Nop's Trials Page 6

  The stockdog trial is a grueling test. For the dog it’s like playing a chess game while broken-field running top-speed downhill. Dogs rid themselves of body wastes through their tongues and the pads of their feet. Dogs have died on the trial course, collapsing when their body wastes simply overwhelmed them.

  Before the first dog runs, the judge meets with the handlers to explain his biases. “I’ll want a good outrun. Every redirection will cost you half a point, two points if the dog doesn’t take the command. The dog has to do his outrun without your help.”

  Lewis listened with half an ear. Ethel Harwood asked him how many dogs he was running. “Just the Nop dog, Ethel. My young dog.”

  “Didn’t he take a first at the Hop Bottom Trials?”

  “He beat out some pretty good dogs there. Doug Whitenaur had one of his imported dogs and Nop beat him.” Lewis laughed, not very pleasantly.

  “What’s Nop’s breeding?”

  “Jack Knox’s Craig dog is the sire. Craig’s here today. Stout-looking, prick-eared dog. Craig’s fast but he’s hyper. The dam’s a little bitch named Maid. Maid never won anything but she’s got good blood. She’s got plenty of Gilchrist Spot in her and Craig’s a Wiston Cap son. Nop’s real responsive but hasn’t got much confidence yet. On his good days he can’t be beat. Bad days, tough ewes will run him right out of the field. I’ll use him with the cows this winter and ewes with first lambs. That’ll put some power in him. He’s turning out better than he ought. I bought him because he was handy when my Stink Dog got hurt.”

  Ethel Harwood wore tight (too tight for her hips) whipcord pants cut for riding. Her boots were alligator hide and her belt buckle pictured a gold barrel racer on a silver background. The horse’s eyes were red rubies and the legend was the championship Ethel had won fifteen years ago when she was still the baby side of forty. She had a sunbeaten face and her black eyes didn’t miss much. For as long as Lewis could remember, she’d been a quarter-horse dealer, selling colts, brood mares, racers, ropers and a few pleasure horses too. The only animal she loved as much as a quarterhorse was an honest stockdog.

  “I was awful sorry to hear about Stink,” she said. “Awful sorry. That bitch had the smoothest action I ever saw. And speed, goodness, she had some speed on her.”

  Lewis looked at his boot toes.

  “Can you breed her?”

  “Way she’s busted up? You’d never get her pups except by caesarian. I don’t know if she’d even breed.”

  “It was a cow with a new calf?”

  “If you don’t mind, Ethel, I’d just as soon not talk about it. See, Tom Conn’s gonna make the first run. Let’s see what we can learn about this course.”

  Lewis’s eyes were fixed on the distant sheep. Ethel Harwood bit her lip and moved away. An old friend of Lewis’s, she knew his moodiness.

  The sheep were Suffolk-Dorset crosses, yearlings and two-year-olds. The sheep had been worked by dogs before and were of average difficulty, neither as docile as the Barbados Blackbellies some trials favored nor as wild as the Texas sheep imported for the Kentucky Bluegrass.

  Lewis, who’d drawn a late slot, watched the first runs intently. From below, the course looked to be left-handed, but those dogs who took the left flank were winded by the time they reached their sheep. Though the hill seemed perfectly smooth, Lewis noted several dips where, briefly, dog and sheep were out of sight of the handler.

  The sheep jumped down that hill, stiff-legged and bouncing.

  They’d come fast, all right, and it’d be the devil to turn them.

  Ethel was beside her van, a six-window blue Dodge with Texas plates.

  “I’m sorry,” Lewis said. “Is that ice tea you got in that jug?”

  “Help yourself. You don’t have to talk about the Stink Dog, Lewis. Last time I lost a good dog I couldn’t hold anything in my stomach for a week.”

  “Naw.” Stubbornly Lewis shook his head. “It wasn’t that, though that was part of it. It was just so crazy. You know, most times I get into trouble, I can see it coming. Like that time I was fixing the guttering and came off the barn roof. I knew I shouldn’t be up there at the time. But this thing with Stink. It was … it was like a meteor came out of the air and hit me. I couldn’t have been more surprised. This is good tea, Ethel. Look at that red dog go. That’s Pulfer’s Dell, isn’t it? Isn’t she a pretty thing?”

  Lewis didn’t really expect an answer and Ethel didn’t provide one. She watched the Dell dog make a perfect fetch, directed by Lewis Pulfer’s whistled commands.

  “A cow with a new calf, I would have been careful. You know how cows get sometimes. They forget who’s been feeding them all winter and suddenly it’s like you’re some kind of wolf after their young one. But this wasn’t a new calf. Calf was a hundred eighty days old. I had the calf and twenty others penned up beside my loading chute because I was weaning them. That afternoon I meant to take them down to my river field. Oh, they’d bawl and complain, you know, but after a couple days they’d settle down and forget about their mama. You never been to my place, Ethel. There’s the loading chute right beside my equipment shed and the lot with the mama cows is all bare earth because my daddy used to use it as a hog lot. There’s some old fenceposts standing in the lot but no wire or boards on them.” Lewis sighed. “Oh, that Stink Dog. She could run. She could run like the wind. You saw her at the Bluegrass this spring. Wasn’t any dog there could touch her.”

  “Once she lifted her sheep, she had ’em,” Ethel agreed.

  “I was doin’ some fool thing. Walking across that lot toward the equipment shed with my head in the clouds. I don’t know what I meant to do—grease the rake or adjust the haybin—I don’t know. One minute I was walking along and the next thing, by God, I was flat on my back and my mouth was full of dirt and all the wind knocked plumb out of me. I was starin’ at this dirty brown patch of hair pushin’ against my chest like that cow meant to drive me right into the ground. Just the top of her head, that’s all I could see. It hurt bad, Ethel. I wound up and slugged that cow. Hit her in the side of the head hard as I could, one hand, then the other, but a cow’s skull is all bone and I hurt my hand more’n I hurt her. She just naturally kept on pressin’ on me and I didn’t know it was possible, but I swear I heard my ribs snap. It was so surprising. I’d got between that crazy cow and her calf and she meant to murder me. My vision was going out so I didn’t see why she pulled her head off my chest. She gave a noise, like a grunt, and something hot and wet fell on my face. I figured it was some of her snot, but later I found it was her blood that fell on me. With her head off me, I was cryin’ for help, but Beverly was in the kitchen and she said she never heard nothing except the Stink Dog bark. I wasn’t awful far from that loading chute and I pushed myself back with my legs and grubbed around for a corral post because if I could pull under the loading chute, she couldn’t get me. The loading chute is two-inch oak and she couldn’t touch me there, no matter how she tried. She had her head lowered and was coming for me again. I never saw Stink hit her that first time, when the cow lifted up off me, but I saw Stink hit that cow the second time. Stink flew through the air like she meant to kill and gripped her nose, just clamped down hard as she could. I wasn’t thinkin’ much—I was backin’ for the cover of that loading chute. Cow jerked her head. Old Stink hung on like a stick-tight. Cow wasn’t going to shake her this time. I got myself under the loading chute, just kind of curled up in there, and I wasn’t any more use to the Stink Dog than if I was a baby.

  “When that cow jerked her head, Stink just hung on like crack-the-whip. The cow went up to one of those useless fenceposts and smacked Stink against it. Stink made an awful noise but wouldn’t turn loose. The cow was frantic, bawling and bucking, and mashed Stink against the post again. Stink never said nothing but she didn’t let go this time either. The third time that cow slung my dog against that post, the dust flew. Stink just slid down the post, black-and-white fur covered with red blood. The cow was backing up. She couldn’t back
fast enough.

  “Beverly had heard the squalling and it was her who put the cows out of there. I couldn’t walk except all doubled over, so it was Beverly who put me and Stink in the truck and took us to town. Me, I had busted ribs and some bruises and I gimped around the farm for a month or so, but I been hurt worse before. Later on I went into that lot. That post had been set in the packed dirt of that old hog lot like cement. That cow had shook it so bad I could lift the post right out of the ground. Both Stink’s hips were broke. Vet said I should put her down.”

  Lewis took a breath and when he spoke again, his voice went back to that time, last July, standing in the vet’s office with Stink unconscious on the cold steel table.

  “I said, ‘This dog has won the championship of the Kentucky Bluegrass Open Sheep Dog Trials. This Stink Dog here is a true champion. I want you to fix her best you can.’ So he operated on her. Her hips—I saw ’em—they looked like they’d been shredded. He fastened them back together with steel pins, three in one hip and five separate pins in the other. After she came out of the anesthetic we drove home. She rode on my jacket for extra padding. Me and Beverly—every time Stink had to go outside, we’d carry her and hold her until her business was done. She can get around herself now, but there’s an awful hitch in her stride. She’ll never run in a trial again.”

  Because she didn’t want to intrude, Ethel busied herself pouring ice tea though her cup was already half full. “That run at the Bluegrass. The way Stink brought those sheep into the pen. She was a beautiful dog, Lewis. Most handlers go through their whole life and never have one dog as good as her.”

  Tom Conn came over and rescued them from their intimacy. Tom wasn’t pleased by his run: he’d lost his sheep at the pen. He’d admired Lewis’s new Nop dog. “I watched Nop run at Hop Bottom but never saw him close up.”

  Nop was perfectly willing to be admired. He wagged. He snuffled Tom’s trousers and Ethel’s hand. He grinned. He yawned happily.

  “You see those brown patches behind his ears. One of Bill Dillard’s dogs has coloring like that.”

  “Well, Nop’s not much to look at,” Lewis said.

  “Doug Whitenaur was sure mad you beat him at Hop Bottom,” Tom Conn said. “He was fit to be tied.”

  Lewis grinned. “My pleasure,” he said, “beating Doug Whitenaur’s expensive imported dogs.”

  “Doug isn’t a bad handler. He’s a good handler.”

  “He’s got a heavy hand.”

  Tom was careful. “I’ve seen him beat a dog. He never says nothing about it, just takes the dog out back and beats it. That isn’t my way, but Doug’s won some big trials.”

  Ethel Harwood said, “He beat a dog to death once.”

  “Were you there? Did you see it?”

  “No. I heard it from people who did. It was at the Texas Open, five years ago and …”

  “Well,” Tom said, “I heard that but I never saw it either. Wasn’t that about the time his daddy died? Did you know Doug’s daddy?”

  Ethel laughed. “Old Tyler Whitenaur? You bet I knew him. Wasn’t a better dog handler or kinder man on the circuit. Him and Arthur Allen were really the first ones to bring Border Collies into this country. They set up the first big trials. Did you ever read Tyler’s book, Forty Years in the Doghouse? It’s a funny book.”

  Lewis could just see the tail end of Doug Whitenaur’s silver sportscar tucked behind somebody’s camper-bodied pickup. “I wonder what dog he’ll run.”

  Ethel Harwood was surprised. “You haven’t heard about his new dog? Imported him from Jock Gilchrist. A two-year-old bitch, Bit O’ Scot. Jock was hoping to run her in the International this year, so you know Whitenaur paid a pretty penny.”

  “I’m surprised Gilchrist would sell.”

  “I heard Doug made it worth his while. Ten thousand.”

  Lewis emitted a soundless whistle. Tom Conn shook his head. Tom said he’d see them later, that Ralph Pulfer was running Shep and he didn’t want to miss Ralph’s run.

  Ethel Harwood said, “You don’t care for Doug, do you, Lewis?”

  “Oh, Doug’s all right. So long as you don’t mind him looking down at you because he’s rich and you’re not. And if you don’t mind him never passing the time of day or admiring your dog, he’s okay. If you don’t care that he’s got a heavy hand. Ethel, I never once saw him go out after a trial and have a friendly beer. Not once. As soon as the trophies are handed out, he hits the road. And where in God’s name does he find those women?”

  Ethel Harwood laughed. Usually Whitenaur came to the trials alone. The girls he did bring were never the same one twice but were cut out with the same cookie cutter. They were never dressed for the weather. If it was a Texas trial they didn’t have a hat. If the trial was in Indiana, they didn’t have socks thick enough to keep their feet warm throughout the chilly afternoon. They always started by gushing enthusiasm for “The marvelous dogs. Aren’t they simply spec-tac-u-lar!” Always they ended the day in the sportscar where the weather was climate controlled and they could listen to the tapes or the radio. “There’s Doug now,” Ethel said.

  Doug Whitenaur shot them a glance like he knew they’d been talking about him. He was a blue-eyed blond in his late twenties. His beaver felt Stetson was glossy as a hundred-dollar bill. He walked with thumbs hooked in his belt.

  Ethel Harwood said, “Oh, oh.”

  His walk was offensive. His stare was offensive. In his own sweet time he said, “That’s the dog that won Hop Bottom?”

  “That’s Nop. He’s not two years old yet but he makes a nice run.”

  Doug Whitenaur was young and good looking. He thought he knew what money could buy. “What kind of a name is that?” His eyes surveyed the young dog like maybe his answer was written in Nop’s coat or the brown patches behind his ears. Nop withdrew a step.

  “You know Jack Knox and that Scottish accent of his. He had a dog I liked and Jack would call to it, ‘Come by, Nop. Get up, Nop.’ Of course the dog wasn’t N-O-P at all. The dog was N-A-P, only it sounded like N-O-P on account of Jack’s accent. I had Nop half trained before I learned my mistake.” Lewis laughed. Ethel smiled. Doug Whitenaur spared Lewis a smile normally reserved for the feeble-minded.

  So Lewis asked, “You runnin’ the same dog Nop beat before?” Just so Whitenaur would lose that smile.

  “Sold him.”

  “I hear you don’t keep so many dogs as your daddy did.”

  “I don’t keep any dogs you can beat.” Whitenaur’s new smile was nastier than the smile Lewis just ruined. Doug Whitenaur showed them his back.

  “Whew.” That was Ethel.

  “Doug’s quite a character.” Lewis’s facial muscles might have been graven bronze.

  “He’s not too fond of you.”

  “That cuts both ways. You know, Ethel, there’s plenty good dog handlers. Some of the best are out on the course today. I’d rather win than lose, but we all came out to watch the pretty dogs run. It’s supposed to be fun. It’s no fun between me and Doug Whitenaur. Ten years I’ve known him. I knew him when he was still runnin’ his daddy’s dogs and I knew him when he started sellin’ his dogs off. I don’t guess he keeps but one or two now. I don’t care who beats me, so long as it isn’t Whitenaur. I know that’s harsh and I don’t ever talk to Beverly about it because she’s a Christian and …”

  “Thanks, Lewis.”

  And Lewis, who’d been about to tell Ethel Harwood a thing or two more about Doug Whitenaur, apologized instead and they stopped talking to watch the dogs run because there was no sense letting Whitenaur spoil the day.

  “I believe I’ll go get a hotdog,” Lewis said. “Can I bring you anything?”

  “Not just now.” Ethel was intent on the course where a confused young Border Collie had lost all control of his sheep. The sheep were broken up (two and one) and the handler’s whistles were frantic: “Nell, Nell. Look back, Nell. Look back!”

  Munching on his hotdog, Lewis made the rounds, talking dogs wit
h the handlers he knew, saying hello to a few new faces. He heard about good dogs and good runs. He heard about dogs killed by cars or in freak accidents. Some of the handlers had flown to Scotland to watch the Internationals where Johnny Templeton’s Glen had beat out some real good dogs for the title. One day, Lewis promised himself, he’d get over for that. He’d love to watch those Scottish dogs run.

  A young couple introduced themselves and their new puppy who promptly jumped up on Lewis. The couple wanted to know how to train their dog, when would he start working sheep, would he be ruined for sheep if they started him on ducks; if Lewis would be willing to train their pup, how much would he charge?

  “That’s not my kind of work,” Lewis said. “I only keep a dog or two for the farm. I’m not in the business.”

  Well, how much would they expect to pay to have a dog trained?

  Lewis didn’t know. He’d always trained his own dogs. “Excuse me,” he said. “I want to see this dog, Bit O’ Scot, run.”

  Bit O’ Scot was a small bitch, black with blue merle breast and the very tip of her tail was merle too.

  Whitenaur came out, impatient, too impatient; and Lewis couldn’t help it, he grinned when Whitenaur ignored the dog’s obvious preference for the right-flank outrun and set her up to run next to the fence.

  The bitch almost made up for it, streaking uphill, slowing and then throwing herself out farther; all without a redirection from Whitenaur. He whistled her down, abruptly, and she skidded to a stop and the sheep were alerted to her presence and the lift wasn’t quite as smooth as it might have been before that single peremptory command.

  The sheep were coming on too fast and if Bit hadn’t taken each of Whitenaur’s whistled commands flawlessly, they would have been uncontrollable. Left, right, she dodged, dropped, got up again. Whitenaur was doing plenty of whistling. She lost points coming around the handler into the drive because she couldn’t get around fast enough on the balance point. Lost a few more points at the drive panel because all three sheep went through at a dead run.