Back to the BC Culture PageEditor's note: this insightful article was written by a former member of the Board of Directors of the American Kennel Club.
One of the truly exceptional experiences of my life was attendance at the Scottish National Sheep Dog Trials (hard to believe--28 years ago!). It was held in Lanark that year, at and on a turf race course. A two-day event: the first for farmers, the second for shepherds. Divided this way, the Chief Steward explained to the only interlopers present (my mother, myself, and a small boy named Jamie Higgins), as it could be presumed that farmers, owning their own land, could be expected to buy a better dog than a shepherd, who does not own his land and is very apt to be someone's employee.
150 dogs were run, from sunup to twilight. The competitors drew for running position; no one wanted to draw a late-in-the-day position because the shadows (especially the ominous one cast by the pen's gate across the opening into the pen) which made the sheep exceptionally wary and contrary. But the luck of the draw prevailed.
All 150 dogs were Border Collies, although the trial, by definition, was open to any legitimate herding breed. But that year, as commonly, by the time of the National Finals, no other breed had survived the shire and divisional preliminaries.
The dogs were all about us all the time; none tucked away in crates or trucks, and of course there was no benching. The spectators were the competitors; and their dogs were with them. The shepherds and farmers wore numbered arm bands, and the Chief Steward kindly provided us with a mimeographed sheet which identified the owner-handler, the dog (a name like "Dash"; no other information) with their number.
We had ample opportunity to see many of the dogs close at hand; and we frequently scratched notes in the margin besides numbers pertaining to those dogs which particularly struck us as promising or unpromising due to particulars of their construction: sway backs, flat backs, lean hindquarters, apparently muscular hindquarters, east-west front feet and very close `wrists,' straight forward front feet moderately spaced apart, cow hocks or no cow hocks. I say, we did these notes; in fact, it was Jamie who first made these observations; and they had nothing to do with aesthetics, as far as he or we were concerned; it just seemed logical that the better constructed, better balanced dogs should have been best suited to the stamina and speed required to carry out the challenge set for all.
As the dogs we'd particularly noted ran, we compared our notes with the efficiency of the performance. There appeared to be no correlation.
Jamie reminded me of this, thirteen years later, when we watched a Cheetah arrange himself on a hillside for an attack on a Wildebeest crossing the valley below. The Cheetah was profoundly sway-backed, his shoulders, far from being laid back, were set almost forward of his chest, his `wrists' were virtually glued together, and his big front paws pointed east and west. And, of course, away he went at better than seventy miles an hour! Admittedly, a prowess that cannot be sustained, but extraordinary all the same!
The Chief Steward, who was so good to us on the Scottish occasion, was Jock Wilson. You could have some obscure specialist's book that mentions him. He was not a young man when we met him; and he was the only individual to have won the Scottish National three times. There being no rule set in anticipation of such a record, Mr. Wilson himself decided to disqualify himself for further competition in the National. Accordingly, that year, he was given the honor of serving as Chief Steward for the event.
I asked him if he'd won two, or perhaps all three, of the Nationals with the same dog. No; a different dog each time. Were the three dogs related to one another? No, they were not. Not the same line, two out of three maybe? No, not at all. I was surprised, and so said. Mr. Wilson was surprised that I was surprised! Genius, he said, appears where it appears--in individuals, as individuals; he did not believe it was so simple a thing as inheritance. Not in man or beast.
He had not bred any of his three great winners; nor did he find them from the same source. What he said he thought was his talent, if he might say so, was his ability to select a promising pup suited to working with him. And he went on to say that there would be dogs bought as a result of their performance at this trial, a performance that, likely as not, might never be achieved again with the new owner. What you are witnessing, he said, when you see a splendid performance is the magic of the right person with the right dog.
In addition to the luck, good or not so, of the draw as to the time of running, another unavoidably unequal factor were the sheep. A new lot of five were assorted for each dog, four ewes and a ram; each of the five came from a different farm and thus were strangers to one another and disinclined to be cohesive. However, over and above that, there was frequently apt to be an exceptionally difficult sheep (usual the ram, but not always); and the dog that drew the lot with an exceptionally cantankerous character in it had more to deal with than a dog that did not.
Dealing with a really bad egg, Wilson said, gobbles up time. Men realize this; they see it happening. And they are allowed to call for `Time' and will be told how much of their allotted time is left. Fatal question--and answer--in Wilson's view, because it's man's nature in the heat of competition to panic: even less time left than he thought--and hoped. Panic inevitably leads to trying to out-smart your dog by over-instructing. You will see, Wilson said, at least one or two noble performances wrecked by a man who asks to know the time, panics, and bewilders and upsets his dog getting himself too involved and over directing and redirecting. We did indeed see this happen. Though, if we hadn't been forewarned, I don't think we could have grasped the analysis.
Our generous informant walked over to where we were standing (no seats; a chair was produced from somewhere for my mother--the only seated observer!) when an absolutely brilliant performer had had the whistle blown and was disqualified. He wanted to tell us what had happened. This dog was one who had a devil in his lot of five: a really powerful, stubborn, contrary ram. Keeping the ewes together and darting off to round up this eternal run-away had been a constant from the beginning. In the exercise of getting--and keeping--all five within a chalk circle, the ram bolted over and over again. As he put his head down ready to spring another bolt out of the circle, the dog nipped his heel. Instantly, the whistle blew. And there was an audible "Awww" from the crowd.
Wilson explained that they were very strict about any physical contact because if it were permitted, it would, as he said, be customary "in the hills." In other words, to encourage humane management of sheep day to day in the routine of a shepherd's or farmer's life, they maintained this rule for the trials. Ostensibly, a dog permitted to be rough in regular work could not be trained to be otherwise when competing in a trial. Therefore, at least, if a man had any intention of being a trial competitor, he couldn't simply permit `bad habits' simply because he was off by himself in a distant pasture where no one would blow a whistle.
In somewhat the same vein, a truck was pointed out to us. It was a large old thing, and as it turned out, it served as a vet's office. The vet was present, not only in case of emergencies, but because every dog entered had to be `vetted' before competing. There was an age minimum and maximum; and presumably the vet could come reasonably close to ascertaining if any dog was below the minimum or above the maximum. Furthermore, all dogs were required to be completely fit. A handler who has qualified and has his heart set on coming here may not always be scrupulous about not running his dog just because it's "a wee bit lame," "a mite below par," "a trifle overworked." Unfortunately, said Wilson, human beings have egos, and some egos permit ruthlessness.
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