The Border Collie He Called a Pet

Two more dogs ran after us, and both were good dogs, but neither one put all five in the pen.

When the scores went up on the board at the announcer’s stand, Flick had ninety-one out of a hundred. The next closest was eighty-four. Jerrod’s red dog was fourth, at seventy-two.

Zeb climbed down out of the judges’ pickup, which took him a while, and walked across the grass to where I was standing with Flick. He put out his hand and I shook it.

“That’s a dog that’s been on sheep every day of her life,” he said. “Where’d you work her?”

“On Maude Svoboda’s ewes,” I said. “Every evening for two years.”

Zeb turned around and looked up at the bleachers. Maude was standing up now, leaning on her cane.

Zeb touched the brim of his hat to her, slow and formal, the way men of his age do.

Obed came over too. He did not say much. He just looked at Flick a long time and said, “Good dog,” and then he went up into the bleachers and shook Maude’s hand.

I walked Flick over to the bleachers. Ross came down the steps to meet me and wrapped me up in a hug so hard he knocked my hat crooked.

Then Maude came down, one step at a time, with Ross holding her elbow. When she got to the bottom she did not say anything at all.

She sat down on the end of the bottom bleacher and held out her hand.

Flick went to her. She walked straight past me and lay down at Maude’s boots, the old work boots she had worn through two years of evenings, and she put her chin on the toe of one and sighed.

Maude reached down and laid her hand on Flick’s head. Her hand was shaking a little.

I could see the knuckles, swollen and spotted from seventy years of chores, and I could see her eyes, wet and bright under the brim of her hat.

“You did it, girl,” Maude said, very quietly. “You and me, we did it.”

People were walking past, coming down from the bleachers, and several of them stopped.

A couple of old ranchers touched their hats to her. A woman she knew from church bent down and hugged her around the neck.

Nobody made a fuss. That is not how people do it out here.

They just stopped and looked at that old woman and that young dog and nodded, like they understood something, and walked on.

They gave out the ribbons at four o’clock at the announcer’s stand. The top five handlers in the open class stood in a line with their dogs.

Jerrod stood fourth. I stood first. There were two people between us, but I could see him out of the corner of my eye.

He stood very straight. His red dog sat at his feet with his tongue out.

When they handed me the blue ribbon and the little plaque, I said thank you and I stepped back.

I did not look at Jerrod. There was nothing to look at him about. His dog had a bad day. That happens to everybody.