As Cecil reached for the latch and pulled back, his entry number fluttered from his pocket. The gate swung open. At his command, I took one step, one slow, measured step, toward the pen, my muzzle aimed squarely for the right side of the group where there was the most room. A second step — and they bolted from the pen like a rocket launched off its pad. Cecil threw himself against the fence just in time to avoid being trampled to death.
They had blasted the gate open with such force that it ricocheted back. Cecil caught the edge and slammed it shut.
I remained where I was. My job, I knew, was to gather the sheep in a bunch and take them where my handler commanded. Even though I had already watched a dozen runs and knew the course by heart, my place was to never assume a course of action. It was to execute the plan my handler chose. Sometimes that was hard to do. Very hard. Like now.
Every neuron in my body shouted at me to take off, seek out the furthest sheep, cast as wide as the confines would allow, and come just enough within that sheep’s line of sight to cause a change in direction. Hopefully, a calm, collected change. That possibility, however, had been shattered in the first heartbeat.
There are times when it’s best to let livestock discharge their fear and not play a part in it. It takes a wise handler to know that and a dog that trusts in that handler enough not to assume anything less. Over the years, Cecil and I had developed a oneness, that extra sensory ability to operate as a single unit, two parts of a whole.
To the onlookers in the stands, it must have looked like chaos unfolding. Like Cecil had taken the lid off Pandora’s Box, and I was merely some befuddled dunce, a sidekick at his downfall.
Head high, the black-faced wether bounded to the far side of the arena. The shorn sheep clipped blindly after him, their shorter legs churning madly. But the others, the mutt-sheep, scattered like colliding marbles. One raced toward the center chute, another followed, then changed course, while the rest loitered near the take pen, hopeful that the scatter-brained among them would snap to their senses and return to the safety of home base.
Cecil studied the situation. This was not altogether unlike some days at home, when new flock members were assimilated with testy older mothers and frantic lambs. So Cecil did what was prudent in that situation. He turned his back and walked away from them, calling me to his side with a voice so soft that no one but me could have heard.
Murmurs drifted down from the stands. Had he given up before even starting? What was he doing? Why not just send the dog?
He planted his crook in the shifting dirt, pivoted slowly around it, and watched as the sheep looked at us, then at each other, then back at us. The black-faced sheep twitched his ears, hovered a moment in indecision, then cantered back toward the center chute to join the few there.
Cecil lifted his crook, shifted three feet to the left, and waited. The sheep loitering by the take pen were wedged together as tight as gobstoppers in a gumball machine. The one with sideways ears twitched her shoulders and the movement rippled through them like whitecaps on choppy water.
Until that moment, I had restrained myself admirably. I had waited for Cecil to assess the situation, to formulate his plan of attack, and issue the directive. But he had hesitated. And I could see so clearly what should come next.
Popping to my feet, I ducked behind the Old Man — let’s face it, he was being slow — scurried to the right three steps and dropped. Aware of the shift in pressure, a single ewe moved away from the group a few feet. Only a few. It was enough.
I crept forward. Low like a Border Collie. And I eyed that single ewe with the realization that she had become the transient leader of this offshoot faction. She had assumed the power of decision. The rest would do as she did.
I was an Australian Shepherd. Usually, we worked upright, with a looser eye than our distant Scottish kin, the Border Collie. But like other working breeds, we also think independently. Had I moved toward them too quickly, used my physical presence alone, they would have reacted in the extreme. It would only take one crazed sheep careening headfirst into a fence panel and breaking her gracefully arched neck for us to not only be excused, but possibly banished from trials indefinitely.
Control is measured in minute increments and I displayed that to the utmost degree.
“Stay,” Cecil uttered.
I froze where I stood. Time stalled. Perhaps it even moved backward. The crowd was mute.
The single ewe tucked back in with her group. I took one more step, and they turned their heads toward those at the far end. Still aware of the ones orbiting the center chute, I shifted to the left. They, too, trotted toward the black-faced one.
“Steady, girl,” Cecil said, his voice low and even.
As one congruent unit, they marched through the first panel, no more than a few inches between any two. I balanced myself perfectly as they progressed to the second set of panels. There was a momentary spurt in their speed, so I dropped back, releasing the pressure, and they eased their pace. As the first few daylighted through the second obstacle opening, Cecil turned, stepped into me, and commanded, “Way to me.”
He meant the other direction, so I ignored the command and went the opposite way. He didn’t correct me. Like a boomerang, I reversed direction, sailing out in a clockwise crescent, facing away from them.
Sheep are fast, but there is always one among them that is not as fast as the rest, that hangs back in uncertainty. It is to this weakness in the group that we dogs play. The group, when it truly behaves as one, slows to compensate for this. That is our advantage.
I flew, as I had never flown before. Fleet, sure-footed, focused. And I met them halfway, before they had even passed the center line, parallel to the opening of the Y-chute. Black-Face led his frightened minions toward the yawning chute. Cecil, who knew enough of how sheep think to place himself properly, stood to the right of it. By now, they were figuring out that he was their safe haven, that he would not allow harm to befall them. Their instinct, however, was to race at him full speed, as if the moment they reached his feet all danger would cease. The problem, you see, was that Cecil was on the other side of the fence panel.
I may have mentioned before sheep are not the brightest creatures on Earth.
To sheep, it seems like I, the dog, am the wolf. However, dogs are vastly different from wolves. We may have sprung from the same ancestral tree, some of my species may even look like wolves, but the greatest difference lies in our thinking and our behaviors. We dogs do not need to hunt for our survival. We can. Some do. Most of us, however, fully understand that humans will feed us all we need, sometimes with very little work on our parts. Grace’s poodles had to do nothing more than let her dress them up and ride around in her purse (the shame!). But I digress ...
The sheep were on a direct trajectory for the fence panel when it occurred to one of them that perhaps they could not go through said panel. This caused Black-Face to stop. Confusion ensued. The cohesion of the group began to dissolve.
“Awaaay to me,” Cecil said.
This time he was right. I had anticipated this counter move. Having sat patiently all day, watching other dogs fail so miserably at this juncture, I recognized their error. To put the thread through the eye of the needle, you must first pull the thread away from it, then turn it into the tiny metal loop before slipping it through. The sheep had to overshoot the opening to a slight degree. If the dog then checked them on the other side, but far enough away to present pressure in the direction of the chute at precisely the right spot, they would go through that seemingly too narrow opening because it was the fastest and seemingly safest way to get away from the dog.
In the split second that Black-Face considered this, Cecil turned his body slightly and backed away from the chute’s end, headed toward the re-pen. This was their invitation to sanctuary. They followed him as I walked calmly behind. All ten. Filed through that slim canyon of metal tubing like children lined up for a carnival ride.
Thus, I became the second do
g of the day to succeed at the center chute.
As the sheep trotted tranquilly toward their haven, Cecil appraised me with a look that reminded me our work was far from done. It could all unravel in a single misstep, an ill-timed flank, a hesitation. He flicked his crook at them — a warning to respect his territory this time, for he had command of the wolf. They halted. He took hold of the latch, lifted it, slid it back, and carefully opened the gate.
When he was clear of their path, he told me, “Around”, which meant I could go either left or right. It didn’t matter which way, so long as the job was done.
They went in, tucked themselves against the backside of that little square prison, and turned to look at me. The wildness that had possessed them at the beginning was gone from their eyes. They were home. They would join more of their kind soon.
I lay down to let them know my task was done. I would not pursue them any longer. The gate floated shut as Cecil slid his hand along it. The ‘clink’ of the latch resounded like the chiming of a bell, signaling the end of an ordeal.
“Good girl, Halo,” he said, as we walked side by side to the outer gate. “But then ...” — his voice went soft, cracked just the tiniest bit — “you always are.”
chapter 18
Praise is a wondrous thing. Intoxicating and uplifting. The drink of the ears. The drug of the soul.
We were showered with it. The exhibitors who had gone earlier in the day clapped Cecil on the back. They shook his hand. They recapped the tense moments of our run, the obvious triumphs, commiserated with him over the difficulty of his lot of sheep, praised him again. He shrugged it all off as mere luck.
“Amazing run.” A short red-haired man with freckles clasped Cecil’s hand and shook it vigorously. “Just ... amazing.”
“Thank you, Becket. Parts were a bit rough, but I s’pose we got the job done.”
Bernadette kissed him on the cheek. Her pride was barely containable. She hooked her arm through his and leaned against him as they walked toward the truck to put his crook away and get me a drink of water. “They’re saying you ought to win this thing, Cecil.”
He puckered his face up, then rinsed his mouth with water from the bottle that she handed to him. “Naw. Clancy’s run was smooth. He did his in half the time.” He tucked his crook under his arm on the side by me as we walked along. “Besides, doesn’t matter whether we win or lose. She’s an honest dog. She did what I asked of her and then some. Can’t wish for more.”
“She’s your favorite girl, isn’t she?”
He stopped, looked her square in the eye. “You’re my favorite girl.”
A declaration. Not public, but unmistakable. He removed his hat, bent his head toward hers.
I looked away. I’d had my moment. This was theirs.
—o00o—
The exhibitors, along with an impressive number of observers, had collected at the back of the building that housed the judge’s box. Dogs sat calmly at their handlers’ knees. Fifteen minutes had passed since our closing run and tension mounted as the judge and her assistants tabulated scores, their pencils scratching furiously, fingers tapping away at calculator keys.
Finally, the door opened and Jessica Zink emerged. Right behind her were the two people who had added scores for her that day, handed her the proper score sheets, and run the clock. Over the hours, her long pale braid had loosened. She brushed a stray lock from her face and addressed the crowd with the usual platitudes about how many nice runs and promising young dogs she had seen. She read through the placements for the Started and Open classes, then handed out the score sheets to the remaining qualifiers.
Clancy stood off to the side, one shoulder propped against a young tree, as he emptied a can of soda down his gullet. Brooks was asleep at his feet.
“And now for our top four placements in the Advanced class.” Zink flipped through the entire stack briefly, pulled out the bottom four, and placed them on top. “I’ll announce the remaining qualifiers after this. As for the rest of you ...” — she gave a smile that was more polite than apologetic — “I’ll be happy to discuss the scores and where I may have deducted points after the conclusion of awards.”
Arms crossed, Cecil looked down at the ground. Whatever had caused him discomfort an hour ago had faded. The color was back in his cheeks, the tension gone from his face. He appeared more agitated by the constant stream of small talk from the other competitors than anything. Cecil was always cordial with others, but he could only take so much before he sought to retreat to solitude. Most people would have itched with boredom to rise every day, work alone on a remote farm, and go to bed with no one to talk to but a scrappy little working dog. But Cecil found a unique beauty in that peaceful setting, a fulfillment in the mundane. We were alike that way.
“In fourth, we have ... Dylan Walton and Spin.”
A man standing next to the flagpole dipped his head in disappointment, then raised his hand to gentle applause. The pair wove through the crowd to accept their rosette.
“In third ... Maggie Kirton and her partner Cirrus.”
A scream of elation broke above the soft clapping of hands. Everyone turned to the back of the crowd where a woman wearing a Cincinnati Reds cap and mirrored sunglasses jumped up and down. Her dog, a perfectly groomed blue merle male, leapt into the air and barked. Her friends hugged her. She bounced her way to the front, hugged the judge, and had her picture taken.
On the way back, Kirton pumped her fists above her, the streamers of the rosette twisting around her forearm. The judge raised the stack of papers in her hand to hush the crowd. The air crackled with anticipation.
“Today’s runner-up was ... from St. Louis, Bill Clancy and his dog Brooks.”
Shock flashed over Clancy’s features. His fists clenched. He molded his face into a plastic smile to show off bleached teeth. As he passed through the crowd, his pace a tad sluggish as if he were reluctant to accept the consolation prize, he nodded in acknowledgment of their congratulations. When he passed by Tucker, however, his cordial glance became a brief glare.
Cecil, who had not witnessed the exchange between the two, expelled a breathy sigh, then checked his watch. “We’ll have to rush home to get the girls put away before sunset, Halo.”
His lips drawn tight, Clancy snatched the runner-up rosette from the judge a little too abruptly.
“Nice work, Mr. Clancy,” the judge told him as she held up the envelope containing his prize money.
“Could’ve been nicer, apparently,” he muttered, taking the envelope from her.
Bernadette wedged her way between a young couple and their children to give Cecil a pinch on the arm. “Do you know what that means?”
“Goodness gracious,” Merle chirped beside her. “I haven’t seen this much excitement since Jasper passed his kidney stone.”
Cecil shook his head. “Means we didn’t even make honorable mention. Come on, Halo, time to head home.”
Just as he turned to go, Zink raised her voice. “I think today’s winner was a surprise to us all.”
Bernadette blocked his exit and jabbed a finger at his chest. “Just wait, will ya?”
“Even though this team didn’t have the quickest time, and parts of the run looked, well, ugly, it was the best example of teamwork I’ve seen since the 2005 Nationals. Congratulations are in order for Cecil Penewit and Halo.”
“I told you! I told you!” Bernadette screeched, her bosom heaving every time she bounced on the balls of her feet. Her bracelet and necklace clacked like a pair of maracas.
Cecil blinked at her. “Who did she say?”
Merle slapped him on the back. “You, you old goat. Now get up there!”
I nosed the back of his knee to prod him along.
Half the county, it turned out, already knew who Cecil was. There had been pictures in the local rag of the two of us attending story time at the literacy center. We were small town celebrities. The soft-spoken shepherd who owned the farm at the end of Sweet Potato Ridge
Road, childless and widowed long ago, was engulfed by a sea of congratulations.
It seemed to overwhelm him as much as it uplifted him.
With a shy smile and twinkling eyes, he accepted his awards with humility. He shook the judge’s hand and posed with her for the photographer, who was also the reporter of The Messenger, Faderville’s only newspaper. But instead of mingling with his admirers or granting an interview, he ducked out the back way.
Cecil and I caught up with Clancy just as he was packing his pop-up canopy into the side door of his gooseneck trailer. The trailer was twice as long as his truck. Through the open door, I could see the inside of the place, decked out with velour benches, oak cabinets, and brass trim everywhere. A palace on wheels compared to Cecil’s modest home.
“Mr. Clancy.” Cecil raised his hand to his brow in a half-wave.
“Congratulations on your win, Mr. Penewit.” They clasped hands. “You made the best of a bad situation and proved your dog’s talents.”
“Thank you, but I just wanted to tell you, before you go, what an impressive dog you have there. Finest I’ve seen in all my years — and that’s quite a lot of years.”
Clancy zipped up his canopy pack and slid it through the door. “He’s done some winning here and there. Six national champions in the first four generations of his pedigree. Three all-around titles himself.” He turned, searched out a small cooler, and set it inside the door. “How’s your girl bred, by the way? Looks like she might have some Windy Knoll in there. Maybe some of Ted Kinnard’s Boss behind her?”
“I don’t really know,” Cecil said. “Never bothered to find out. Just the pup of an old neighbor’s dog. Farm lines mostly. Does what she was bred for. That’s all that ever mattered to me.”
“That right?” Clancy piled a few more things inside his trailer. “You ever think of breeding her? ’Cause if you ever do, Brooks here is a top sire. I’d be interested in taking a pup from the litter in lieu of a stud fee. Can’t say as I’ve ever done that before, but for one of hers, I would.”
Say No More Page 17
