Shepherd's Crook

by Sheila Webster Boneham

  Ray and Evan stood near the arena gate, their dogs lying at their feet, calm but alert. The men weren’t talking, and although they stood not more than two feet apart, they were turned slightly away from one another. As I watched, Evan said something, and Ray spat in the dirt. I was beginning to think his spitting was in lieu of speech. Evan wheeled toward Ray and the hand hanging at his side curled into a fist, then relaxed.

  Tom apparently hadn’t noticed the hostile body language. He said, “I’m going to say hello,” and veered toward the two men, whom he knew from tagging along to a couple of my herding lessons at Evan and Summer’s place. My first thought was that he might learn something juicy if the obvious trouble between the two men had anything to do with the missing sheep. I considered tagging along, but thought better of it. I walked on past the corner of the building, Jay trotting beside me, and reminded myself that I wasn’t going to get involved in any kind of sleuthing. Nightmares from the previous year’s misadventures still disrupted my sleep. I didn’t need any new ones.

  Three people formed a loose circle halfway up the dirt roadway that paralleled the side of the pole building and led to the empty sheep pen. One was Summer Winslow, talking fast and pointing this way and that. An Allen County sheriff’s deputy stood side-on to me, sunlight glinting off the spit-polished holster at his hip. The third person was a big man in tan chinos and a corduroy jacket. He had his back to me, but there was no mistaking detective Homer “Hutch” Hutchinson of the Fort Wayne Police Department. I’d gotten to know the man pretty well over the previous year, and I felt oddly comforted to see him there.

  As if he had heard me thinking, Hutch turned around. He nodded at me and broke into a big grin when he saw Jay. Judging by the furry butt wiggling against my leg, the feeling was mutual.

  Summer stopped talking and stared at me, and the deputy—Deputy Johnson, according to his name tag—turned as well.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “No problem,” said Summer. “The problem is between these gentlemen.” She reached both hands behind her head, twisted her long penny-colored braid, and knotted it at her nape. She glared at the deputy, then at Hutch, and said, “You have my number. Call me when you get your act together.” She walked past me toward the stock arena.

  Hutch hunkered down and called Jay, so I dropped the leash and they had a major bonding moment, complete with Hutchinson cooing, “Ooh a good boy, ess ooh are.” It was hard to believe the man had been afraid of dogs when we met a year earlier.

  The deputy watched them blank-faced for a moment, cleared his throat, and nodded at me. “Ma’am.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Little matter of jurisdiction,” he said.

  Hutchinson stood up and brushed a pound or so of Aussie fur off his pants. “The city limits line runs right though here.” He indicated an imaginary line transecting the little road at a forty-five degree angle. “So we’re not sure who has jurisdiction.”

  And meanwhile, whoever has the sheep gets farther away. I could see why Summer was upset, but I managed for once to keep my opinion to myself. I asked Hutchinson if he could stick around to watch some of the action, and he said he’d like to if he didn’t get called away. The deputy answered his phone, told the caller to hang on, and looked like he wanted to talk to Hutch, so I picked up Jay’s leash and excused myself.

  As I walked back the way I had come, my eyes skimmed the dusty surface of the road. The sun was at just the right angle to make the footprints stand out. Hundreds of footprints. Or, more to the point, a few prints from boots and shoes, scores from canine paws, hundreds from hooves. I slowed myself until I was taking baby steps, telling Jay to heel to keep him at my knee. The marks in the dirt were, of course, a jumbled mess of partial prints overlaid by others, but still, it was clear that several people and several dogs, and a bunch more sheep, had passed this way recently. There were no tire marks that I could see.

  Tom left the other two men and joined me where I was creeping along the roadway. Tom teaches anthropology at the Indiana University’s Fort Wayne campus, and as a trained observer of human behavior, he knew that I wasn’t just being eccentric. He stayed to the edge of the road and, as he approached, he asked, “Tracks?”

  “Gazillions of tracks,” I said. “Just what you’d expect—people, dogs, sheep.”

  He stepped in beside me and we crept on, both of us looking at the ground. “Interesting,” Tom said, describing a circle over a section of road with his hand.

  I stepped closer and looked. “What?”

  “The prints travel both directions.”

  “Wouldn’t you expect that?”

  “I’m not sure.” Tom looked at me, then back at the tracks. “The people and dogs, of course, but the sheep? If they moved them in from that direction yesterday,” he said, pointing down the roadway toward the arena, “and if they didn’t officially move any back out this morning, why do the hoof prints go both ways?”

  Good question. I filled Tom in on the jurisdiction issue and said, “I guess we should let them know.”

  Tom agreed. “And soon, before the tracks are obliterated.”

  We turned back toward Hutch and the deputy, inching along the edge of the roadway for ten feet or so. I was just about to pick up the pace when Tom stretched his arm in front of me and said, “That’s from a big dog.” He pointed at a paw print near the edge of the roadway, almost under the bottom fence board, where the jumble of impressions was less confusing. In fact, most of the area was clear of marks. There were a few partial prints, clearly canine, but it was hard to tell much about them. And that one pristine paw print in a mound of soft dusty earth. Tom was right. It was made by a very big dog.

  eight

  By the time I had alerted Hutch and the deputy to the possible significance of the tracks on the roadway and helped them block it off to further traffic pending a closer look, I had about half an hour to get ready for the instinct test. Not that there was much to do at that point, other than breathe deeply and review what little I knew about handling my dog while he handled the sheep.

  At my van, I switched out Jay’s everyday collar for the one he wore in competition, the one with no tags dangling. We walked past the handful of vehicles parked along the fence row and into a rolling, close-mown stretch at the back of the property. New fence posts marched across part of the area and more were stacked in scattered piles, along with tight rolls of welded wire fencing.

  Jay stopped to test the wind, which was blowing from the direction of the arena where we would be taking our test. I turned that way. Ray and Bonnie were moving three sheep into the pickup pen for the first dog. I looked at Jay, and he looked at me, eyes bright and tail nub wagging. “Pretty soon, Bubby,” I said, and Jay went into full body wiggle and let out a squeal. “Come on, let’s finish our walk.”

  Walking helped me gather my thoughts and burn off a little pre-performance adrenaline, and it was something I tried to do any time we competed. The instinct test isn’t competitive, but it feels a lot like competition when dog owners talk afterward about whose dog passed and whose did not, and which handler made what ridiculous mistake. Twenty minutes later, I decided it was time to grab a folding chair and head over to the arena.

  When I opened the back hatch of my van, a huge sheet of brown paper, formerly a grocery bag, stared back at me. It was bungeed against the two crates that live back there, and its message was neatly printed in giant black caps: YOUR CHAIRS AND I ARE AT THE ARENA. TOM.

  I was still smiling as I passed the disc dog practice ring and waved at Kathy and Edith Ann. Jay bounced with excitement, shifting his gaze every few seconds from me to the arena and back and tipping his twitching nose up and into the wind. I stroked his cheek and followed his gaze to the arena. The remaining dozen sheep were gathered into a loose off-center knot. They didn’t look overly concerned about what was comin
g.

  Ray Turnbull stood outside the far right end of the arena talking to a heavy-set man in a dirt-beige suit that was out of place in this land of animal-friendly jeans and sweatshirts. As always, Bonnie sat at his feet. I couldn’t see the stranger’s face, but judging by Ray’s expression, he was involved in yet another unfriendly conversation. He took a step back from the fat man and shook his head. The other man stepped toward Ray, his right hand raised and index finger pointing at Ray’s face. Bonnie let loose a high-pitched series of warnings and the stranger stepped back. Bonnie stopped barking when Ray held his palm toward her, but she kept a close eye on the man. Ray said something to the man, then turned and walked toward the arena, his dog beside him.

  What the heck was that? Not for the first time I wished I had one of those gadgets that let you pick up conversations from far away. I pulled Summer’s phone out of my pocket and checked the time. “We’d better get over there, Bubby,” I said, and Jay let out a soft boof of agreement. I found Tom sitting by the arena, kissed his cheek, and said, “Thanks for the note.” Jay hopped his front end onto Tom’s lap and one-upped me with a full-face flurry of kisses.

  Tom lowered Jay gently to the ground and was still laughing when he asked, “When are you up?”

  I handed Tom the leash and said, “No idea. I’ll check the board.”

  Summer stood in front of a white board displayed on an easel near the gate to the arena, apparently checking the list on the board against the paper in her hand. When she finished, I asked her whether there was any news, and how she was doing.

  She shook her head and said, “Just dandy.” She looked me in the eye and said, “No, not dandy at all.” Her eyes narrowed and her voice went flat and low. “I’d like to find whoever’s responsible, truss him up tight, and let the whole flock trample him into the dust.”

  Summer’s urge to hurt whoever had stolen her sheep was understandable, but I’d seen enough violence in the previous twelve months to keep me from commenting directly. Instead I said, “Hopefully the police will find them.” I almost asked whether area slaughterhouses had been given a heads up, but I couldn’t get the question out of my mouth.

  “Do you need something?”

  “No, thanks, I just came to see when Jay and I go.” I smiled at Summer, then turned to the white board with the list of dogs in the instinct test. Please don’t let us be first. I read the six names. Jay and I were second. I breathed again.

  Summer patted my arm and said, “You’ll do fine.” She tried for a smile and added, “Well, Jay will. Just stay out of his way and do what the tester tells you.”

  Way to bolster my self-confidence at my first herding event, I thought, but I knew she was right. Even without much training, Jay knew a lot more about handling sheep than I did. I started to walk away, but turned back, pulling the cell phone out of my pocket. “You gave me the wrong phone,” I said.

  Summer stared at the phone in my hand, looking confused. She reached into her right pocket and when she came up empty, checked the left. She looked at the phone in her hand—my phone—and said, “Oh, wow. Sorry.”

  I rejoined Tom and Jay, but was too jumpy to sit down. As usual, my dog was fully in the moment, and as I watched him, my scared-o-meter dropped a degree or two. Jay sat beside Tom’s chair, his whole being focused on the three sheep that Ray and Bonnie had just moved from the holding pen to the main arena. The Aussie breed standard described Jay’s ears perfectly—the base of each lifted away from his head, with the remaining three-fourths of the soft triangular flaps falling slightly to the side. That, and the look of eagles in his eyes, gave back whatever confidence Summer’s comment had taken from me.

  nine

  The first dog into the arena for the instinct test was a very young blue merle Border Collie named Spring. April Bruce, her owner, had told me that she was seven months old and had never seen sheep before. Spring entered the ring calmly enough, and the tester told April to walk her closer to the sheep. As they approached, one of the ewes raised her head and turned to stare at the puppy. My heart was beginning to pound as I watched, but Spring stood still, one front foot a few inches in front of the other, shoulders slightly crouched, head thrust forward.

  “Have her down,” the tester said. Spring lay down on April’s command, and the tester said, “Take her leash and send her.”

  As soon as she was released, Spring got to work. She ran a wide circle to get behind the three woollies and pushed them forward with her quiet presence.

  Tom touched my arm and asked, “Did you say she’s never seen sheep before?”

  “That’s what April told me.”

  “Wow.”

  Wow indeed. As her owner walked a serpentine path across the ring, Spring moved back and forth behind the trio to keep them moving. She stopped and backed up on command, working like a dog that had some training.

  “She’s a hard act to follow,” I said.

  “You’ll do fine.” Tom ran his hand over the top of Jay’s skull and down the back of his neck. “Both of you.”

  I took my attention off the action to smile at Tom. He grinned back, and then his gaze shifted to the arena and he gestured toward it with his chin.

  Spring stood frozen, still focused on the three sheep. April walked backward a few more steps, and Spring glanced at her and back at the sheep. The dog’s whole expression softened and she bowed at the sheep, inviting them to play. She sprang back up and bounced toward the lead ewe, who looked as confused by her well-spoken canine body language as an American tourist trying to make out a thick Highland brogue. Who could watch that and not laugh? I glanced at the tester, and she was practically doubled over. I looked back at the dog. She bowed once more, looked around as if to see who everyone found

  so funny, and went back to work until the judge signaled the end of

  the test.

  My stomach went a bit gurgly as I took Jay’s leash from Tom, but I sucked in a long breath and walked to the gate. Jay and I waited while Ray and Bonnie moved the first three sheep into a holding pen and brought three fresh ones out. Hutchinson stood about twenty feet away, talking to Summer. Her arms were crossed tight across her body, and even from that distance, I could see the rage that played across her face. She turned her head toward the arena, but I couldn’t tell whether she was looking at something or away from Hutch.

  “Come on in.”

  The tester’s voice brought me back to the task at hand and, as I stepped into the arena, all my saliva turned to dust. Jay pulled against the leash, but let up when I said, “Easy.” Like many Aussies, Jay can be quite the comedian, and I couldn’t help wondering whether Spring’s performance had inspired him to try something funny.

  He didn’t try anything funny, at least not on purpose, but he clearly thought his job was to keep the sheep very close to me. Two feet, max. And the sheep, a trio of Rambouillets, looked gigantic. And nervous. I was sure each one outweighed me, and that they wouldn’t hesitate to throw that weight around to get away from a dog. Monty Python’s famous “killer sheep” skit popped into my mind.

  At the tester’s direction, I released Jay and he sprinted around the little flock. Before he could get behind them, though, they took off toward the far end of the arena. Jay raced away on a parallel track, clearly planning to outrun them and turn them back. Which he did. The ewes turned away from him and came at me, shoulder to shoulder, full speed ahead. I ran to my left, trying to get out of the way, but the sheep adjusted their course. The one in the middle butted me in the belly, and I flew up and back and fell flat. I shut my eyes as they passed over me, landing a couple of good hoof strikes but missing vital organs.

  “Get up!” I heard the words, but for a moment, my body wouldn’t cooperate. More words filtered into my brain. The tester yelled at me. “Get up! Now!”

  I picked myself up and turned around, expecting to see the sheep galloping away with Jay on their
funny little tails. Oh, shit. They were coming straight at me again, my delighted dog right behind with a look on his face that seemed to say, “I got ’em, Mom! Here they are!”

  And they knocked me flat again. I scrambled up, half expecting them to take another crack at me, but the sheep apparently had given up the notion that they could escape. They were coming toward me, but at a fast shuffling walk, and I managed to back away, follow instructions, and complete the test.

  “Call your dog,” the tester said, and when I had him beside me and on leash, she put her hand on my shoulder. “Those were tough sheep for an instinct test.” She chuckled. “Flighty.” I was still trying to catch my breath, so I just nodded. “Your dog could use a bit more training, but he passed.”

  Jay grinned at me, butt wiggling, and as soon as we left the arena, I knelt on the ground and hugged him. “You did great, Bubby.” He answered by leaning into me and sliding his body against mine until he was on the ground, paws in the air, for a belly rub, which, of course, he got.

  I grinned at Tom, who gave me a thumbs-up. Still grinning, I walked Jay up the little roadway where we had found the tracks so that we could both unwind a bit. Thirty yards along, we veered onto a narrow lane—a narrow dirt track through grass, really—that ran between the back of the arena’s holding pen and a field of corn stubble. We went only a short distance, but the lane ran on, apparently, to the back of the property, which I guesstimated to be a hundred acres or more. I stroked Jay’s head and said, “Maybe we can take a longer walk later, Bub.”

  As we turned around, the light caught a disturbed stretch of ground at the edge of the cornfield. I stopped for a closer look. Paw prints. Big paw prints, like the one we’d found earlier. There were only four of them, as if the dog had hopped off the grass momentarily as he headed for the pole barn at the end of the lane. I made a mental note to tell Hutchinson, but my attempts to think through what the prints might mean were cut short by the sound of a woman’s voice. It was Summer Winslow, and although she was not yelling, her words slashed through the distance between us like a machete.