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

“That’s a Good Boy”

127 “That’saGoodBoy” U nlike dog shows and obedience matches, no autocracy de­ termines who can judge a sheepdog trial. The trial host hires who he wants. Since the judge may be judging his neighbor, the fellow he sold an expensive dog to last week, or even his own spouse, the judge’s reputation in the sheepdog community is the only check on all too human frailties. As it happens the concern for reputation among one’s peers ensures fair­ ness at least as well as formal rules. Complaints about dog­show judging are common as dirt. Complaints about sheepdog judging are rarely heard. David Rees has judged hundreds of trials in Britain and the States. Three years ago he sold his Welsh hill farm and moved to California, a decision he came to regret. David returned to Wales, renovated a Bryn Amman bungalow, and hopes to buy the hill pasture behind the house. He’safriendlymanwhoknowseverybodyinthesheepdoggymicrocosmas well as the character and working habits of thousands of sheepdogs living and dead. Barbara Carpenter is our mutual friend. Barbara owned the famed sire Brocken Robbie, organized the UK’s first ladies’ sheepdog trial, and wrote definitive histories of sheepdog champions (The Blue Riband of the Heather and National Sheepdog Champions). In 1999, the ISDS awarded Barbara its coveted Wilkinson Sword Trophy for lifelong service to sheep­ dogs. When David and I met at trials, we always exchanged news of the grand old lady. When I wrote Barbara asking if she knew someone who could put Luke and June on Welsh Mountain Sheep—the sheep they’d work at the World Trials—David replied for her, e­mailing that I should ring him up when I got to Wales. 128 mr. and mrs. dog The dogs and I were booked at a hilltop farmhouse B&B north of Carmarthen, forty minutes from the World Trials. Limousin cattle, sheep, and chickens grazed the farm’s seventy acres. Gilcrug Farm was bought ten years ago by a retired shop teacher and his wife for their son, Robin, but mad cow disease, two bouts with hoof and mouth, and shrinking agri­ cultural subsidies have damaged British agriculture. Robin farms evenings and weekends. I’d chosen Gilcrug (pronounced “Gill­Craig”) Farm because, apart from being cheap, it was also dog­friendly. But it had been raining for weeks. “We haven’t had a summer, really,” my hosts told me. When they came back from their first walk, Luke and June were slathered with red mud. I couldn’t bring mud pies into my neat second­floor bedroom, so I set the 500s in an empty horse stall and that’s where the dogs slept. I’d arrived ten days before the World Trials to acclimatize Luke, June, and Donald to climate, topography, creature and plant smells, light and shadows, those local dialects forming a new work gestalt. Welsh Mountain Sheep would be our adversaries/accomplices and we needed to understand their inclinations and fears. I didn’t know another soul in South Wales and David Rees and I were merely acquaintances, so I was relieved when David returned my call. “We’ll meet Monday morning, say eight o’clock, in Abbotsford.” David directed me to his favorite breakfast café. After proper resets, my GPS fired up but couldn’t find Abbotsford. No worries; I had David’s directions. Maybe British satellites slept late. It was an hour to downtown Ammanford. Dialects. In David’s favorite café I ordered an egg, bacon, sausage, blood pudding, and tomato. (The waitress understood after David translated—“that’s tom­ah­to, love.”) David was sorry he hadn’t been able to put me up (never crossed my mind he might), but he was housing other American handlers and sleep­ ing on the couch himself. He had found sheep for me to work. Last spring David did Wyn Jaffe’s night lambing and David had called in the favor. It was no small favor. “That’s a Good Boy” 129 Although they walked through them morning and evening, the Mis­ ter and Missus never worked Gilcrug’s sheep. Brecon Beacon’s hills are as grand and barren as the Scottish highlands and Welsh Mountain Sheep grazed beside every deserted single­track road. Did I let the dogs out to give them a go? No. Was I tempted? You bet I was. But how would you like it if a stranger started practicing...