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

The Last Dog Still Standing

88 TheLastDogStillStanding I ’d run in five National Finals but reached the semifinals only once and never gotten through to the finals—the top 17 dogs. At the 1994 Finals in Lexington, Kentucky, I’d been out by only 2 points. More handlers are winnowed in the qualifying round—110 of 150— than during the semifinals: 23 out, 17 in. Though the better handlers and dogs get most of the luck there’s a little left for me and June, and I had almost a 50/50 chance of getting into the Finals, which would certainly qualify us for the United States Team. That’s all June and I needed to do—defeat 23 dog/handler teams that usually creamed us. Hell, where’s my passport? Might as well start packing my bag! June won $200 by reaching this plateau: $15 more than her entry fee. Stick with me, honey, and I’ll turn your money green! That night I lay on my lumpy motel bed, rerunning June’s run in my head; too tired to think, too excited to sleep. June slept in Rachael’s room. June needed Rachael’s snuggle for her big day tomorrow. Gettysburg enjoyed a bright, clear Saturday. Behind the big, empty trial field sprawled a gypsy encampment of billowing tents and vendor vans. Across the road, RVs, trailers, and backpacking tents filled the han­ dlers’ campground. Handlers and dogs traveling by golf carts, ATVs, and shank’s mare whisked across the road while rent­a­cops halted traffic. The Finals paid the cops, setout crew, and judges. The other workers were vol­ unteers. The scorekeepers, runners, judges’ minders, course director, gate and parking attendants, those who arranged the flowers in the handlers’ tent and served the complimentary cold drinks, fruit, and pastries: nobody The Last Dog Still Standing 89 got a dime. Some volunteers drove a thousand miles at their own expense for the privilege of working here. Vendors sold sausages, burgers, hot dogs—pretty much what you’d expect—and Boy Scout mothers peddled baked goods. You could buy weaving/spinning/knitting products and anything your dog might want. Last night, the Harley dealer sponsored a dinner dance in his show­ room, and that’s what the handlers were reliving as they drank coffee and sucked donut sugar from their fingers. They talked about dancing and, of course, dogs. “I don’t know if Shep will face down these sheep; if they turn on him . . .” “Hell, I haven’t had my dogs out much this summer . . .” So forth and so on . . . By custom, most sheepdog trials welcome mannerly noncompeting pets. Most dogs under the handlers’ tent were sheepdogs but there were a minia­ ture Dachshund, a few Terriers, and some mutts, too. Heather Houlahan brought a young, nervy English Shepherd to socialize among the mannerly dogs and dog­savvy people. In three decades, I have never seen a dogfight at a sheepdog trial. Despite her husband Scott’s vocal opposition to “useless pets,” Jenny Glenn had an exuberant, ratty mutt at her feet. Seems Scott and Jenny were driving across the Dakotas, clipping along pretty fast behind a kid driving a pickup whose little dog was bouncing around in the bed. They were laughing at the dog’s antics until it kamikaze­jumped out of the truck. Scott blew a tire swerving to miss him. Once they got stopped, they came back and carried the dog off the road. They waited on the prairie for the pickup’s driver to return for his dog but he didn’t. “I guess he was scared,” Jenny said. After a couple hours, the little dog was up and playing with their Border Collies. “Scott swore he’d never get anything but a sheepdog, never . . .” Jenny smiled at her dog. The dog smiled back. “This is ‘Skid,’” she said. “It cost seventy dollars to replace that darn tire.” The trial committee had eliminated the dogleg fetch and instead of a split then pen, dog and handler must split any two, then pen all five and shed a single. Fifteen minutes. Possible two­judge score: 220 points. 90 mr. and mrs. dog June and I drew the thirty­seventh slot and would run late afternoon, same as yesterday. I had hours to kill. I was scheduled to do a signing for The Dog Wars, and a familiar face was waiting at the table. Bob McGowan had...