Mr. and Mrs. Dog: Our Travels, Trials, Adventures, and Epiphanies

“It Can’t Have Been Easy to Arrange”

132 “ItCan’tHaveBeen EasytoArrange” T he next day David Rees and I drove to David Streeter’s stead­ ing. Streeter is a landscaper and, David Rees told me, “a demon for work.” Although Streeter rarely took a day off, today was his birthday and his wife had insisted. The Streeters’ steading was protected by two perfectly hung iron gates. It had rained more during the night; the fields were soggy and Streeter’s quarter­acre pond was toffee colored. The bungalow was bigger than most single­family Welsh homes. Streeter had built it himself, one room at a time, as he could afford materials. He’d not borrowed a penny. We left our wellies in the unfinished master bedroom—the newest addition, presently a storeroom. In his late forties, David Streeter has a familiar Welsh build: he’s shaped like a .38 cartridge and has the latent energy of one. His wife, Coleen, is lovely. Straightaway the three men went out to work dogs. June was workmanlike but sliced her flanks (buzzing the sheep and alarming them). After Luke ran, David Rees shook his head: “I like him better every time I see him. I can’t understand why nobody’s bred to him.” David Streeter asked, “Will you want to work your dogs again after lunch?” “Sure.” “Then we won’t hose them down. I’ll just pop them in a kennel.” Breeding, starting, and selling dogs was David Streeter’s second income and trial handlers came to him for started dogs. Presently he had an eight­ week­old litter, another just born, and several pups and young dogs, most already sold. David Rees inspected each dog and picked up every newborn. “It Can’t Have Been Easy to Arrange” 133 Coleen Streeter asked her husband to not let the pups out until he’d locked up her chickens. I smiled. “Come on, an eight­week­old pup can’t hurt a grown hen.” “Five pounds on it?” David Streeter stuck out his hand. I chickened out of the wager and David turned the new litter out to zoom and tumble. David Rees put a pup inside the chicken yard. Eight weeks old, it dropped its silly tail, crouched, and gathered the flapping, out­ raged hens. Another puppy wasn’t interested, a third pup dove in. One pup stayed outside the yard watching every move. I rather fancied that one. David brought a two­year­old gyp into his training yard. She was quick, keen, and responsive. David told us the gyp preferred sheepwork to people. The tricolor dog he tried next was calmer and quieter around the sheep. He was the dog, David Streeter said, that Welsh trial handlers prefer. Me, I liked the hotter, people­indifferent gyp. American trial dogs are pushed hard. Train, train, train, not enough (relaxing) practical work, then twelve hours in the car, brand new environment, unfamiliar sheep, and the intense focus of the trial, before twelve hours home for still more training. Real work is the best teacher for man and dog. Hill lambing teaches the dog that if he doesn’t work properly, he’ll wear himself out before the day is done. Proper stockwork is economical and precise for the shepherd, the dog, and the sheep. A few years back, I rode along with four sheepdogs trailing (not “trial­ ing”) three thousand ewes seventy miles over Montana’s ten­thousand­foot Gravelly Mountains. At the end of the trail at the home ranch those dogs were fresher than dogs after twenty minutes running a sheepdog trial. At noonwewent intowash upand whilewewerewaitingfor thedinner bell, David Streeter brought out a sheaf of pedigrees. I recognized a Scot­ tish dog I saw in 1988 and the Davids asked about him. “Taff won the Grampian series but gripped off at the International,” I recalled. Dogs long gone. Dogs remembered. How about the dog John Thomas bought for a penny. He’d had this terrible wreck, you see. Sheep everywhere. Furious owner. “I can’t just take the dog. I have to give you something for him.” “Give me a penny, then. That’s all the damn beast is worth!” 134 mr. and mrs. dog The dog went on to place at the International. And there was the old South Wales shepherd who’d never run a na­ tional trial in his life. The sheep were fresh off the hill, shy as virgins...