all seemed to know what they were doing; even the dogs knew what was going on. The owners had their forms in hand, their mud boots and windbreakers on, treats in their pouches, travel mugs filled with steaming coffee, numbers strapped to their backs, plastic bags filled with treats.
After a few minutes that seemed like so many hours, Dave finally sat still, staring at Fran’s hand. She lowered the treat, and he jumped up, so she raised it above her head again.
“Dave!” Patricia scolded.
“Sssssssh!” Fran hissed at her.
More cars were pulling in, more people were getting out and watching. Patricia was beet red; she could feel it, everybody looking at her, her shiny new boots, her flashy car.
Then Dave seemed to get something, as if it occurred to him that jumping up and down wasn’t going to get him this sweet-smelling thing after all.
Never taking his eye off Fran and the treat, Dave sat still. Slowly, Fran lowered her hand, an inch at a time, down to him. If he moved even slightly, she’d raised it up again.
When he had stayed still long enough for her to lower it to his nose, she let him have it. She repeated this procedure several times. By the fourth time, he remained steady, waiting for the treat. Patricia had never seen him so calm.
“I’ve never been able to get him to do that,” she said.
“I’m sure,” said Fran.
“But he did it.”
Fran nodded. “Never give a dog anything for free. Ever,” she said, zipping up her greasy pouch.
There were approving murmurs from the women clustered around with their border collies, Aussies, shelties, German shepherds, Rottweilers, and mutts.
Fran asked Patricia if she knew what a herding-instinct test was, and she said, “Not really.”
“It tests the dog’s interest in sheep, in working with them. If a border collie can work with sheep, then I can help you. Because border collies will do anything to work, and once you know they want that, then you can begin to communicate with them. Getting them to calm down and pay attention to you is what it’s all about.”
Fran gave Patricia a form and asked that she fill it out.
“We want the dog to show sustained interest in sheep for up to three minutes. We see if you have any control over him, whether or not he uses his eyes”—she moved over to look at Dave again—“seems like this guy only has one good one, right?”
Patricia was amazed. She couldn’t remember which eye was blind herself sometimes.
“We see whether he wears, runs wide, herds, or just attacks. Then we decide if we go from here.”
Fran handed Patricia a pen, told her to read the form, and write a check for $125, and then get in line. “We takeVISA,” she said with a smile. There was a remote credit-card machine out by the herding-instinct pen.
“Everybody who comes here thinks their dog is a working dog,” she said. “Once in a while, they’re right.”
She looked at Patricia, then at the Infiniti.
“I don’t really care what kind of car people drive, you know. It isn’t any of my business. I have found over the years that some people don’t want to do this work. Walk in the mud, step in sheep shit, run back and forth after their dog for weeks or months in the sun, in the rain, with flies and ticks. Some people do want to do it. And I never really know who is who. Generally, people who drive BMWs don’t want to do that work, so I don’t like to waste anybody’s time and give false hope to any dog. You can’t do what I do and like people a lot. Most people are selfish and lazy when it comes to dogs. They want their dogs to be cute little babies, and when you see how they mess them up, why would you like them? It’s always the people’s fault when a beautiful dog like this gets fucked up.”
With that, Fran turned to walk toward the pasture.
O NE OF THE WOMEN came up to Patricia and introduced herself as Jess, as she collected her check and her form. She said she worked as Fran’s assistant in exchange for
After a few minutes that seemed like so many hours, Dave finally sat still, staring at Fran’s hand. She lowered the treat, and he jumped up, so she raised it above her head again.
“Dave!” Patricia scolded.
“Sssssssh!” Fran hissed at her.
More cars were pulling in, more people were getting out and watching. Patricia was beet red; she could feel it, everybody looking at her, her shiny new boots, her flashy car.
Then Dave seemed to get something, as if it occurred to him that jumping up and down wasn’t going to get him this sweet-smelling thing after all.
Never taking his eye off Fran and the treat, Dave sat still. Slowly, Fran lowered her hand, an inch at a time, down to him. If he moved even slightly, she’d raised it up again.
When he had stayed still long enough for her to lower it to his nose, she let him have it. She repeated this procedure several times. By the fourth time, he remained steady, waiting for the treat. Patricia had never seen him so calm.
“I’ve never been able to get him to do that,” she said.
“I’m sure,” said Fran.
“But he did it.”
Fran nodded. “Never give a dog anything for free. Ever,” she said, zipping up her greasy pouch.
There were approving murmurs from the women clustered around with their border collies, Aussies, shelties, German shepherds, Rottweilers, and mutts.
Fran asked Patricia if she knew what a herding-instinct test was, and she said, “Not really.”
“It tests the dog’s interest in sheep, in working with them. If a border collie can work with sheep, then I can help you. Because border collies will do anything to work, and once you know they want that, then you can begin to communicate with them. Getting them to calm down and pay attention to you is what it’s all about.”
Fran gave Patricia a form and asked that she fill it out.
“We want the dog to show sustained interest in sheep for up to three minutes. We see if you have any control over him, whether or not he uses his eyes”—she moved over to look at Dave again—“seems like this guy only has one good one, right?”
Patricia was amazed. She couldn’t remember which eye was blind herself sometimes.
“We see whether he wears, runs wide, herds, or just attacks. Then we decide if we go from here.”
Fran handed Patricia a pen, told her to read the form, and write a check for $125, and then get in line. “We takeVISA,” she said with a smile. There was a remote credit-card machine out by the herding-instinct pen.
“Everybody who comes here thinks their dog is a working dog,” she said. “Once in a while, they’re right.”
She looked at Patricia, then at the Infiniti.
“I don’t really care what kind of car people drive, you know. It isn’t any of my business. I have found over the years that some people don’t want to do this work. Walk in the mud, step in sheep shit, run back and forth after their dog for weeks or months in the sun, in the rain, with flies and ticks. Some people do want to do it. And I never really know who is who. Generally, people who drive BMWs don’t want to do that work, so I don’t like to waste anybody’s time and give false hope to any dog. You can’t do what I do and like people a lot. Most people are selfish and lazy when it comes to dogs. They want their dogs to be cute little babies, and when you see how they mess them up, why would you like them? It’s always the people’s fault when a beautiful dog like this gets fucked up.”
With that, Fran turned to walk toward the pasture.
O NE OF THE WOMEN came up to Patricia and introduced herself as Jess, as she collected her check and her form. She said she worked as Fran’s assistant in exchange for
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