PRAISE FOR THE WRITING OF DONALD McCAIG
Nop’s Trials
“Donald McCaig is quite simply a great writer.… Nop’s Trials held me in fascinated suspense to the last page.… Poignant, authentic, and beautiful.” —James Herriot
“An adult novel for animal lovers that does justice to both its human and canine characters.” —The New York Times Book Review
“The best dog book I’ve read since Jack London’s White Fang.” —The San Diego Union-Tribune
“Destined to become a classic … Anyone who loves dogs should make a beeline for this book.” —John Barkham
Nop’s Hope
“McCaig is a marvelous writer. His landscapes, whether of the Mississippi Delta, the truck stops along the highway, the life of the American West, or the human heart, are vivid and true.” —Kirkus Reviews
Eminent Dogs, Dangerous Men
“Reading Mr. McCaig’s book, you dream of owning a border collie. You have this dream that it will teach you the meaning of life.” —The New York Times
Eminent Dogs, Dangerous Men
Searching through Scotland for a Border Collie
Donald McCaig
For Anne—
who kept the home fires burning
Of course you should talk to your dogs. But talk sense!
J. M. WILSON
1
Running with the Big Hats
I saved his life once. It’s wild down by our river, shaded by shale cliffs that contain the river’s wanderings. Old-timers talk of skating parties on the ice: hissing blades, kids’ yells, a bonfire crackling on the pebbly bank; but the river has only frozen hard once in the twenty years we’ve lived on the farm.
It was late January, a still morning, brutally cold. Winter hung from every tree, and the glaze on the alder stems poking through the river ice—that glaze was winter, too. The dog’s toenails clicked on the ice. Pip’s tail was a gallant plume as he skated toward the far shore and in.
He’s a strong swimmer. During the dog days of July, he spends hours down here paddling around. Quick as he was in, he turned and tried to haul himself back onto the ice. He scratched at the slickness and paddled so hard his chest came clear of the water, but he found no purchase. The current sucked at his hindquarters, and he fell back. Again and again. When he tired, the river would take him under the ice downstream until he lodged somewhere.
Since the water came only to my rib cage, it wasn’t particularly brave going in after him, but, my, it was brisk. I hurled Pip onto the ice and addressed the matter of my own return to dry land, which was rather more difficult than I had imagined. When Pip ran back to help, I shouted him away. It’s true what they say: If you flatten out on the ice, it bears more weight, and that’s how I scootched to shore.
As I hurried up the lane to the house, my pants legs stiffened and gleamed. Pip circled me—ice in his belly hair, ice in his ruff—something like wonder in his wide eyes. He is a four-year-old, forty-pound, black-and-white dog. I am a forty-five-year-old human. Sometimes the souls of unalike species can marry.
He’s the first working dog I’ve ever owned. He sleeps beside my bed at night. After we’ve spent a day wrestling sheep through manure-filthy pens, I stand him in a shower before I let him into the rest of the house.
Since Pip was two, we’ve been running in sheepdog trials. Sometimes we’ve done well, usually not. We’ve run in the novice classes with other inexperienced handlers and their inexperienced dogs. We’ve never run against the Big Hats.
Pip’s life hasn’t always been happy. When we had foot rot in the flock, he worked every single day while my wife trimmed feet. It was hot and it was angry and bloody and covered with blood and pus and flies. At the end of the day my wife would be in tears, and the exhausted dog would drag himself into the corner, too tired to eat his dinner. I’ve used him on cows with young calves and winced as he dodged their charge, their hoofs. I’ve worked him too long and too hard in the sun. Few marriages are uninterrupted bliss.
Pip has aspirations. In the next turn of the karmic wheel, he hopes to return as a flamenco dancer: starched white shirt, black pants, proud castanets.
Like some princes, he frets about poison and suspiciously sniffs each scrap offered from your fingers though it’s identical to the scrap of a moment ago.
His nickname is Broadway Joe.
He knows that men only kick the contemptible, and he won’t be touched—even gently—by human feet.
Pip’s what sheepdog men call “hyper.” He’s too rapid, rather too keen, and that can get him into trouble. Livestock appreciate a calm, deliberate dog and will accord it respect. A jumpy, down-again, up-again dog makes them skittish.
A Border Collie moves livestock by controlled intimidation. He pushes them along with a threatening glare. This glare is called “eye” and is probably related to the wolves’ tactic of selecting a victim in a herd by catching its eye and asserting dominance before starting the attack run.
Some stock dogs are more powerful than others and can control livestock from a greater distance. That is an advantage for the same reason that a long lever is better than a short one. Thirty feet out, the shift of a powerful dog’s head can alter a flock’s direction. Nearer, the dog has to run from one side of the sheep to the other, unsettling them.
When sheep ignore him, Pip comes in too close. When they defy him, he takes it personally and is quick to nip. When a dog bites (grips) a sheep on the trial field, he is disqualified.
Pip has good points, too. He has good balance and thinks well for himself. If you need a dog to fetch sheep out of a thicket, Pip’s the dog to send. Wait around a bit and, directly, he’ll bring them to you.
Pip is dead honest. You can read it in his eyes.
Dog trialing is an amateur sport. Purses aren’t great, and trials are often far apart. Not too many men are willing to drive a thousand miles with their dogs to run ten minutes on a trial course for a top prize of $750. Those few men do know dogs. They give training clinics, sell pups, import dogs, train dogs for others, put on demonstrations at state fairs and agricultural exhibitions, and put forty thousand miles a year on their pickups.
Since many successful trial dogs are imported, already trained, from Scotland, a Scots dialect is commonly used for dog commands. It is bizarre to see a broad-chested American rancher—in boots, a Western shirt, enormous Stetson—waving a Scottish shepherd’s crook and urging his dog to “Lie doon, Mon. Laadie, lie doon.”
The Big Hats—that’s what the top handlers are called.
Ralph Pulfer has been running dogs for twenty-five years. By his own count, he has imported better than two hundred dogs. I doubt he’s counted his trial trophies—he has a room full of them. Ralph is a formidable competitor and has twice won the Grand National Championship. Although Ralph always brings a couple of dogs to run, his top dog is the classic seven-year-old Shep. Shep is a biddable dog—extremely responsive to commands. He was winning trials before I bought my first Border collie.
Lewis Pulfer, Ralph’s brother, is a soft-spoken, articulate man and a very stylish handler. His red bitch, Dell, has won many trials and is the dam of several champions. Dell often finds her daughters and granddaughters competing against her.
This year, Lewis is trialing Moss, a powerful dog—energetic and a trifle hardheaded.
Bruce Fogt and Tom Conn are among the best young handlers. Bruce has won the Kentucky Blue Grass, the Blue Ridge Open, and the California State Fair. Bruce trained his Hope bitch himself, and she’s a wonder to watch. She’
s a medium-size, black-and-merle bitch, strong, responsive, smooth as glass. Tom Conn is running Rod, who won the BBC television trials before coming to the States. These televised trials, “One Man and His Dog,” have been enormously popular in Britain. They’d seem funky and peculiar to most Americans, but Americans are often uneasy around dogs.
Jack Knox has trained more dog handlers than anyone, traveling every year from Michigan to Alabama, Oregon to Maryland, teaching beginners how to work their dogs. Jack is running his nine-year-old Jan bitch and Hope, his six-year-old male.
And there’s Stan Moore with Midge, Bill Wyatt with Cap, John Bauserman with Bess, Joe Lawson with Drift, and Ethel Conrad with Tess. I love to watch them run the open course. They make it look so easy.
I have a writer’s concentration, intense but flickering. This concentration is useful writing about dogs; less so when trialing them. Going blank for ten seconds won’t wreck an essay, but is disastrous with sheep coming on like the express and your dog slewing about like a drunk.
Too often I substitute will for sensitivity. I’m a man whose second thoughts are better than his first.
As a team Pip and I are uneven. At our best, we can tiptoe a dozen spooky rams alongside the unfenced border of my wife’s vegetable garden. At our worst, I blue the air with bellowing while Pip grabs some desperate sheep by the wool and won’t turn loose.
A sheepdog trial is the most difficult test of a man and dog ever divised. Tubs of cool water are kept at the end of the course because, after just ten minutes of running a trial, the dogs need that water to drop their body temperatures back to normal. Many good farm dogs have come to grief on a trial course. It’s the difference, you see, between racing at Indianapolis and driving Aunt Millie to the airport.
The outrun is three-hundred-plus yards. The lift is the first moment of contact between the dog and his sheep, when they read each other. The dog fetches the sheep to his handler’s feet. Then, he pushes them away through several freestanding gates (the drive). Finally, man and dog press the sheep into a six-by-nine-foot pen. At most trials the dog then takes one sheep off from the others, the shed, but there’ll be no shed at the Blue Ridge Open. It’s just too hot. Time limit: ten minutes.
Judges deduct points for overcommanding, undercommanding, going off line, wobbling, losing contact with the sheep, circling the pen, and numerous other sins. Good runs are characterized by respect: sheep for dog, dog for man, man for dog and sheep. Good runs are smooth and quiet. When respect breaks down, things go to hell in a hurry.
The Blue Ridge Open Sheepdog Trial is held in May near White Post, Virginia, an hour southwest of Washington, D.C. It’s a two-day trial of the first rank: strong sponsorship, a challenging course, and a Scottish judge. Each dog runs twice for a cumulative score. Dogs and handlers come here from Michigan, New York, Pennsylvania, Georgia, Tennessee, and Ohio. The Big Hats are coming.
Late Friday night, the nearest motel is already full with Border Collies and their owners. On the lawn, handlers stand about swapping lies while their dogs strut around, tails erect, observing dog rituals.
When we go inside, Pip jumps up on the other bed and gives me a look. His eyes are whirling, Betty Boop eyes. After all, he is another species—his mind unfathomable.
Next morning I don’t bother with breakfast, and he doesn’t eat anything either. On the way to the trial grounds, he rides up on the front seat. I’d like to listen to Bruce Springsteen, but Pip doesn’t care for rock ’n’ roll.
Spring is further along here than home. I see where one farmer’s already mowed his first cutting of alfalfa. Another has put up his winter rye in great green round bales. Round bales look wonderful fresh and so dumpy and awful old.
This is the fringe of Virginia’s horse country. The farms are working farms, but most have wooden jumps built over their woven-wire fences so the Hunt can ride through.
Sunnybrook Farm is a livestock farm. There’s a big red wooden barn with stalls underneath, a modern tenant house, freshly painted white with green trim. The high-tensile fences are taut, straight as a die. The road climbs through the farm onto a high lush pasture. Bluegrass and orchard grass and clumps of trees for shade. A young girl at the gate is collecting a dollar from spectators. If this is like most trials, there won’t be many.
Campers, vans, and pickups are lined up behind the course. Lawn chairs and coolers overlook the field. The judge’s booth is a horse trailer. Novice dogs started running at 7:30 A.M., and the judge will work until 6:00 P.M. when the last of the dogs make their try.
I say a few hellos, shake a few hands. On the course a young dog is in trouble, his handler’s commands unheeded. Sheep can read an inexperienced dog, and this one can’t do a thing with them. The sheep bolt off the course, and the dog and handler are disqualified.
The novice dogs and handlers are listed on the Scoreboard. Hell, novice is where Pip and I belong.
Sheepdog trialing is a farmer’s sport, so talk is about crops and weather, markets, sheep, cattle, and dogs—always dogs. “Haven’t seen you since the Alabama Trial. How’s that Mirk dog of yours?”
Pip tugs at the lead, eager to sniff other dogs’ signs. I take this as a bad sign—a sign that Pip’s insufficiently serious.
There’s a quiet locust grove behind the course where it’ll stay shady as the sun moves across the day. When I tie Pip, he sighs and flops down.
I’m scheduled to run seventh, Open Class, after Ethel Conrad and her Tess. Last year Tess won more trials than any other dog in Virginia. Ethel was invited to the David Letterman show, where Tess herded ducks with perfect aplomb despite Letterman’s attempts to turn her into a joke. Tess has worked sheep on the Capitol Mall before the secretary of agriculture. Oh boy.
There are men here who run a thousand sheep and cows. I chat with a woman who’s looking to buy three sheep so she can work her dog. Some of the handlers never got past eighth grade; others have Ph.D.s. Their dogs are more uniform: All are well schooled.
You could probably buy some of the novice dogs for less than $1,000. One addled young dog grips his sheep at the pen and is disqualified, and his irritated handler marches off the course. Right now, you might get that dog pretty cheap. Open dogs go for $2,500 and up. And up. Last year, Ralph Pulfer sold his Nan bitch for $8,000.
The judge, Viv Billingham, is a slender blond woman with sun lines at the corners of her eyes. Viv and her husband Geoff shepherd 750 ewes on the duke of Roxburgh’s estate in the Cheviot Hills (the Scottish Borders). With her bluff, powerful dog Garry, Viv has twice made the Scottish National Team. We Americans have watched her and Garry on tapes of “One Man and His Dog.”
Ralph Pulfer arrived at the Blue Ridge Trial a couple of days early to teach this woman judge a thing or two about the fine points of judging an American trial. I gather he ruffled Viv Billingham’s feathers.
Scottish trial men are often invited to judge the bigger American trials. For the judge it’s an inexpensive (if rather doggy) American holiday. Their hosts get a few private tips, a familiar voice when they phone up the UK wanting a dog—as well as somebody to score eighty dogs from sunup to sundown, attentive to each one.
Usually a judge will work several trials, the hosts splitting expenses and airfare, but Viv is the very first woman judge ever invited “to cross the water” and some of the good old boys didn’t want to be judged by a woman, no matter how able, so Viv will only judge the Blue Ridge and later in the week will give a training clinic to defray expenses.
She’s never worked in a training ring before and says, “The only proper training for a sheepdog is the Hill,” but is so pleased working the young dogs she soon gets the hang of it. Many novice dog handlers own dogs that are better bred than they are trained. Most go back to this or that imported trial winner who will, like as not, be the son or daughter of an International Champion. Thus, the dogs Viv sees here are grandsons and granddaughters of the dogs she knows in Scotland, and as each dog comes into the ring she says, “Oh, dear, D
ryden Joe?” or “Fortune’s Glen?” or “Willie Welch’s Don? He must be. Does he have a tendency to run a bit too wide, out of contact with his sheep?”
And often she’ll describe a dog’s character before it does any work at all, because she’s seen its grandsire or granddam run in trials. “He’ll be a little sulky then, won’t take correction?” “Tell me, does he turn his head back to you, looking for instructions? Keeking, we call it. Oh, his sire was a terrible keeker.”
It is politically unpopular to claim that human character traits (intelligence, courage, ingenuity) can be inherited. But that’s the working belief in the sheepdog breeding world. It is thought that a dog sired by Wiston Cap, one who looks like the old man, will likely behave like his eminent sire.
In various human cultures, it was believed that the same applied to human rulers, that “blood would tell.” Alas, not many British dukes are bred as closely as his poorest shepherd’s dogs. Even fewer dukes are bred for accomplishment.
What is likely true about dogs is unlikely with men.
What the British noted about their dogs, they attributed to their kings.
Viv Billingham judges by Scottish standards, which are quite rigorous. If your sheep go off course, you’re disqualified. If your dog grips, you’re disqualified. If you fail to pen your sheep and don’t complete the course, you’re disqualified. The scorekeeper writes “DQ” after another novice dog’s name. DQ—that’s the score most novices have.
I wander back to the course to visit with the pit crew—the men putting out sheep, three at a time, all day long. By day’s end they’ll be sunburned, bone weary, and stinking of sheep. Last year I worked back here.
Somebody wishes me good luck.
From here it’s easier to see things from the dog’s point of view. The dog sails out, out, and cannot see the sheep until he’s almost on top of them. The instant the dog loses faith in himself or his handler, he’s lost, and many young dogs get in trouble today. Out here, a handler’s commands are almost inaudible, and whistles are fainter than bird calls.
Eminent Dogs, Dangerous Men: Searching Through Scotland for a Border Collie Page 1