by Jeri Watts
James slammed into the house like a wind flying down from the Peaks of Otter — always a bad sign.
“Show of respect, my foot,” he said. “They ain’t canceling the varsity homecoming football game.”
Mama came around the corner. She was holding a pillow cover, and her eyes were pooled up with tears. “What are you riled up about?” she said, her voice shaking as those pooled-up tears flowed over and tracked down her cheeks.
“They’re canceling the JV game and the junior-varsity hop. Because of the assassination.”
Mama folded the pillow cover she’d been ironing, then snapped it open and folded it again. “Sounds like a respectful thing to do, James. President Kennedy was a fine man.”
Shag scrambled up and away as James clomped over to the sink. Her toenails skittered across the wood floor, and I was reminded again of how quiet it had been. But that silence was shattered now — by Shag’s toenails, by the words and footsteps, by anger and resentment leaking loud in my home.
“But they ain’t canceling the varsity game, just our game. Life will go on if you’re a white football player, a white cheerleader, a white high-school student. It’s just if you’re black that things will stop.”
“Hush, James,” Mama snapped, her voice soft and hard all at the same time. “You don’t know who’s listening — I swear even the walls have ears, this kind of thing happening and all.”
My mama is flitty right now. She figures the white world was set on edge by the Medgar Evers assassination, and he was a black man — there is no telling how tender the relations between races will be now that a white man has died. No matter that he died at the hands of another white man, a Communist to boot. We had all better tread lightly, she says, and James’s silence-shattering frustration is not a light tread at all.
I am afraid too, I guess. But not for the same reasons as my mama. I’m afraid mostly for my brother.
My brother is broken, Miss Anderson. He has wanted to play at the big homecoming game since forever. He stomped around in the kitchen, and then he found the noisiest piece of equipment in the barn, a tractor that just cannot find its gears, and he slammed tools around it, into it, and on top of it, all the while fuming and cussing and generally protesting the way life just will not let us get ahead.
Losing a dream is a hard and very loud business. I worry that James will never really feel better about it. I guess I hadn’t realized how much Mr. McKenna and his work with Shag and me was helping me find a way to fit in to that hard world I talked about.
I’ve been to Mr. McKenna’s again. We put Shag in the pen and stand with her. He doesn’t speak, and neither do I. I like it that way, as I don’t know how much I can say to him and I sure don’t want to get all deep into President Kennedy or the new President Johnson or how the price of corn could affect life around here. Shag has gotten pretty good, Miss Anderson, maneuvering in and out, and I thought all was going along well.
But today was a different story. “She’s been in the pen with sheep enough,” he boomed when I walked Shag over to the pen where the sheep were waiting.
“What else is there to do? She already knows how to herd animals. All she needed to learn was to get used to those sheep.”
“Och, girl, are you stupid, then? She’s raw.” He got even louder on the word raw. I hadn’t thought he could get any louder, but raw erupted like a thunderclap right behind my ear.
I marched up to him, my head no higher than his chest. “She’s not raw. She’s a good dog, and she can already herd. She doesn’t need you to tell her how to be a working dog.”
“Prove it.” This time his words were soft and slow. He narrowed his eyes, eased over to the sheep pen, and pulled the gate open. The sheep spilled out into the meadow. “Prove it,” he repeated.
I stepped out, and Shag, thank goodness, stepped out with me. She started her task with no direction from me, no signal, no help. I admit, Miss Anderson, I’ve never had a part in Shag’s work with herding. I just sit back and watch. It took her a pretty good while — about forty minutes — but she got them back into the pen and Mr. McKenna closed the gate behind them.
He was booming again as he turned to me. “Raw. She’s lots of natural ability — hard to meet a border collie without it — so aye, she gets her job done. But every good dog can be better, in the hands of a good handler.
“You,” he said, “you did absolutely nothing. Zero.”
“I thought it was all about her and what she did.”
He put his head in his hands and sighed. I’ve never heard a sigh that boomed, but this one did for sure. “Och, girl, perhaps you are stupid, then. She’s a dog. You’re the master. What she looks for is guidance so you can help her be the best she can be. Do your job and think. Lead her. Direct her. Handle her.”
Shag growled, then looked to me.
I wanted to walk away. I wanted to give up. Maybe I was embarrassed or just tired — I don’t know. I wanted to just plain leave it all behind me.
But I thought of Laura Westover dismissing Shag and me. I thought of Mrs. Warren knowing I stand up for things I need to. I thought of Shag, looking up at me, counting on me to help her be her best. And I thought of James, and all the bad that comes when you don’t have enough to believe in to make you care.
“Teach me,” I said. And I’m hoping he will.
It isn’t easy, Miss Anderson. First, Mr. McKenna had me learning the history of border collies. I won’t bore you — you would be bored, Miss Anderson — but I’ll tell you that border collies are among the smartest of dogs, and they have helped people with herding for a long, long time. Just like people, there are some who stand out, and one of the most famous is Shep. He was a border collie who amazed Scotland with his talent combined with a demeanor that allowed him to work easily for his master.
Shag also has a good attitude, at least for working with me. She doesn’t, however, take to just everybody, so that could work against her in a trial, which is what the border-collie world has. Yes, it turns out that something like dog shows exists here too. You can win the big prize or the second place and so forth, but it’s not about how your dog looks. It’s about how your dog works. This seems the better place for Shag and me. Still, I think the dog may need to take commands from a judge, and Shag is none too happy about taking commands from anyone but Mr. McKenna or me.
“I’ve written a list of commands for you,” he announced one day. He held a walking stick, and he had a pink tinge to his face as he shoved the paper into my hands. “It’s written in the language of sheepdogs and shepherds. You’ll need to be learning that. Learn it by heart — once you and Shag know them together, you’ll truly be a pair.” He said this as he marched toward the distant meadow, filled with his white woolly sheep.
I looked the list over, and, Miss Anderson, I have to tell you my eyeballs clear jumped. “This is a bunch of nonsense. What does ‘go by’ mean? And ‘outrun’?”
Mr. McKenna gripped his walking stick so tight his knuckles turned white as his hair. “The language of dogs. The language of Scotland. And I’ll appreciate you saying nothing negative regarding it.” He stared straight ahead, his gait eating up the ground to the meadow.
I was trotting to keep up. I’ll have to admit that it is hard for me to apologize. But apologize I did. “I’m sorry. It’s just I don’t understand.”
He smiled at me, a crack in his demeanor for one split second. “We all have things to learn, girlie. You’re not alone in that.”
He cleared his throat and explained as we neared the gate to the meadow. “‘Go by’ means you want your dog to circle to the left of the herd and drive them to the right a bit. We need you and Shag to work almost instinctively, but I do say almost, Kizzy Ann. Because the border collie has instincts closely tied to the wolf’s, and sheep killing is an instinct we never want a border collie to experience. It is hard to bring them back once they’ve been to the edge. A dog like that has no place then on a farm, and without good work, your dog is
lost.”
I looked at Shag, her easy glide beside him, her ears perked, alert to the sheep, and her fur almost standing on end, so ready was she to get to work.
We spent hours, then, Miss Anderson, hours having me recite a command and Mr. McKenna leading Shag through the action that corresponded.
Now Shag and I are figuring out the basic commands. I know how to send her left, right, and one of the possible ways to get her to bring in the sheep. It’s called an outrun, going in either direction out and around the sheep, to get behind the flock. The trick is for Shag not to go straight at them, but to move in an arc so she ends up behind the sheep. At this point in my learning, I need to try to work with Shag so the flock stays between the handler and the dog. Mr. McKenna says that doesn’t always happen, and he also says the shape of the outrun is one of the things judges look at in a trial, but Shag and I aren’t ready to worry about any of that yet.
Anyway, she gets back there, and at a certain distance she uses what Mr. McKenna calls her eye stalk to get the sheep moving toward the pen. It’s kind of hard to explain, but she has to stare them into moving. She controls them with no movement. An eye stalk is really important, and the sheep’s response determines if the dog has a strong or weak eye. Nothing I do matters here. You won’t be surprised, I’m sure, to know that Shag has a strong eye.
“Your dog is saving you, girl,” he said today after Shag got the sheep into the pen. “You’ve learned up to a point, I’ll give you that, but then you break down and she has to revert to instincts alone. Not fair to the wee dog, treating her like that.”
“I’m trying.”
He looked at me, up and down, and I was amazed to see his gaze soften. “Och, I know, girl. But you must do better. Think like a dog, or pretend the sheep are yours, or do whatever it takes, but you’ve got to start improving, or your dog will give up on you and all is lost.”
I know that could never happen, Miss Anderson, never. Shag would never give up on me. Still, I’ll have to work harder. I can’t let Shag down.
I’m talking about how I’m not giving up and won’t let Shag give up, but I think James has. The air is gone out of James. Oh, he’s still breathing and all. He goes through his day, he does his chores, but it’s, I don’t know, it’s like there’s no life in him. He doesn’t tease me, he doesn’t get mad when Mama makes him get up for early milking, and heck, he doesn’t get mad about anything anymore. The JV team finished up their season (finished first in the state), and he just sort of wilted. I’m living with the ghost of my brother. I never thought I’d want a good punch from him, but I’d take that James any day over the James who is sliding through life.
I went to Mr. McKenna’s today. We worked on my understanding of Shag’s balance point. It’s a very precise thing, and it will make or break us. It is how well she can read the sheep and understand which direction they’ll move in. The balance point varies dog to dog. Mostly it’s genetic, but I have to be aware and keep Shag controlled, commanding her to slow down or get down, or whatever it takes to stop her from shifting too early to her next balance point. I have to teach her a nice pace so things don’t turn into a chase, and I might have to get her to lie down quickly to keep distance between her and the flock. It all comes down to how well the handler knows her dog’s behavior and controls it.
That really was fascinating — but here’s the part I want to tell you. When we took a break, Shag went to the shade. Mr. McKenna penned the sheep where Shag and I had put them, and then he said, “You could invite your friend to join us, you know.”
I stared at him. “Friend?”
He pointed toward the west woods. “Him.”
I looked, just in time to see a blur of movement. “I don’t know who that is,” I said.
Mr. McKenna’s eyes got big. “He’s there most every day. Figured he was with you. He watches, applauds sometimes.”
Suddenly, I knew who it was. That darn Frank Charles Feagans.
I could see him, then, crouched behind a bush. I swear, his scruffy red Keds were like a red flag waving. I stomped over, Shag skittering beside me.
“Come out.”
He didn’t move.
“For Pete’s sake, come out, Frank Charles.”
“You can’t see me.”
I leaned over the bush and stared at his head. “Yes, actually, I can. Your cowlick is pointing toward the schoolhouse, and you are as easy to see as I am.”
He stood up and stepped out, crackling dead leaves under his sneakers.
“You’re following me,” I said.
“Am not.”
I sighed. Honestly, it was like talking to a two-year-old. “Yes, you are. I’m here. You’re here.”
“Following Shag. Not you.”
Following Shag! What? This wasn’t annoying anymore. My dog, my dog, the one thing that matters most to me, the one being who is my world. How dare this moron come near her? This felt threatening. His father beat me . . . now what would he do to my dog? I grabbed Frank Charles’s coat collar and jerked him close. “You will not hurt my dog.”
His eyes widened, and he shook all over. “I’d never hurt her. Never.” His voice shook with the sureness of his word. “I just, well, I mean, I . . . I can’t stop looking at her. She’s so, well, clever and quick.” He stumbled out of my grasp. “Pa won’t let me have a dog. Says they’ll spook the cows, you know.”
I dropped my hands and touched Shag’s nose. She was right there beside me, like always. But she wasn’t growling at him. I decided to stop growling too.
“She is pretty amazing,” I admitted.
“I been watching you,” he said. “Not you, I mean, her. She’s getting really good at making the sheep go where you want, it looks like.”
I hadn’t heard Mr. McKenna approach, but I knew he was behind me when his shadow fell across us. “You’d see more if you come on closer. Might as well. You’re here anyways.”
And just like that, Frank Charles Feagans was a part of my training of Shag.
I’ve never made a gift for Christmas at school before. There just never was any money for Mrs. Warren to buy materials for that. I always make gifts — that part isn’t new — but not at school. I don’t rightly know if that pot holder will be of much use to Mama (mine turned out right sad compared to Laura Westover’s), but the colors are bright and she does love colors.
And getting a present from you. . . . Gosh. Sometimes Mrs. Warren gave us a peppermint, and I heard about a year when she got all her seniors a book apiece, but that never happened when I was in school, so this is really exciting. They were all wrapped so pretty too. We wrap with old grocery sacks that we decorate usually — this store-bought paper is especially fine. I know some of the others weren’t excited. I guess you heard Laura Westover say, “Oh, another book.” But I’m really grateful. We only have the Good Book at our house, so it will be nice to have another, whatever it is. And I’m not going to unwrap it until Christmas morning, even if I do know it’s a book.
We used to have a party at school, but I knew the white folks weren’t going to let that happen. My mother makes most of the meals that are served to Laura and her family, but if I brought something made at my house, none of the white kids would eat it. They trade lunches all the time, but never with us. Sure, I understand that cold potato cakes and a hard-boiled egg doesn’t appeal to everybody, but who could turn down my mama’s oatmeal cookies?
Anyway, I’m glad to have some days to work on finishing my gift for Shag. It’s a braided collar, and the plaiting takes me forever and a day! It was hard, screwing up my courage to ask Granny Bits to help. I’ve often pooh-poohed her handwork, so admitting that I needed her help to make gifts was tough. It took me three days to work up the nerve. I went to her after she’d finished her morning prayers — she’s often her most approachable then, when she’s thinking about the blessings the Lord has given her. Can’t wait too long or she’s on to thinking about how James and I annoy the heck out of her. I eased up next to her
, put my hand on her arm, and asked, “Granny Bits, I believe you know just what I need to learn to make Christmas gifts.” She was not taken in by the buttering up, but she liked it.
“Knew you’d need me sooner or later,” she said. Now, I suppose you might think that’s pretty gruff of her, but really, for her that’s mild. She even talked to me about what exactly I’d like to make. I didn’t have any ideas for you, being as you’re a white lady and all, but Granny said, “She’s same as other ladies, liking fine things for her house.” So we tatted the armchair cover you got. I hope you like it — those cow hitch knots aren’t easy, and Granny Bits didn’t let me get by with any that were less than fine. “She’s an educated lady — teachers deserve your full respect and your best efforts.” That’s what she said every time I tried to convince us both that you’d be happy with my effort, even if it didn’t look perfect. “Good effort doesn’t dress up a chair.” You’d think the president was coming to see you, the fineness she felt your chairs had to have. But I needed her to get me started. She may fight the arthritis, but she sure knows what hands should do to create.
I thought she’d fuss about the collar for a dog, but she just nodded. That plaiting was a bit easier than the tatting, maybe because Granny Bits didn’t worry too much about a few little mistakes. Still, it took five days’ finger work, even if it isn’t the prettiest thing you ever saw. I figure Shag will appreciate the effort. Part of me worries that she won’t like it at all — after all, she is a no-bow dog. But all the pictures Mr. McKenna showed me of border-collie champions showed dogs with collars.
I was going to put a gold tag with Shag’s name engraved on there when I finished making it. But I’ve decided to use the little bit of money I have to get something for James. I know before he was very mad and very loud and I was worried he’d do something crazy like yelling at that white coach, but now you know how awfully quiet he’s been, like a shadow. Now I’m kind of scared the crazy thing he might do won’t be against someone else but against himself. He’s still so different — sometimes he’s talking and a part of us, and other times it’s like noon for shadows . . . you know he’s there but you can’t really see him. He just moves through chores, sits through classes. His body is, but the real him is gone. It’s like he is so sad he can’t find happy.
