Nop's Hope

by Donald McCaig

  “I’ll buy him back from you.”

  “It was a fair bet. I didn’t force her into it. Things aren’t so easy as that.”

  “I’ll make you a wager,” Lewis said. “Me and Nop haven’t run. I don’t expect we can catch you in the overall, but there’s room to beat you today.” Funny how cold Lewis felt, maybe the sun had gone behind a cloud. He clamped his jaw muscles to keep his teeth from chattering.

  Ransome was pained. “Haven’t you had enough? That dog of yours might have been a great dog once, but he’s an old dog now. You won’t beat me and then I’ll have two Burkeholder dogs, one crazy as a loon, the other doddering around the trial field. Mr. Burkeholder, I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, but I don’t want your Nop dog, he’s no use to me.”

  Lewis felt the heat climbing into his cheeks. “I don’t generally wager for my dog,” he said. “So long as Nop don’t wager me, I don’t wager him. You don’t own a motor home.”

  Ransome Barlow eyed the Virginia farmer for a long time, blinking. “All you Burkeholders are nuts.”

  If Lewis won, he got Hope back. If Lewis lost; Lewis, Beverly, and Penny would go home in Ransome’s old truck and Ransome’d take the keys to their motor home. “That dog is ruined,” Ransome said. “He ain’t ever gonna be any use again.”

  “Then it’s a bet.”

  Ransome’s handclasp was light and quick. Lewis would have expected more grip from the man.

  IN THEIR MOTOR HOME, Beverly sat in the armchair, knitting woolen socks for the church clothing bank. Child’s size, as always, and gaily striped in blues and reds and greens.

  In back, Penny moaned. Ten minutes ago, Beverly had looked in on her, her hot brow, her wet hair matted against her forehead. Penny’d never get over it, Beverly knew. People don’t ever get over it. They can only hope to find a new life in the center of their loss. Beverly decided to put a wavy blue line around the socks, exactly like the wavy blue line on her granddaughter Lisa’s tennis shoes.

  DOGS ARE NOTORIOUS for hope. Dogs believe that this morning, this very morning, may begin a day of fascination, easily grander than any day in the past. Perhaps the work did go badly yesterday, perhaps the humans are wild with sulks and rages, but this morning can yet be saved: don’t humans understand anything?

  Every morning, in dog pounds all over America, hundreds of dogs awake to their last day with gladness in their hearts.

  WHEN OLD NOP WALKED onto that course, he knew what would be required of him, and hoped it would be within his powers. The sun had fallen behind the Bighorn Mountains, leaving a russet afterglow.

  “Okay, partner,” Lewis said, quietly, “whhst.”

  And Nop swung out, out, at nearly a ninety-degree angle from Lewis’s feet, enjoying his body, the grass rushing beneath his feet, the air streaming along his face into his lungs, the sheer pleasure of exertion.

  He slowed while the horsemen galloped away and then he slipped in behind the sheep: just so. Lewis’s whistle said: “That’s right, Nop.” It said, “Thank you.”

  Ten sheep: Quickstep and Leader, Smelly Butt, Lulu, and six younger ewes who were followers. Nop told them to get along, and they did.

  Lewis asked Nop to straighten Quickstep, who was drifting too far right, and Nop stepped over and said, “I don’t think you understand who’s in charge here.”

  And Quickstep hurried back into line saying, “Yes, sir, yes sir, three bags full.” Nop was used to sheep saying foolish things.

  They didn’t want to go between the fetch gates, though the opening was plain, but sheep are spooky creatures and, well, it just didn’t seem RIGHT doing it, so Nop trotted up behind them and pushed them through.

  Now everything should be automatic: fetch the sheep to Lewis. But Lewis said, no, not this time. Go back. THINK ABOUT IT.

  Lewis told Nop there were more woolies out here somewhere, though Nop couldn’t see them. Nop did see horsemen, and since horsemen had meant sheep before, perhaps sheep were hiding with these horsemen too. When the horsemen trotted away Nop found five new woolies; Hardhead, and four younguns. They were, skittish, but Nop warned Hardhead she’d do as he said or face consequences, dire but unspecified. Lewis asked Nop to bring both flocks together, and from then on, things proceeded normally, except Old Nop’s legs were getting heavy by the time he brought the fifteen sheep into the hundred-foot shedding ring.

  Young dogs flash through tiny openings between sheep like a knife cutting a cake and the sheep divide.

  But old Nop didn’t have the speed for that and his tongue was hanging out and his legs were shakey, so he stationed himself, motionless, on the far side of the shedding ring, and Lewis and he did a balancing act, pressuring the sheep, squeezing the flock until the desired sheep bolted away. “This one, Nop. No, this one, leave that one.” And finally Lewis said, “That’ll do, Nop,” and though his legs were wobbling, Nop came in—not as fast as a young dog—and marched the proper sheep to the pen.

  Time was Nop would have bullied those sheep into the pen. Now he stayed well back, adjusted himself to the proper angle and took a step forward, another. If Nop showed how weak he felt, Quickstep would have led her sheep to freedom. In the grandstand, people were checking their watches and whispering.

  Quickstep saw her chance and bolted.

  Like a young dog with fresh legs Old Nop blocked her. And the ewe tossed her nose in the air (I quit) and trotted into the pen and the others followed, and Lewis swung the gate closed, quick as he could, not much caring if he smacked a rump or not.

  On the platform, the judge turned to the scorekeeper. “And how much time did he have left?”

  “Two seconds.”

  “Well then,” the judge said.

  Lewis was kneeling beside Nop and touching his head. Lewis slung him in his arms and carried him off the course and laid him in the tub of cool water. It was minutes before Nop was able to lap at the water, and he paid no attention at all to the people standing around the stock tank or the flashing of their flashbulbs. He’d done his work.

  NATIONAL HANDLERS’ FINALS, CHAMPIONSHIP RUN

  September 27, Sheridan, Wyoming

  Judge: Stuart Davidson, Dunoon, Scotland

  BY THE TIME the last dog ran, Penny had recovered enough to collect her fifteenth prize ribbon and prize money: $108.00. The Working Border Collie News, the Ranch Dog Trainer, even the Billings Gazette were taking the winners’ pictures.

  Lewis congratulated Ransome Barlow on winning the national championship.

  “You’re a lucky man, have a dog like Nop,” Ransome said. “I never seen anything like that shed.” He handed Lewis his prize check, already endorsed. “I’d appreciate it if you give this to your daughter. Tell her I’ll send the rest of what I owe soon as I have it.”

  “I don’t know what sort of arrangement you two made,” Lewis said, “but I can’t imagine she’d want you to starve yourself.”

  “I teach a clinic up in Great Falls next weekend, I’ll be alright.” Ransome looked Lewis straight in the eye. “I wish this had turned out otherwise for Penny and me. I never wanted no motor home. What do you get, eight miles a gallon? Hell, man like me can’t afford a gas guzzler like that.”

  “Will you all face this way?” a photographer called. Obediently they reshuffled and Ransome Barlow and Bute moved to the left end of the photograph, which was how he appeared next morning in the Billings Gazette, holding his big wooden trophy. Bute looked out at the course like maybe if he stared long enough, he’d see some sheep.

  OREN WRIGHT DROVE Penny’s pickup back to Virginia. Lewis offered to spell him, but Oren refused. Penny rode in the motor home passenger seat all the way back, with Nop under her feet. Penny talked about Lisa and Mark and from time to time she’d cry.

  Every morning, Beverly’d make up sandwiches. They didn’t stop for lunch, just drove straight through. Hope traveled in a crate in Penny’s pickup and was never outside except on a leash. Hope wouldn’t raise his head or look anyone in the eye. Penny couldn
’t bear to be around him.

  And so the Burkeholders drove back across the country on busy interstates, just another lumbering vehicle full of hopes and griefs and dreams. They came into their farm at dusk, and though their hired man had already fed, Lewis checked the stock before it got too dark, and Penny and Oren Wright and Beverly had coffee in the kitchen.

  “You’ll stay a day or two, Mr. Wright? We surely do thank you for driving across the country.” That was Beverly.

  “I’d hate to put you out.” That was Oren.

  “Don’t be a dope.” Penny, of course.

  So Oren remained a week, helping Lewis with the farm work, taking meals with the family. Sunday, he accompanied the family to church and after services was introduced to Preacher Shumway, who said he’d never been to Texas.

  “It’s warmer,” Oren said.

  Oren never spent a moment alone with Penny, and when he asked her would she come down and lamb out for him again, he asked in front of her parents, the morning Lewis was to drive him to the airport.

  “I haven’t got a dog,” Penny said.

  “You’ve got Hope,” Oren said.

  “We’re quits. He can’t forgive me. I’m not sure he should.”

  Two days after Christmas, Penny left for Texas. She planned to spend an extra day in Alabama where Ted Johnson had a nice young dog for sale.

  In February, every year, the missions committee of Beverly’s church accompanied Preacher Shumway to Cap Balout, a village in the mountains of Haiti. There the Americans helped Father Père Galliard repair his modest dispensary and improve the village water supply. Several in the missions committee were learning Haitian patois, and one woman told Beverly, “You don’t know all we’ve got until you see what it’s like down there.”

  Beverly had never been out of the continental United States. After he dropped her at Dulles Airport, Lewis stopped at Wendy’s for a bacon cheeseburger. Beverly had left him twenty-three home-cooked meals in the freezer, one for each day she’d be gone and two extra in case somebody stopped over.

  “Beverly,” he’d asked, “who in the world would stop over?”

  Lewis didn’t feel like a home-cooked meal, he felt like a bacon cheeseburger.

  When Lewis got home, he went to the barn where Hope had stayed except for walks twice every day, on lead, since he came back from Wyoming. Hope’d had time to think.

  “Well, son,” Lewis said, “you ’bout done foolin’ around?”

  Hope stopped wagging his tail.

  “We got ourselves just three weeks before Beverly comes home. It’s slack time for farm work. How about I take you out tonight and work you on the young ewes, and from now on, you sleep in the house like Nop. That agreeable?”

  Hope’s eyes were unafraid.

  “I’m going to be needing a second stockdog. Nop’s the boss dog, but he needs help from time to time, and I’d like a young dog to run in the trials. I’m not out to be a national champion, just run some of the weekend trials, leave home in the morning, back before dark, what do you say?”

  “I am thy stockdog,” Hope said.

  SPRING FLING SHEEPDOG TRIAL

  March 13, Williamsville, Virginia

  Judge: Tom Forrester, Aldie, Virginia

  16 Open dogs went to the post

  1. Lewis Burkeholder

  Nop

  91

  2. Lewis Burkeholder

  Hope

  91 (Decided on outwork)

  3. Carla King

  Pride

  90

  4. Judy Mason

  Nell

  89

  5. Wink Mason

  Buff

  88

  A NOTE TO THE READER

  Border Collies are bred to do exacting work at great distances from their handler. They are intelligent, obsessive, and physically powerful. Their handler needs both savvy and grit. Border Collies are not bred to be pets and those decent, caring, well-meaning people who buy a Border Collie pup for a pet are courting sorrow.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I am indebted to the Border Collie community for their warmth and generosity. Thanks to those people who welcomed me into their homes or RV’s, to those who found a cup of coffee on a cold morning, and to those who so freely shared their knowledge of dogs. Special thanks to those handlers who let me use their names and their dog’s names in this book.

  Real books are derived from the stories of real lives, human and dog. Thanks for entrusting me with your stories.

  About the Author

  Donald McCaig is the award-winning author of Nop’s Trials; Nop’s Hope; Eminent Dogs, Dangerous Men; Rhett Butler’s People; and Jacob’s Ladder. He, his wife, Anne, and their border collies work a sheep farm in the mountains of western Virginia.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1994 by Donald McCaig

  Cover design by Mauricio Diaz

  ISBN: 978-1-4976-3512-8

  This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

  345 Hudson Street

  New York, NY 10014

  www.openroadmedia.com

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