Say No More

by Sasson, Gemini

  “Five sixteen,” he said.

  Plucking the program out of Merle’s hand, Bernadette unfolded it. “That’s him,” she whispered.

  “That is George Strait? Oh my word! Right here in Adair County? Who’d have ever thought he did stock trials? Well, I s’pose a man’s gotta have a hobby o’ some sort. Can’t just stand up there on stage and sing all the time, can he?” She dug around in her purse and produced a pen. She grasped at the flyer. “Give that back to me, will ya? I want to see if he’ll sign an autograph before he goes into the arena.”

  Bernadette rolled her eyes. “For Pete’s sake, Merle. That is not George Strait. It’s Bill Clancy.”

  “Oh.” The excitement vanished from Merle’s thin face. She stuffed the pen back in her purse. “Bill who?”

  “Clancy. Bill Clancy. The fellow from St. Louis. National champion eight times over, last count.”

  “Ohhh. Well, at least we have good seats. Say, where did Cecil go?”

  “Back to the truck to get his number. He didn’t say as much, but I think he left it there on purpose. Probably doesn’t want to watch the runs right before him — this one in particular.”

  “Getting nervous, is he?”

  “He won’t say so, but I suspect he is. Truth be told, he doesn’t say much about how he feels about anything. But he’s not so hard to figure out. This dog here” — she glanced down at me — “is something really special to him. He just wants to show everyone what they can do.”

  Merle squeezed her friend’s wrist. “Say, have you two ... you know?”

  “Kissed, you mean?”

  Merle poked her in the ribs. “What century are you from, Bernie? No, I don’t mean kissed. If you’re going to lasso a man, the marrying kind — and God knows you don’t have time to dawdle in that department — then you need to take him for a test ride, so to speak. I mean, what if he, you know, can’t ...” — squinting, she pumped her fists toward her twice — “you know?”

  Tight-lipped, Bernadette simply stared at Merle. “This isn’t the place to be talking about that sort of thing. In case you hadn’t noticed, there are people all around us, Merle.”

  Merle hitched a shoulder. “He is getting up there in years. I’d want to know if I were you.”

  This time Bernadette raised her voice enough so that everyone within a five row radius could hear her. “Say, is Jasper is still using that over the counter, all-natural male enhancer?”

  Next to us, two very elderly ladies wearing nylons, floral skirts, and starched blouses turned to gawk at Merle and Bernadette.

  “Did she say what I think she said?” the blue-haired one asked.

  The other one tusked and repositioned her Vera Bradley handbag in her lap as she motioned her companion to scoot the other way, away from Bernadette and Merle. “No morals these days. Can’t even watch the soap operas on TV anymore, it’s all about who’s sleeping with who. Ain’t no different in a small town like this.”

  Merle snapped her jaw shut and faced forward.

  “Wonder what’s taking them so long?” Bernadette said.

  “Wrong group,” Tucker informed her from beside the stands. He dipped his head at his aunt and leaned forward to acknowledge Merle, but she was still miffed about Bernadette’s remark and was ignoring them.

  “Oh,” Bernadette said. Then, “What do you mean ‘wrong group’? Shouldn’t it be some sort of random draw?”

  “Naw.” He worked his jaw back and forth and spit a brown glob onto the dirt. Tobacco, just like Ned Hanson used to chew. “They use more dog broke sheep for the lower level dogs, but for the advanced teams, like Clancy and his dog Brooks, they use some kind of Barbados crosses. Spooky critters. If a dog steps two inches too close, they’ll rocket into the next county faster than you can sneeze.”

  Clancy turned halfway, just enough to catch Tucker out of the corner of his eye. It almost looked like Tucker grinned, or maybe I just imagined that. He always wore a smirk.

  A lady with a long blonde braid pushed open the window to the judges’ box and shouted, “Number again, sir?”

  “Five sixteen.”

  “Come on in.”

  He flipped the latch on the gate, walked through, and then shut it behind him. His dog, eyelids heavy with boredom, sat obediently. Clancy’s hand slid down the leash and unsnapped it. He draped the leash over the gate. They’d done this routine hundreds of times, it was apparent from their little rituals, Clancy’s easy stride, Brooks’ serenity. Side by side, they walked across the churned dirt of the arena to the judge’s box, the second story of a compact building perched at the far end of the arena. From there, the judge had an unobstructed view of everything that went on down below.

  Clancy tipped the brim of his hat to the judge. “How are you on this fine afternoon, Miss Zink?”

  “I’m good, Mr....” — she rifled through the papers in front of her, then leaned out the window to glance toward the pens, where wide-eyed ewes tapped their hooves — “Mr. Clancy, is it?”

  “That’s right, ma’am.” His voice was like liquid honey. If the judge was in the least bit charmed, she gave no indication of it.

  She drummed at the desk impatiently with her pencil. “Any questions?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  She withdrew from the window. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  Clancy muttered something to his dog. Brooks dropped belly to the ground like a stone from his hand.

  The clouds that had veiled the sun earlier that morning had been blown eastward by a dry, hot breeze. Rain hadn’t fallen in almost two weeks. The Old Man had begun to lament that the crops were not getting much needed rain and the price of feed was going to skyrocket because of it.

  Clancy opened the gate to the pen and Brooks darted in to gently scoop the flock out. Ten sleek-hided sheep raced out, wary of the wolf on their heels. A billowing cloud of dust rolled across the arena in their wake. Brooks lowered his head and trotted calmly after them. Two sharp whistles signaled a direction and Brooks swung to the left. The sheep’s heads went up, their ears twitching side to side. The one out front whipped around, her sights on the pen they’d just run from, while the nine behind her began to arc back around.

  Again, Clancy whistled with his mouth and Brooks redirected his flock. They beelined for the first panel, a single section of fence ten feet from the outer perimeter fencing. The moment the first one daylighted, Brooks burst forward to check them. They pulled up, slowed, then continued along the far fence line. Their instinct had been to return to the pen, because in their collective mind, since it had been the gate to this new hell, it also must be the way out. Never mind that there were other dogs shuffling groups from the holding pens to the take pen, snapping at their heels in close quarters. Sheep have very short memories.

  The second obstacle consisted of two panels, one abutting the outer fence and the other one in line with the first, so that there was an opening between the two. Sheep, I once figured out, see the box created by the corner of the outer fence and the attached panel as a trap. If they go in, they forfeit their route of escape. Always, the foremost thing on their minds is their own survival. If you are being pursued, there are two choices: run ... or fight. Sheep are not known for their bravery. They are lean of leg, so they can bound up hills and run through tall grasses. Their eyes are set more to the sides of their heads, so they can see both in front of and behind them. Their teeth are flat and blunt, made for grinding tough stems. A dog’s teeth are sharp, for piercing. Sheep learn this single difference early. They live an idle and carefree life, with no more purpose than to eat their fill and loll in sunny meadows. Yet I would not like to be one of them, ever living in fear of dogs and coyotes.

  Brooks pushed the sheep through the second obstacle. Again, they tried to bolt for the take pen. Clancy, who stood unconcerned in the same spot some twenty feet from the take pen, sauntered toward the center Y-chute. One of the smaller sheep veered in his direction. Half the flock did likewise. The rest were sti
ll traipsing along after the lead ewe.

  The collective mind of the flock does not always make a unanimous decision. Such folly can be fatal. When the coyotes descend upon a flock, their sole aim is to worry the sheep, to scatter them, until that one unthinking sheep tears off in its own direction.

  We dogs, however, are not coyotes. A stock dog’s purpose is to gather the flock or herd and take it where the handler asks. The livestock that do not understand this, those that seek to escape, they create their own chaos. Like I said, sheep in particular are stupid.

  Until then, Clancy’s run had seemed as close to flawless as a dog-handler pair could look. But the teamwork was being tested by a rogue sheep. An underling that had not acknowledged the wisdom of the eldest ewe, the experienced one, the thinker among them.

  Two whistle blasts rent the dust-choked air. As if yanked by an invisible rope, Brooks suddenly peeled in a clockwise direction, his copper-colored legs raking lightly over the sandy surface. He arced wide, speed increasing with each powerful stride. Until he reached a point where the ewe out front pulled her head back, slowed, and then faltered in her commitment to reach the pen. The gang behind her eased their pace to avoid colliding with her hind end.

  A moment hung suspended in which dog eyed sheep, sheep eyed dog. Indecision, challenge, command. A second sheep moved to its left. The dog froze, waited until the others followed suit. They were going exactly where he wanted. He broke the stare, turned away, then cast out again, his gait less hurried, his presence less forceful. Compliance had been accomplished.

  In a pinched huddle, the sheep trotted through the center chute. The rogue, again, thought to break away, but Clancy had anticipated this and positioned himself to the side of the group where that one sheep was. When it lurched his way, he brought up a hand in a quick, but intimidating wave. Realizing this man was the wolf’s accomplice, the rebel tucked in behind the trailing end of the flock as they bustled through the narrow funnel and on out the other end.

  The crowd erupted in applause. The old ladies beside us sang their praises. Clancy and Brooks were the first team that day to find success in the center chute. It had defeated no less then fourteen teams before them. The sheep, flighty in their new surroundings and unaccustomed to being worked by strange dogs, had been particularly difficult that day.

  As Clancy and Brooks headed for the re-pen, I glanced around, looking for Cecil. He was nowhere to be seen. My leash, I noticed, had been only loosely looped around the metal bar beneath the corner of the stands. Bernadette and Merle were gabbing away, recapping every glorious moment of Clancy and Brook’s miraculous run.

  I hopped down off the floorboard of the stands and went down the stairs. My leash trailed after me. People were clustered off to the side, the crowd of onlookers having grown with the onset of Clancy’s run. Apparently word had gotten around that this was the event to watch. I slipped between kneecaps and cowboy boots. Worked my way through to the parking lot, back toward the truck. Except for a little curly-haired girl, who I stopped for so she could pet my head, no one took notice of me, the diminutive stock dog meandering through the crowd.

  I heard the clang of the gate as the prideful, upraised, velvety voice of Clancy sang, “Here, Brooks. That’ll do.”

  The crowd erupted in banging applause and long whistles of admiration. Shouts of praise flowed down from the top tier of benches to the bottom row, spilling out among the overflow of onlookers gathered alongside the stands. Tucker Kratz parted from the throng, casting his squinty-eyed gaze over the confusion.

  I ducked behind a rusty old truck, bits of hay dangling from its tailless bed, and slunk along a row of vehicles to where ours had been parked. I arrived to no one.

  I sniffed the tires. The scent of familiar earth was embedded in its treads. Yes, this was ours. I raised myself up on my hind legs, trying to look inside. The window was too high, but it was closed and I knew Cecil would not be sitting inside a closed vehicle in this suffocating heat. I put my nose to the crushed grass, searching for his scent. It was everywhere. He had been here many times today. Several times, I circled, until I found on offshoot trace that led to a nearby barn. His scent seemed fresh, so I followed it.

  Beneath the body of a bright green tractor, I glimpsed pair of denim clad legs and work boots — a man crouching in its shade. An old man.

  chapter 17

  Cecil’s head was bent over, his right arm crossed over his chest, hand kneading at his opposite shoulder. His face, usually expressionless and relaxed, was twisted in pain. On the ground between his knees sat a half full bottle of water. He dug in his hip pocket, tossed something small and white in his mouth, and took a swig of water. He tipped his head back, clamped his eyes shut, swallowed.

  For a moment, I observed him. A grimace contorted his features. Concern flared in my chest. Cecil was a soft-spoken, stoic man, but it was not like him to hide like this. On soft paws, I crept to him. Still, he didn’t notice me. I snuffled at his hand and his eyes shot open in surprise.

  “Halo?” He rocked back, the giant ring of rubber stopping him from falling backward. Perspiration dotted his forehead. He forced a smile, but his eyes were still tight. “You were supposed to be with Bernadette.”

  What’s wrong? I woofed at him.

  But of course he didn’t understand my meaning.­­

  His head drifted down again, tension plain in his jaw. He sucked in a thin breath, then let the air out slowly, as if savoring every molecule of oxygen.

  Dogs have a sense that something is not right without knowing what or why that is so. If humans have this same ability, they don’t act on it. It’s why we sense earthquakes before they occur. We feel the ground shift deep in the earth’s mantle, feel its layers slide one against the other, the whole globe groaning deep within its molten belly. We know the power of lightning, how it can strip the air of electrons and stab them through your body, or a tree, or a rooftop. We feel its tingle from miles away, the warning carried on the sonorous undulations of thunder. We smell the danger of fire and know that its smoke can rob you of breath and singe your lungs. We know these things without ever having been taught them.

  And we know when our humans, the ones we follow and wait for and guard with our lives ... we know when they are hurting, whether or not they bleed or cry out in pain. The confession lies not in the obvious, but in the unspoken — in the grimace, in the furrowed brow, in the far-off stare. The mournful tilt of the head. The sigh. We dogs can do none of these things ourselves, but we read them so well in humans. It as if God made us specifically for that purpose. As if He gave us the knowledge, but forbade us the power of tongues.

  Watch, observe, He said, just ... be there. But say nothing.

  Worry gripped my heart. I nosed the back of his left hand, lying limply across his knee. With painstaking slowness, his fingers curled around the top of my muzzle, stroked it twice.

  “Mr. Penewit?”

  I whipped around. Tucker Kratz tossed a cigarette stub on the ground and smashed its orange embers beneath his worn boot.

  “They’ve been looking for you. You were supposed to be up after Clancy, but they couldn’t find you. Arden Ashbrook took your spot, but you still have time. Best hurry, though. His dog’s wound tighter than a top and is about to get thank-you’d off the course.”

  “Be there in a minute,” Cecil said. “I, uh, need to use the facilities.”

  With a nod, Tucker lit another cigarette and left, his trail of smoke weaving through the parked cars.

  Carefully, Cecil set his hat on the trampled grass beside him and wiped the sweat from his brow and neck with his sleeve. A mother hauling two whiny young children walked by. The little girl with bouncy curls, the one who’d patted me on the head, started toward me, but her mother, upon seeing the pale-faced Cecil huddled beside the tractor, reeled her in with a correction. They stumbled on, the mother yanking, the little girl looking back, and the even littler boy crying because he was hungry.

  Cecil grabbed t
he end of my leash and stood. Before he took his first step, he steadied himself with a hand against the giant tire. “You’ll be fine, girl. But me? Well, let’s just get through this and go on home. Chores don’t do themselves, now, do they?”

  If it were up to me, we wouldn’t have come here in the first place. I didn’t quite see the point. But then, I never got a vote, did I?

  —o00o—

  The group of sheep we drew was a motley conglomeration of half-breeds. One had the face of a Suffolk, but the honey coloring of a Katahdin, while two others were mottled like black and white Paint horses. The rest were a curious mixture of tawny and white shorn woolies. They stared at me through the bright orange bars of the gate panel where the tarp had slipped to the side. I yawned and looked away. No need to get them riled before our turn had even begun.

  “Guess we got the leftovers, eh, girl?” Cecil looped my leash over his shoulder and clipped the ends together. His fingers curled around the top end of his crook, clenched, released. I gazed up at his blanched face, hoping he’d reach down and rub his calloused fingertips across my topskull for good luck, but his gaze strayed to the stands, eyes squinting against the long rays of afternoon sun.

  To show him there was nothing to worry about, I sank to my belly in the loose dirt. Particles of gritty sand dug between my toes. I sneezed at the dust and put on the most bored faced I could arrange, which is an easy thing to do when your expressions are limited. It’s all in the ears, you see. I kept them relaxed, not flattened against my head or perked at full attention. Then, I yawned for emphasis.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” the judge announced from the shadows of her box.

  Cecil flashed his number at the judge, then stuffed it partway back in his pocket. He ambled to the take pen, his steps more plodding than sure. I trotted alongside him, my head down so as not to threaten the sheep. They stomped nervously, sending up little puffs of dust with each slap of their hooves.