The British livestock men who designed the sheepdog trial, 120 years ago, weren't seeking friendly, pretty, aristocratic, or even competitive dogs. They needed dogs that would make it possible for a man on foot to handle a thousand sheep on mountainous, unfenced ground, dogs that could extract amorous rams from amongst willing ewes, drive the sheep to fresh pasture, fetch them into the farmstead, pen them for shearing, and catch and hold an agonized ewe having lambing difficulties.
They needed dogs that could work on their own, take whistled instructions from over a mile away, and travel a hundred miles a day in the foulest weather without complaint. That's what trials are for: to choose the sires and dams of the next generation of sheepdogs. [The herding competitions] are an exact model of the dogs' daily work, made more difficult.
Trials are rarely canceled because of bad weather. I've run in ice storms and 100 degree heat. One year at the Oatlands trial outside Leesburg, Virginia, lightning lit up a tree at the end of the course just as Candace Terry was bringing her dog Tip across to the crossdrive gate. The dog lifted straight into the air, six feet, maybe. "Tip," Candace said, not shouted, and Tip eyed her, took hold of himself, and--pad, pad, pad--was back on his sheep as sheets of rain sluiced across the field.
The shepherd cannot always choose his work. He needs a useful dog.
I'm drinking coffee in Amanda Milliken's motor home on the second morning of the two-day Blue Ridge Open trial held outside White Post, Virginia. . . .Amanda's dog Hazel is a black-and-white smooth-coated Border collie. She is rather musical and will sing along with "Oklahoma!" but her favorite tune is k.d. lang's song about the old coyote, especially the chorus, where she gets to howl.
"That's enough, Hazel," Amanda says, and the dog abandons her musicale. Border collies rarely bark, and though there are more than a hundred dogs on these trial grounds--in crates and trailers, tied under campers and motor homes--the place is quiet. Barking dogs are useless; they make sheep nervous. Fawning or fighting dogs are no better.
From where I sit, I can see a dozen dogs, just come off the field or waiting their turn. None is on a leash. . .
Driven by complex instincts and skills, indifferent to most of the things I'd thought a dog wanted, Pip was more dog than I'd reckoned on. He was hardheaded, confident, and--uncommon for a Border collie--had a sense of humor.
The lessons he taught me weren't lessons I wanted to learn. I'd hoped to discover that I was perceptive, ingenious, and quick-thinking. I learned instead that there is only one narrow, difficult way to do a job properly, and an infinite number of possible mistakes. . . .
A six-year-old, 30-pound smooth-coat tricolor with *** ears, Gael is flirty, foxy, and hates to work in mud where she'll get her white paws dirty. But she'll stay with me through ice, rain, even mud, no matter how bitter or how late--unless I raise my voice to her. Then that's the end of it.
Ladies, she believes, do not endure rough language. Once, a few years ago, I completely lost it with Gael; I lifted my hand to smack her, and she said, "Oh, dear." I stuck my crude paw back in my pocket, where it belonged.
"You canna abuse them. You canna," the shepherd who sold me Gael had said. "They will never forget it was you that abused them.
Border collies move sheep by moral authority: They glower at the sheep and the sheep drift away. Sheep are brilliant at predator calculus--those that aren't don't live to breed. Standing at the top of the trial course, the sheep evaluate the dog as it runs toward them: "Is it a sane dog? Responsible? Skilled? Can we beat it?" If you sent your family mutt raving out there, the sheep would blow full tilt through the nearest fence and keep running for miles. Sheep are not helpless.
Sheep trust Gael (that's good), but they lack respect for her (that's bad). With flighty sheep, Gael's got an advantage; with stubborn sheep, she's more hesitant. She moves them, but too slowly, and we run out of time. . . .
I walk with Gael to the woven-wire fence that encloses the course so she can see the sheep. She sees them, you bet. Trembles ripple from snout to tail. I walk her away so she can relieve herself if she wishes--which she doesn't. Gael never eats a bite in the morning of a trial, and neither do I. Food would be a lump in my stomach.
I walk onto the course into a new world. It is hushed; I can't hear the crowd or the announcer, I can't hear cars leaving or arriving. It's like one of those small rooms in a funeral chapel--the same pressure in my ears.
Gael is at my side, cocked, all aquiver. Her eyes say, "Trust me."
I swallow. "Come by," I say.
Gael shoots off, somewhat tight, and the slope of the course draws her to the right. I put my whistle to my mouth but at the last minute she remembers where the sheep are and throws herself to the left and vanishes over the lip of the hill. I count one, two, and she's visible again along the ridgeline--Is she slowing? Will she stop?--but no, she is behind her sheep, and my first whistle command is "walk up." The sheep come off softly on line for the gates but a bit heavy to the left, so I whistle Gael around to that side to keep them coming straight. It's a little like billiards, except the balls are alive.
I've drawn four yearling ewes; none wants to be leader. They're tiptoeing toward me and the spectators behind me. "Walk up, Gael," I whistle. Walk up, walk up--WILL YOU WALK UP!
When the sheep come around me and put the crowd behind them, they are delirious with relief, and they fly away like bats, veering left, so I hurry Gael around to straighten them. Everything's happening lickety-split. "Away, Gael," I whistle. She whips right and turns them straight through the drive gates. "Awaay-to-meeee." She goes out wide to keep control, and then I'm whistling, "Walk up, walk up," and she's pushing them along the crossdrive.
As the sheep clamber up the slope toward the crossdrive gates, I have an out-of-body experience. I am not me, not the sheep, not the dog; I am the moving pressure-point, hundreds of yards out on that slope, exactly where Gael will need to be to get the sheep through those gates. "Gael!" I say, and she hooks right to stop an escape attempt by one of the ewes. They're through the gate now, and she's on their heels like a sneak thief; she whips behind them, and they turn nicely toward the pen. . . .
Once I grab the gate rope I'm stuck, but the sheep don't know that. Penning sheep is a problem in the geometry of power. The sheep are more afraid of the pen than of me or Gael alone, but together we can pen them.
We're done. My ears are ringing, and my legs are wobbly. Gael hops into the cool-off tub at the edge of the course and laps at the murky water. . .
Back at the car, I let Harry out and take him and Gael into the pasture, away from everybody. Harry has a grand romp; Gael is content to stay at my heels. . . .
Like most people, I am generally distracted, baffled by life. Most of the time, a microphone placed in my head would record: "Does she love me? Where's the money coming from? I miss you, Pip. Call 800-966-4637 if this driver is operating in an unsafe manner --"
--But not today. Thank you, Gael. For nine minutes, out on that trial field, you made me whole.