gets tutoring by mail. In California, the rules are stricter and more face-to-face instruction is required; luckily, one of the circus showgirls is a former teacher.

Adams could make a living as a welder, but he can’t bear the thought of not performing.

“I’m hooked on the life,” he said. “It’s the freest job you can have and still be working. You’re with the animals and concerned with the animals 24 hours a day, but the freedom comes because you’re your own boss.”

Traveling with the family in an air-conditioned trailer are the seven dogs that are part of the act (four poodles, two wire terriers and one fox terrier), two “retired” dogs (Mr. Bones, 15, and Jeff, 12) and one dog-in-training.

Adams is not sure the dogs respond to applause, but he knows they have good nights and bad nights, like all performers: “They enjoy working, but sometimes they can get a little wild.”

In San Diego, animal rights advocates picketed outside the circus and surreptitiously snuck a banner inside: “The Cruelest Show on Earth.” The circus was ready, both with security guards and printed handouts blasting the advocates as “cultists.”

Adams, not surprisingly, has no time for the pickets and their ideological ilk.

“They don’t know what they’re talking about,” he said. “I don’t know anybody in the circus who abuses the animals. These animals are our lives.”