As she prepared to enter the pig ring on a recent weekend morning, Karis Dadson shifted her focus toward a judge who stood on a thick mat of sawdust shavings about 30 feet away.

That focus took the form of an icy stare that has captivated the hundreds of thousands of people who follow Karis, 14, and her family on social media. It was the same stare that has been celebrated by her fans — many of them young women — as empowering, “tuff” and the “meanest mug” in the game. The same stare that has been a source of inspiration to those who dream of emulating her while shopping for groceries, walking their dogs or confronting an annoying neighbor.

The same stare that has prompted such questions as: Who ticked her off? Does she feed her victims to the pigs? Can someone explain this to me?

And it was the same stare that was center stage last month at the Western Bonanza Junior Livestock Show, a three-day potpourri of denim, cowboy boots and expertly manicured animals — swine, sheep, goats and cattle — at the Paso Robles Event Center on the central coast of California. “The stare is iconic,” said Madelynn Gardner, 15, who ran up against Karis and her twin brother, Krew, in several contests over the weekend. “It’s a little intimidating.”

And it is purposeful. You just need to know a bit about livestock shows to understand it.

A field of more than 50 boys and girls, along with their pigs, had been cut to 16 for an age-group final in “swine showmanship,” a specialty for Karis. In showmanship, the exhibitors, as the handlers are known, are evaluated at least as stringently as their pigs are. Judges call out instructions and base their decisions on a host of factors, including how effectively the exhibitors present their pigs, the pigs’ responsiveness to their commands and the pace at which the pigs move. (Optimal pace? Between a jaunt and a trot.)

Karis, who stands 5 feet tall, wore a dark top with leopard-print sleeves, bluejeans and a Navajo pearl necklace, with her blonde hair in a bun. She was accompanied by Johnny Ringo, a 9-month-old, 270-pound crossbred barrow pig she had scrubbed to an immaculate shine.

By tapping him with a pair of small, thin whips that bore a resemblance to conducting batons, Karis guided Johnny Ringo through the ring while steering clear of four-legged traffic. As friends and family members watched from metal bleachers, Karis’s mother, Karalyn, crouched outside the ring with her Canon EOS R10.

“I always tell my kids that you have to try the be the least amount of annoying,” Mrs. Dadson said. “If the judges can’t find something annoying, you might stay up there.”

Through social media, the Dadsons, who raise and sell pigs, have brought livestock shows — and, more specifically, the niche world of show pigs — to the masses. A palate cleanser for doomscrollers, the videos, many of which have surpassed 10 million views, are a smorgasbord of farm-themed infotainment: tutorials, explainers, show recaps and, of course, crowd-pleasing stares. Karis, in particular, has emerged as a surprising symbol of female focus and determination — not that she meant for any of that to happen.

More than 100,000 young people participate annually in pig shows across the country, according to Clay Zwilling, the chief executive of the National Swine Registry. But there is only one pair of Dadson twins, who, Mr. Zwilling said, offer a “positive example of the show livestock industry” to many who never would have known it existed.

Karis and Krew have handled newfound celebrity in their own ways. While Krew says he likes the attention, Karis seems bewildered by it all. She sometimes wonders: How did she and her brother wind up on Will Smith’s Instagram feed? Why are so many other kids asking for selfies? Is she really a 21st-century queen and boss who, according to the internet, both serves and slays?

“It’s weird,” she said. “To me, I’m just another person showing a pig.”

Sharing Their Life

One of the semi-apocryphal stories about the Dadson twins is that they were born during a livestock show. The official version is that Mrs. Dadson went into labor while her husband, Kyle, was showing pigs at a nearby county fair. She had nearly told him he should stay home, but there was no chance it would play out that way.

It worked out in the end. After Mrs. Dadson called him, he beat her to the hospital, she said. Karis was born three minutes before Krew and has acted like his older sister ever since.

The Dadsons now live on a quiet street in Paso Robles, where they share their property with 12 show pigs, six sows, six piglets, two show sheep, four dogs, two ducks and four barn cats that work security.

“They’re supposed to eat the mice,” said Mr. Dadson, 46, an agriculture teacher at the nearby Atascadero High School, where Karis and Krew are freshmen.

Dozens of vinyl banners from livestock shows line the interior walls of the barn in their backyard where several of their pigs are housed. The twins have been showing pigs since they were 4. One of their first public appearances was at the California Pork Spectacular.

Mrs. Dadson, 38, had modest goals when she started sharing videos of her children competing. She had always enjoyed watching showmanship content online, she said, and wanted to contribute. She also was proud of her children. Best case scenario? Perhaps the posts would help the family sell some pigs.

So she was floored when her TikTok of Karis (staring, of course) at the 2022 Arizona National Livestock Show eclipsed one million views. Mrs. Dadson thought it would be a one-off. But then it happened again and again and again.

The overwhelming response to the videos was encapsulated in a comment from a TikTok user, which read: “Do I watch livestock shows? No. Did I know who this diva was the second she came on the screen? ABSOLUTELYYYY.” The comment alone received more than 20,000 likes.

The Dadsons have reached their largest audience via TikTok, where they have about 420,000 followers. But given TikTok’s uncertain future, Mrs. Dadson is glad the family has a presence on several other platforms, including Instagram, Facebook and YouTube.

For the record, all that staring is not a gimmick. Austin Thompson, one of the judges at the Western Bonanza, described making eye contact with judges as an “unwritten rule” in showmanship. It is a sign that the exhibitors are paying attention to the judge’s cues. And if it conveys confidence, that helps, too.

“I like the kids who come out of the gate with that kind of intensity,” Mr. Thompson said. “It just shows a little more care: They’re here to win and to do something.”

Karis said she had practiced until staring became second nature.

“I’m not thinking about the way that I look,” she said. “I’m thinking about how I’m moving around the ring.”

“I think it’s a little goofy,” Krew said.

‘We Are Pork Producers’

At the Western Bonanza, Karis was a cyclone of energy, bouncing between barns — she was also showing sheep — even though her path was interrupted every few feet so that she could give someone a hug.

“These are all my best friends,” said Karis, who checked her iPhone. “I’m already at 9,000 steps.”

Here, no one treated her like a social media star. Instead, she was just Karis, a teenager who likes to cook, spend time with her animals and gab on the phone with her friends.

At one point, her mother urged her to grab lunch.

“And not just Starbucks,” Mrs. Dadson said. “You need some protein.”

Karis resurfaced a few minutes later — with an ice cream cone. Her mother groaned.

“The line was too long!” Karis said.

It was also lunchtime for her pigs. James Backman, a show pig breeder from Denair, Calif., who works with several families like the Dadsons, was studying the animals to see how much additional feed each needed to bulk up before the next morning’s contests. The scene was vaguely reminiscent of boxers who cut weight before their bouts, except in reverse.

It served as a reminder that luminaries like Johnny Ringo are livestock, not pets. In the old days, farmers would get together to decide which of their pigs were best for breeding. Now, there are competitions, but the fundamental purpose is much the same. Some show pigs go back to breeders. Others are harvested for meat.

“My dad used to say that you’re producing a product that’s going to land on somebody’s dining room table,” Myrna Wicks, the Dadson twins’ maternal grandmother, said. “And it better be the best product you can put on that table.”

At the Western Bonanza, that message was reinforced when Karis grabbed a pulled pork sandwich from a friend’s nearby spread. Breakfast burritos at a food truck next to the pig barn came with a choice of bacon or chorizo.

Still, emotional attachments form on occasion (think: Wilbur from “Charlotte’s Web”). “There was one pig that Krew was like, ‘Do we have to get rid of him?’” Mrs. Dadson said. “His name was Dwayne.”

Krew gets it, though, and drove the point home when his family appeared on a recent episode of “The Pork Podcast.” The host had asked the Dadsons about their interactions with livestock show neophytes.

“Me, personally, I think the weirdest question I’ve seen on the comments section is, ‘Do you eat pork?’” Krew said. “And to answer that: Yes, we eat pork. We are pork producers, and we eat pork.”

While the Dadsons have earned enough money from social media to “pay for more pigs,” Mrs. Dadson said, the videos do not produce a steady stream of revenue. They enjoy other perks: free swag, for example, from animal feed companies like Hueber and Lindner, and from Andis, which manufactures clippers.

Given their visibility, the Dadsons sometimes feel like piñatas for animal-welfare advocates. Mr. Dadson said he had stopped reading the comments on their social media posts. Mrs. Dadson mines them for material so that she can correct misconceptions.

“It’s constant,” Mrs. Dadson said. “They don’t understand how well we take care of them. We like to think that they got to live out their best lives.”

The Dadsons can often be found wearing baseball caps with branding for All N, a hydration supplement. Their pigs apparently swear by it.

“Makes their skin pop,” Mrs. Dadson said.

‘She Commands Attention’

The pigs were not the only stylish ones in Paso Robles. The girls favored flared, boot-cut jeans by 7 for All Mankind with the No. 7 embroidered on the back pockets. Many of the boys wore jeans, button-down shirts and quarter-zips by Cinch.

“You put all this effort into their outfits,” Mrs. Dadson said, “and then they get ruined so fast. Pig poop all over them. But we try to keep them looking presentable most of the day.”

Despite the scatological obstacles, the fashion world has been calling. Karis recently made her modeling debut, appearing in the first issue of Domina Journal, a biannual art and fashion magazine that describes itself as a “testament to the perseverance of the artistic feminine spirit.”

Last summer, staff members from the magazine spent a few days at the family farm and at the California Mid-State Fair, where Jay Barrett, Domina’s editor in chief and fashion director, said Karis managed to stand out amid “cowboys in 10-gallon hats, rows of livestock and the biggest American flags I’ve ever seen.”

“She commands attention,” Ms. Barrett added in an email. “A look seasoned industry models strive for, at just 14, she’s got it. She’s exactly what we were looking for: defining female power, in an unexpected way.”

Karis said the photo shoot was fun. She also got a kick out of the people who dressed as her for Halloween. (One woman cast her husband in a supporting role as the pig.) But she knew her life had changed last summer when she was recognized at a series of livestock shows in the Midwest.

“It’s just different,” Karis said. “It’s not like I’m mad about it, but it’s new. I’m getting used to it.”

‘All These Kids Are Good’

In many ways, the Dadsons seem like accidental evangelists for the livestock life and the lessons they say it imparts to young people. Karis and Krew care for their pigs before and after school, feeding them, washing them and training them. They typically compete at one show a month.

In the process, Mr. Dadson said, the twins have learned how to create budgets and manage their time. Karis, who wants to work in agriculture when she grows up, said she was proud to be a part of her community.

“You could go up to any group in the pig barn,” she said, “and they would give you a three-course meal.”

Mr. Thompson, the judge at the Western Bonanza, recalled his own childhood raising show pigs. While the chance to compete often felt like a reward, each show produced only a handful of champions.

“It teaches you how to lose more than to win,” Mr. Thompson said. “You can work harder than anybody, and still not win. But you have to work to give yourself a chance.”

Win or lose, exhibitors invariably shake hands with the judge, though their disappointment sometimes manifests itself in the form of slouched shoulders and hangdog expressions.

For the longest time, Mrs. Dadson said, Karis looked up to her friend Maddy Lindley. Karis never thought she would compete at Maddy’s level, and when she did, her confidence soared. But Karis’s unusual level of public exposure has created unrealistic expectations.

“There are people who assume, ‘Oh, Karis should win every time,’” Mrs. Dadson said. “No, all these kids are good. You just don’t see their videos.”

At the Western Bonanza, the Dadsons advanced to the final in four contests. Karis won the showmanship crown in one and finished as the runner-up, or “reserve champion,” in another.

Whenever Karis left the ring and spotted her family, she abandoned the game face that has made her famous and adopted an expression that, as a show pig exhibitor, would most likely get her nowhere on social media: She smiled.