Nop's Trials

by Donald McCaig

  One hand under his chin so he wouldn’t drown, Lewis lowered the passive Nop into the cool water. His breathing chattered and choked. His eyes saw nothing on this earth.

  Woolies. He did not work the woolies …

  Lewis fluffed the cool water under Nop’s fur, trying to lower his body temperature while his heart was still beating.

  A vet knelt beside Lewis. “We could try decamethasone.”

  “Do it. I’m afraid he’s dying.”

  This vet raised and trialed Border Collies. Lewis had seen him at many trials but never had really gotten to know him. “Oh God,” Lewis said. The vet prepared his syringe and gave the shot. Lewis said, “Crazy to run him. Crazy thing. Nop’s starved for God’s sake. No condition to run a trial on wild sheep. Nobody in his right mind … I wanted him to win. I had everything, absolutely everything, and I wanted him to win.”

  Though some handlers had joined Lewis at the cattle tank, others were clearing Nop’s sheep off the course.

  Lewis couldn’t look at Nop but he felt his breathing under his hands. Automatically, Lewis sloshed water on his belly and testicles and under his forelegs, too. Nop’s fur lifted and stirred in the water.

  Nop stuck out his tongue and lapped. He lapped again, blinked, lapped, breathed, lapped.

  The vet took Nop’s temperature. “Lewis, I think he’ll be all right. Generally, if you get a dog’s temperature lowered, he’ll come back. Don’t let him get chilled, now.”

  “Yeah. Uh-huh. Thanks. Thank you.”

  Lewis kept Nop in that stock tank for fifteen minutes, cooling him, and when Beverly offered to help, he said, “No, no, I’ll do it. Beverly, he would have died for me. He would have kept trying to bring those sheep until he died.”

  “Yes. It’s awful, isn’t it?”

  The final qualifier made his run. The judges huddled over the results, using notes and maps to select the twenty finalists.

  Lewis carried Nop back to his camper and laid him on his own jacket underneath the little dinette table. “I’m sorry, pal,” he said. “I should have known better. It was that Whitenaur. If he’d kept quiet, I wouldn’t have done a thing, but the minute he said I shouldn’t run you, well, naturally, I thought I should. The man—he’s not much—but he’s got some awful power over me. I see him and I get hot and my brain goes haywire. I hate that man for what he brings out in me.”

  Nop thumped his tail.

  “Never again, Nop. That’s my promise. I’ll never use you like that again.”

  Lewis closed the door on his exhausted dog. Right now Nop needed quiet more than love.

  “Lewis! Penny qualified Stink!”

  Lewis couldn’t remember his daughter looking more beautiful. The color was high in her cheeks and she looked to him like his little darling girl. “Eighteenth, Daddy. Stink qualified. We’ll run in the finals. We’re eighteenth.”

  Lewis grinned like a fool.

  “Lewis, don’t you think you should change your pants? You’re soaking.”

  “I don’t want to disturb Nop. Let him rest.”

  Penny’s face fell. “Nop? I was so excited I didn’t …”

  “Nop’ll be fine.”

  “Oh, Daddy.”

  “It looks like you and Stink are gonna have to run for all of us.”

  That wasn’t quite the right thing to say. The fear came into Penny’s eyes, like a tremor. “Daddy, all those men. They’re the best, Daddy. What can I do now?”

  “You keep on doin’ what you’ve been doin’. You’re doin’ something right.”

  Penny bit her lip. She thought she’d take Stink down behind the craft barn. She wanted to be alone with her dog.

  Her dog. Well, Lewis thought, she’s earned it.

  That afternoon, they ran twenty of the most brilliant dogs in America. Most of them were imported but a handful had been bred and trained in the States. Out in the big pasture, against those wild sheep, nothing mattered but how they worked.

  The crowd got bigger and a couple of TV crews made an appearance. Next door, at the Kentucky Horse Farm, they were holding the National Saluki Show and the Arabian Horse Show was there too. Some of the people who’d come for the handsome horses and beautiful white dogs drifted over to Walnut Hall to watch the Sheep Dog Trials.

  Wild sheep were brought to the release pen in bunches of five. One in each five was ribboned.

  The twenty finalists had more time and an additional task. They had a full fifteen minutes but had to shed the ribboned sheep after the pen. No matter how quickly a handler finished the rest of the course, he’d have just three minutes for the shed.

  The sun was hot and the handlers sweated and the dogs’ tongues hung out a yard, but the sheep felt the heat too and slowed and most of the finalists penned.

  Lewis saw some good runs that day: Ralph Pulfer, Bruce Fogt and Lewis Pence were very strong. When Bruce Fogt finished his shed at 14:59, he whooped and tossed his Stetson in the air.

  A well-dressed young couple brought their saluki to the trial and the dog started barking. Stockdogs rarely bark and never near stock and an official asked the young couple to take their dog somewhere else if they couldn’t keep him quiet.

  Near Lewis, a couple of Texans had a cooler full of beer in their truck.

  Lewis said he’d take a beer, thanks.

  Beverly said, “Oh, I wouldn’t dare.” She hughed. “Waistline,” she explained.

  Lewis and Beverly side by side. Twenty years of a lucky marriage.

  Until Bit O’ Scot, Bruce Fogt held high score with hisbitch, Hope. Bit O’ Scot was top qualifier yesterday, andtoday she was out to prove it had been no accident. Somewere already calling Bit “the best little bitch this side of the water.”

  Perfect outrun, superb drive and crossdrive. She slammed her ewes into the pen about as sentimental as a jailer at Sing-Sing.

  The crowd isn’t supposed to make a sound until the run is concluded, but Bit got applause and yells for her penning.

  Bit now had three full minutes for her shed. The sheep returned to the handler’s circle and, as soon as the last sheep stepped on the short grass, the clock would start.

  Doug Whitenaur on one side of the circle and Bit on the other, trying to shed that one ribboned sheep.

  Whitenaur went left, went right, encouraging his little dog with whistles and cries. Constant attention. The ribboned sheep, a whiteface, hid in the center of the flock, presenting no opening for the dog to dart through.

  In the three long minutes they worked, worked and failed, Lewis understood that some part of Doug Whitenaur was a fine stockdog handler, that Whitenaur was his father’s son. Though he missed the shed, he had seventy-eight points and a strong round of applause. Bit was top dog.

  Through the afternoon no dog equaled her. One after another they made their runs but none showed the style or control of Doug Whitenaur’s expensive imported bitch. Some good handlers failed to pen. Many good handlers failed to shed.

  The Texans worked deeper into their cooler and when their language started to get a little rough, they moved to the far side of their truck where they wouldn’t offend Beverly.

  When Lewis looked in on Nop, he was sleeping normally.

  The announcer said, “In the Handler’s Circle: Lewis Pence with Diamond. Diamond is out of Lewis Pulfer’s Dell and litter mate to Bruce Fogt’s Hope. Lewis has won this Bluegrass twice before, making him one of a handful of men to do so. On deck, the last finalist, Penny Hilyer with her dog, uh, Stink.”

  Some laughed at Stink’s name.

  Lewis didn’t watch Lewis Pence’s run because he was with the Texans, bumming another beer. He was afraid he wouldn’t be able to stand the tension. He hoped Penny did okay. The top fifteen dogs got trophies or ribbons and Lewis hoped Penny got something.

  When he returned, Beverly said, “Give me a sip. There goes Penny now. Lewis, she’s huge. Oh, my goodness. Lewis …”

  Long shadows stole across the top of the meadow where Penny’s sheep waited.
Nobody was paying much attention. Whitenaur had won it. Handlers were talking about other trials, past trials, the trials down the road. The Midwest Classic Sheep Dog Trial was July 11 in Illinois and the Texas Futurity was the end of the month. Those who had miles to go before dark had already pulled out and there were others getting ready to leave. Gaps appeared in the camper parking.

  Penny Hilyer wore green stretch maternity pants and a short flowered overblouse. Her Stetson was the same creamy Banker’s Stetson Harry Truman had favored. The sun glinted on her polished shepherd’s crook (when Lewis gave it to her, she’d been just fourteen) as she raised it in the air and her sheep were released.

  When Stink started her outrun, Lewis winced. Stink ran with her right hindquarter lower than the other and a funny hitch in her step. She rolled from side to side like a sailor. She was favoring her pain.

  But, by God, she got out there. Lewis got to his feet.

  Penny whistled and Stink swerved to pick up her drifting sheep. The sheep got down into a low place on the top of the meadow and vanished, but Stink slipped down into that low spot like a spy and the next thing anyone saw of those sheep was five heads, coming on a straight shot to the fetch panel. The sheep didn’t hesitate at the fetch panel either. They paused, briefly, before stepping into the handler’s circle, and the sunlight glinted in the Stink Dog’s eyes as she dogged them through the drive panel and onto line for the crossdrive.

  Penny’s whistle chirping. Each time Stink’s hip lifted, the flesh just seemed to slide off her back onto her downhill hip but she jerked across the grass after those sheep, in tune: concentrated.

  One of the Texans climbed up onto the hood of the pickup. Another closed the beer cooler and stood on that. Nobody was talking as Stink forced those ewes through the crossdrive panel, dead center, and rolled around to start them toward Penny. Penny didn’t watch her dog working behind her—she made her heavy way to the pen.

  “Dog moves like a busted mower in tall grass,” somebody said.

  Another man cursed under his breath. Beauty strikes some men that way.

  The sheep hated the pen. It looked like a trap—was a trap—the gate yawning open to receive them. They rolled around the mouth of the pen like an eddy.

  Penny kept her crook hooked over her arm. Her voice was calm—she might have done this every single day in her life. “Get up, Stink. Stand. Way to me, back! Get back! Way. Walk up, walk up.”

  Still whirling, the sheep spun into the pen and Penny trudged the gate shut on them.

  “Twelve thirty-eight. Penny Hilyer penned in twelve thirty-eight. She’ll have two minutes, twenty-two seconds for the shed.”

  Lewis hadn’t thought it had been twelve minutes. Seemed like forever to him. He took a breath. Beverly hugged his arm. “Wasn’t she pretty, Lewis? Wasn’t Penny pretty?”

  The Texan leaned down from his truck cab. “Say, Lewis. How come you’re not workin’ that dog? You get tired of winning?”

  Lewis said, “That Stink Dog saved my life.”

  “That’s a good reason,” the Texan lied.

  Penny made her way to the far side of the shedding circle. For the first time, she unhooked her crook from her arm. “Stink. Bring ’em.”

  Though the Stink’s hindquarters jigged like a mistimed engine, the sheep stalked into the circle, stiff-legged and bunched up.

  Penny was half in sunlight, half in shade. She tilted backward to balance her swollen belly. The tip of her crook just touched the ground, way out in front, like some electric current was flowing from the earth through the crook into her body.

  Five sheep.

  Bitch on their left, woman on their right.

  “Stink, come through!”

  And she raised her crook to indicate the spot and the sheep separated at the crook, no more than six inches for a gap, but Stink hit that gap, filled it, whirled in her own body width, and the solo ribboned sheep and Stink were face to face. The other four sheep bolted behind Stink, unrequired.

  The ribboned sheep bleated its terror. It had been singled out and every sheep gene was sounding the alarm.

  The sheep hoofed the ground. Blustered.

  Stink lifted her right paw, almost like a pointer.

  The sheep lowered her head to force her way past.

  Stink slunk low in the sheep’s vision and glared.

  The sheep took a hesitant step backward. Another.

  “That’s a shed, Penny,” the judge said.

  And Penny lowered her crook and pushed the point against the earth and rested on it. Her knees were shaking.

  Lewis got to Penny’s arm before anyone else did.

  Somebody wanted to get her a lawn chair. Someone else offered lemonade.

  Stink’s hindquarters shook and she sank down. One of the Texans picked Stink up in his arms. “Lewis, I’ll take this pretty girl to your camper. This girl dog don’t ever have to walk so long as I’m around.”

  And that’s how Penny Hilyer with her Stink Dog won the twenty-fifth annual Bluegrass Open Sheep Dog Trials. That’s how Penny came to win the big sterling-silver tray and the check for five hundred dollars.

  The Texan carried Stink gently and laid her gently down beside Nop. Nop licked her silky cheeks.

  “Oh, I have worked woolies. I have worked them. Oh, I am a good dog.”

  “Thou art a good dog,” Nop agreed.

  Doug Whitenaur got the silver julep goblet for top qualifier and a two-hundred-fifty-dollar check for second place. Lewis caught up with him at his car.

  Whitenaur dropped his car key in his pocket and put his silver trophy on the roof of his De Lorean. He faced Lewis, sullen, defiant.

  “I wanted to congratulate you,” Lewis said. “That was a real fine run you made. If you’d had a chance, you might have made a real good dog handler—right up there with Ralph Pulfer or Jack Knox—up there with the best.”

  Furious spittle flew from Whitenaur’s distorted lips. “You know who you’re talking to? You know who?”

  Very slowly, Lewis nodded. “I believe I do. Doug Whitenaur, you’re not to ever run stockdogs again.”

  The two men locked eyes.

  Lewis said, “You stole a good dog and tried to have him killed. You set thugs on me and my son-in-law. You hurt me and mine. I don’t care if you run retrievers or bird dogs or put show dogs on the bench. No business of mine. But today was the last day you’ll run a stockdog. Quit today and you quit a hero. Nobody knows what you done. Tyler Whitenaur, your daddy, was an upright man.”

  Whitenaur gnawed on his knuckle. “I don’t care,” he said. “I don’t care.” He was gnawing fierce enough to draw blood.

  Lewis unlatched the door on Whitenaur’s dog trailer and Bit came out right away. Her worried eyes questioned Lewis and Whitenaur, but she made no protest when Lewis fastened his lead to her collar.

  “You quit and the police won’t put you in jail for stealing Nop and the Sheep Dog Association will remember you as a fine man who was once Reserve Champion at the Bluegrass. I know plenty handlers who’d be pleased with that honor. I don’t think you should keep a stockdog anymore.” Lewis extracted his tattered wallet. “Since you won’t be running in trials, you won’t need a dog. This little bitch did real good for you and I expect she’ll do good for me.”

  The bills Lewis handed him were mostly tens and twenties. “I paid … I paid ten thousand.…”

  “I heard something about that.” Lewis cocked his head. “But somebody else told me you thought three hundred dollars was an honest price for a good stockdog like my Nop. Three hundred dollars doesn’t seem like very much to me, but it is your price.”

  Whitenaur’s face was at war with itself. His mouth worked against squinched-up cheeks and his eyes wandered relentlessly. Lewis’s money was clenched in his hand.

  Since Lewis had done what he’d meant, he returned to his camper. Whitenaur did nothing to stop him and Bit walked quietly at his heels.

  Because Penny was resting, Lewis and Beverly went up to t
he Walnut Hall office where they were serving beef stew, beer and ice tea to the handlers. Departing campers honked or waved. Whitenaur sped through without looking left or right.

  Though he didn’t have much appetite, Lewis took a little stew on a paper plate. He thanked Steve Brown for the good trial. He accepted some congratulations for Penny.

  “That’s two in a row for that dog, Lewis. How come you gave her up?”

  Lewis just smiled.

  A couple handlers were talking about Nop’s outrun and lift.

  “He’s got the power,” Lewis said. “Maybe I’ll make a trial dog out of him yet.”

  Ethel Harwood said sure she’d keep quiet about Whitenaur. Was Lewis certain that’s what he wanted?

  Sure he was.

  They got back to the farm before first light, next morning. Mark came out to kiss his wife’s face and help her into her own bed. Lewis fed the stock.

  Two weeks and four days later, Mrs. Mark Hilyer had a baby. Six pounds, five ounces. They named her Lisa.

  Penny used her Bluegrass money for a downpayment on a used Ten-Wide and they set it down by the river, not so very far from where the old tenant house had been—but that wasn’t until September.

  July 8, Lewis drove back to Kentucky for his court date. Detweiler said they wouldn’t press charges if he paid damages and didn’t make any statement to the press. They were afraid (Detweiler said) that a lot of kooks would pester them looking for stray dogs.

  The bill was eight hundred thirty dollars which Lewis thought excessive but paid. The fine for “misappropriation of a public safety vehicle” was two hundred dollars. The Craigsville Fire Department cooled off when they learned that Lewis had resigned as chief of the White Post Department. Mike Pearson, the assistant chief, moved up to take Lewis’s place.

  Court costs were seventy-five dollars.

  The total came to eleven hundred and five dollars plus the cost of gas getting there. It could have been worse.

  Once his ribs healed, Mark started doing custom livestock hauling. Lewis missed him on the farm, but the kids needed cash for payments on their mobile home.

  Mrs. Hilyer (“Call me Bebe!”) arrived for a week-long visit when baby Lisa was a month old. Though she and Beverly made an odd pair—Bebe’s energy, Beverly’s quietness—the two women got along fine. Mrs. Hilyer brought a trunkful of lotions and bath oils for the baby.