tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24543953444492469662024-03-14T03:51:44.475-04:00In the Beginning...Without struggle there can be no accomplishment and without a beginning there can be no end.2013 National Sheepdog Finalshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15849082748942661362noreply@blogger.comBlogger17125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2454395344449246966.post-44089376165025241472013-09-17T21:41:00.000-04:002013-09-17T21:41:12.591-04:00Ellen Skillings - Heppner Oregon 1986<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The trial at that time, unlike now, is held in the rodeo arena in town. The high solid sides surrounded by bleachers certainly prevent the yearling range ewes from escaping back to the range, but the close and unfamiliar quarters readily elicit the ‘Fight or Flight’ response when faced with unfamiliar dogs. Caleb was not a ‘kind’ dog. He had a rough, big boned, Scottish ‘Herdsman’s Tommy’ build, with intense wolfish yellow eyes. He used them to great effect.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The Novice Class is an “outrun”, “fetch” and “pen”. Three sheep are let out of the chute gate at the far end of the arena where they stand pressed tightly together against the arena wall well under 100 yards away. Well under the distance at which Caleb’s predatory glare provokes a ‘fight or flight’ response from these Western White face yearlings the size of small ponies. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The handler’s post is set just in front of a horse trailer where the judge sits protected, a little, from the steady rain. The rain provides a gray wash reminiscent of the Scottish Highlands to all memories of that weekend. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I step to the post. I unclip the lead. I say, “Come Bye”. The words start the clock. Everything but the clock and the rain remain frozen. Sheep, dog, the expectant bedraggled crowd in the bandstand are still and quiet. We have three minutes to get the sheep to the post, around behind it, and into the pen. Caleb is to go out and get them and bring them to my feet. We will negotiate the pen together. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I shush, I plead, I bark, ‘Come bye’ a little more firmly, words that should send my dog in a nice arc, clockwise, to the far side of the sheep. Caleb apparently forgets, or else considers optional, the expected response to the command. He has the sheep under perfect control from his position at my feet. The sheep seem to know a move in any direction can have no good end; ‘Uhn uh’, ‘no siree’, not a muscle twitch among the three of them.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">When I insist again he rises to his feet and begins marching straight up the center of the arena. Again this is not the expected response. He is marching straight into the statue-esque sheep faces. It’s a mutual eye thing. The sheep, trapped by the high wall, would flee to the hills if it were an option. I continue my pleading for Caleb to cast. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Caleb seems to consider their position and demeanor perfectly satisfactory. My pleading is to no effect. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">For the sheep the moment of decision arrives when Caleb is about fifteen feet in front of their noses. ‘Fight?’ or ‘Flight ?’ Flight wins. Some slight shift of a sheepy ear shoots a command straight to that Border collie brain ’ The instant the sheep twitch everything explodes- zero to sixty in under a second. Caleb loops around them in a flash, and now they waste no time on the clock, barreling down the arena’s length, wrapping themselves in the tongue of the horse trailer and unwrapping again before the judge can get his head out in the rain to see what’s going on. Then, as quickly as the storm erupted it stops. All this occurs in the amount of time it takes me to yell, “Lie Down, Lie Down, LIE DOWN, I SAID LIE DOWN.!” </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Now the sheep and the dog are doing the mutual eye thing again and the sheep are at a dead standstill, refrozen and mesmerized at a good spot in front of the pen.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I step away from the post and pick up the pen rope, opening the gate carefully. My job; open the pen gate. Caleb’s job; put the sheep in the pen. Sheep’s job-figure out a way, at all costs, to avoid getting trapped in a little pen with a wolf outside salivating.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />Pen, sheep, Caleb. Me off to the side holding the end of a six foot rope tied to the end of a six foot gate leading to a 6’x9’pen, trying to stay out of the way.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Usually getting sheep in the pen is a matter of gentling them a little, but in this case it is matter of convincing them that moving in any direction other than straight backwards is a bad idea. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I was chanting, a fairly constant mantra, “Lie down, LIE down, I said lie down, do you hear me? Lie Down…….”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">A sheep-feeling trapped in this way- will sometimes tip her ears back, and, head still high, slowly turn her eyes from the dog’s gaze as if saying, ‘I think I’ll just tip-toe out to the ladies room for a moment.‘ Usually it’s just one in the group. Sometimes a sheep will raise one foot and slowly stamp as if to tell the dog, ‘I could tromp you into the ground if I wanted, but if you will just stay there I will slip away and you will hardly notice.’ </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Caleb isn’t buying any of it. When a sheep head shifts so does Caleb’s. When one stomps his body still pressed to the ground seems to roll forward slightly into the pressure as if saying, ‘try me’. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />I ask him up to shift the sheep. He raises slowly, the sheep tense and all shift back a step. Every time they shift I tell Caleb to ‘lie down’ again. Afraid that if they move anywhere fast he will use every available tactic to stop them. Gripping is not allowed in Sheep Dog Trials. More than once, at home, I have stitched a sheep cheek or lip. When she has answered his ‘try me’ with ‘I wlll then’. Did I mention, Caleb is not a kind dog? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">We continue on like this. If a sheep twitches an ear to check an escape route, Caleb twitches one or shifts his nose in reply. Get up. Lie down. Twitch, shift, and slowly as a unit the sheep back up, step-by-step, oblivious to the pen walls slowly encircling them. As soon as they realize their predicament they spin as one to run, the only direction they think might be clear, straight into the pen. I rush to shut the gate.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">It is five years before I step onto the trial field again. This time with a different dog. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The odd thing about a spectacularly bad run, at least if no one has to stitch up a wound or pull a sheep out of a pond, is that no one remembers any of it except the handler who ran it, and perhaps the dog. Perhaps the dog dreams about how great it was.</span> <br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">© Ellen Skillings (all rights reserved)</span></div>
2013 National Sheepdog Finalshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15849082748942661362noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2454395344449246966.post-4929681652648443762013-09-01T08:45:00.000-04:002013-09-02T09:46:01.464-04:00Maria Amodei - First Lambing<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">My sheep are kept in a field a short distance from my house. I had read and re-read the sheep books describing how to care for ewes during lambing. I decided to bring the flock (6 ewes) to my backyard for lambing so I could keep a closer eye on them. I set up a maternity pen off the shed in the backyard. Since I don't have much room in the shed the lawn tractor had to move out onto the back porch. This redneck tradition of piling implements on the porch each March continued for years. I did not have a trailer to bring the sheep so I decided to bring them with my dog. The problem is I live on a very busy road and my dog and I were novices. The sheep field is around the corner, with a short leg on my busy road, then an equal leg on a less busy road. There is a pond belonging to the town inside this corner. If I look across the pond I can almost see the sheep from my window. My brilliant idea was to bring the sheep across the frozen pond, thereby avoiding the busy road entirely. I just needed some snow for traction. The lambing dates drew near and we had no snow. Finally we got a storm. This was my chance. I grabbed my dog and went up to get the sheep. We only needed to take them on the road for about 50 feet before turning in the entry to the pond. There was a short steep bank down to the ice. The sheep thought little of this option but the dog was persistent. We got on the ice and I realized it was still quite slippery despite 4 inches of snow. One of the girls kept slipping and falling, no doubt exacerbated by the dog working too close and fast. She finally lay down in the middle of the pond and quit. I tried lifting her. No luck. So here I was in a snowstorm standing in the middle of the town pond with 5 standing sheep, one sheep laying on the ice, a dog, and no clue. I gave up and took all the other sheep back to the field. I went back to get my reclining diva and she had managed to return to the shore so we collected her back to the field. Now for another try, this time I decided to cross further down where there was some rough area on the ice. This required another 200 feet on the road. We got almost to our planned crossing route and an impatient driver came upon us and tailgated about 10 feet behind the dog. I lost my cool, the dog lost his cool, and one sheep escaped and ran back to the field. We turned around and went back again. Third time was a charm, no impatient drivers and the footing on the ice was better at the lower crossing. I brought the sheep across the pond and into my back gate. Whew. I still periodically hear rumors in town about people swearing they saw a sheep laying on the ice in the middle of Woodward's Pond as they drove by. I just smile and say "Really!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />Now you may be wondering what I did when the sheep and their new lambs needed to get back to the field. The ice had melted. No problem, each ewe and her young lambs were stuffed in a very large dog crate on a big crate dolly. With one person pulling and another pushing the cargo was rolled down Route 113 and up Pond Street to the field again. I feel it is my civic duty to entertain the town. Fortunately I only had a few sheep back then.</span>2013 National Sheepdog Finalshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15849082748942661362noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2454395344449246966.post-37238505776180402062013-07-15T22:02:00.000-04:002013-07-15T22:02:02.954-04:00Robin French - "HELP"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In the beginning...well, I was about as ignorant of dogs and sheep as you can possibly be. In 1992, my old BC mix had passed away, and I wanted "another of those smart dogs", so picked up the newspaper and started looking in the classifieds. There was an ad for border collies, with red merles and blue merles. I made the fateful phone call and had to ask "what is a merlie?" (yes, I pronounced it merl-ie). Yes, that uninitiated to the breed. I drove right out to this backyard breeder's place, where there were half a dozen different breeds of dogs for breeding. And of course I brought one home. But the biggest twist of fate that day, was the "breeder" handing me a copy of the first chapter of the book "The Versatile Border Collie", because right there in it, it said I had to give this dog a job or I was in big trouble! Bailey was the smartest thing I'd ever met, picking up every trick I could teach her in minutes. So, I found her a "job" and we started dabbling in obedience training. One day I noticed a post-it on the bulletin board in the training building where we took lessons -- "herding training, saturday mornings, $10, call xxx-xxxx". Next thing you know, my little dog and I were off to meet the very first sheep I'd ever seen in person. I was soooooo bad at working my dog, good grief! But I stuck in there because Bailey loved it so. I decided I'd do sheep for her if she'd do obedience for me (because I didn't stink quite as badly at that!). Pretty quickly, the obedience stuff faded away, as I met more great people in sheepdogs and started training with different and better trainers. I was still pretty horrible and I don't know where some of my early mentors found the patience for me (come bye? away? I couldn't even manage left and right!), but we stuck in there. I was exceptionally lucky to meet some wonderful people who were getting into sheepdogs at the same time as I was, and we all helped each other along. And of course I was perched at the top of the sheepdog slippery slope, as more dogs, a move to the country, a farm, a flock of sheep, etc, etc, etc were in my near future.
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In the beginning of trialing....well, I pretty much stunk at that too. My first trial was at Roy Johnson's. I sent Bailey out on her outrun, she went about 20 feet and came right back to me. The sheep ran off to the barn and that was that, the shortest trial debut ever. I have to say one of my more embarrassing novice trial experiences was at the Bluegrass classic. The Bluegrass had just started back up in its modern version, and all the classes ran on the same big field. I was running two dogs in novice-novice and Bailey and I were up right after the lunch break. After our less-than-stellar run, there was no one at the exhaust pen to clear the field because of the lunch break, so I walked the sheep over and put them through the gate. Unfortunately, the exhaust gate and the gate for handlers exiting the field were right next to each other and covered with black fabric. I put the sheep through the wrong gate, right through the fancy tent with drinks and snacks and sliced fruit for handlers coming off the field! Off those darned sheep ran, right into the antique tractor show that was going on. Fortunately, I had learned enough by this point to NOT send my little not-ready-for-prime-time dog out into the crowd. I had been taking lessons with Vergil Holland at the time, and I have a very clear memory of standing there yelling "Vergil, HELP!".
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The 1999 Finals at Belle Grove was one of the most fun weeks I've ever had. I wasn't even running in Open yet, but I spent the week there with friends and had a ball watching the dogs and generally cutting up and laughing like mad with some of the wonderful people I'd met in sheepdogs. In the 2010 Finals at Belle Grove, my dogs exceeded my expectations so far that a friend called it my "fantasy week at the Finals", with my Open dogs finishing 2nd and 4th in the first round, and my Nursery dog getting through to the Open Finals and finishing 8th. What a long way from the early days with my "merlie". It's been a long, wonderful trip, filled with the most amazing people and dogs and places, and I'm looking forward to going back to Belle Grove again this year.</span>
2013 National Sheepdog Finalshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15849082748942661362noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2454395344449246966.post-81164251758010298992013-06-28T17:16:00.000-04:002013-06-28T17:16:52.629-04:00Lori Cunnigham - The Injection<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Not long after I started keeping my own sheep, I had reason to need to give a sheep an injection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went out with a syringe of medication, proud of myself for getting on with the job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My dog put all the sheep in a pen, which I now know, was way too big.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was a very inexperienced sheep flipper and it was a very.hot.day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I chased the ewe around the pen for quite a while<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>before I finally caught her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I lifted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pulled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I twisted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could not get that sheep to go over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While I was bent over tugging on every sheep body part I could reach, the ewe reared back and head butted me squarely in the face, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>whacking my nose and splitting my lip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Looking back, I believe that the combination of the heat, exertion and pain in my face <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>caused me to go temporarily insane.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What had started out as a simple farm chore now became an epic battle of wills and looked something like a grotesque inter-species Greco Roman wrestling match… the ewe bucking around the pen with me attached to her neck, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>threats, curses and profanities flowing as freely as the blood dripping from my face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Suddenly, in the midst of the battle, I saw the ewe’s eyes roll back in her head and she slumped to the ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was little doubt in my mind that I had killed her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Regardless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still cursing triumphantly, I dragged her limp<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>carcass over to the side of the pen, re-gathered my syringe<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and gave her the injection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I pumped my arms in the air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Victory!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Then I noticed there was a UPS guy standing in my driveway staring at me, his clipboard dangling from his hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He didn’t say a word.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He just backed up slowly and got in his truck and drove away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Shortly thereafter, the sheep came to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Way better than me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
2013 National Sheepdog Finalshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15849082748942661362noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2454395344449246966.post-62184624374505783712013-06-14T16:59:00.001-04:002013-06-14T17:04:28.369-04:00Patrick Shannahan - The Reluctant Trialer<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As a young boy, I was crazy about animals. All types of animals, but mostly I was crazy about sheep. My home was a suburban acreage, and although my parents were supportive in some ways, they never could understand my fascination with sheep. None of my relatives were interested in agriculture. But they liked living in the country and raising their kids in that environment.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So, as a young boy, I purchased sheep to start a registered herd. I managed that flock without much supervision. It is not that I didn't have support, but my sheep flock was my project and I was the only individual who really cared about my herd. My flock continued to grow into my 20’s and 30’s, and developed into a quality-registered flock of Hampshire’s that I started to show on a National level. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then, on a farm visit to a famous Hampshire flock near Albany, Oregon, in the mid-80's, I saw my first working dog. Ronald Hogg sent his Border Collie off to gather his yearling ewes. Ronald was in his 80’s now, and I was shocked at ability of the dog and how it was able to help Ronald. I wasn't quite ready then, but I knew someday I would have a dog that could work like that.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So when I went to look for a pup to start, I used my knowledge about genetics on sheep and asked questions about the parents. I found a dog that was 1400 miles away, but it had the solid genetics and cost the same price as the local pups. That pup happened to be Hannah, my first National Champion.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A small group of friends formed when we discovered we were all interested in working dogs. None of us knew anything about training dogs, and we relied on pooling our resources of limited knowledge to start our pups.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When I had purchased Hannah as a pup, I bought also a trained dog named Toss six months later to help me work. Toss and I became a good team while I was learning to train Hannah. My friends all wanted me to go to trials, but I was happy staying home and working on my registered flock of sheep.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Michelle was one of my good friends at the time, and insisted I come to the next trial. She recently went to her first trial, and had such a great time. Reluctantly I went. I thought I knew what it would be. It was nothing like I though it might be. It wasn't long before I figured out how much I would enjoy seeing the other dogs, people and sheep. I got entered in PN and Toss won the class.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Needless to say, that was the end of my career with registered sheep. I was hooked on trials. Toss, Hannah and I would jump in the pickup and head to any trial I could find. Didn't matter if I heard the trial was poor, or the sheep were bad, I just couldn't get enough of sheepdog trialing. We traveled all over the Western US experiencing all that we could in the world of sheep dogs.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I still remember many of those trips with the dogs. Both Toss and Hannah were such great influences on my career. They would lay a solid foundation for a successful career. I am fortunate that my friend, Michelle, dragged the reluctant trialer along with her for that first trial. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This year I am very excited about attending the Nationals. I have only missed two Nationals since I started, and the Finals in Virginia in 2010 were one of my favorites. Since it is yet early, I am not sure which dogs I am bringing back, but you can bet there will be no reluctance in attending the premier event of the year.</span>2013 National Sheepdog Finalshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15849082748942661362noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2454395344449246966.post-31119150469811537812013-05-30T12:02:00.001-04:002013-05-30T12:03:33.947-04:00Joyce Geier - Troy<div class="Body1" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: 'Arial Unicode MS';">In the beginning, there were Shelties, good friends, and a herding clinic that needed "just one more participant".</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: 'Arial Unicode MS';">That led to a herding club, an Aussie, and the day almost 25 years ago that my Aussie and I lost the club's entire flock of sheep into the coyote-populated New Mexico desert.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While I was examining my checkbook to see if I could pay for 40-some-odd sheep (nope), another club member sent her young Border Collie, Ross, after the sheep.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: 'Arial Unicode MS';">When Ross went blithely up the cliff-edged mesa and disappeared from view, I panicked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew that I didn't have enough money anywhere,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>or even enough equity in my house, to cover both Ross and the sheep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>doomed.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: 'Arial Unicode MS';">Except that, five minutes later, Ross reappeared, all 40 sheep in one nice tight group, and brought them casually down the cliff and back to our club's demo area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That day, I swore that - if I ever got a Border Collie - it would be a Ross pup.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: 'Arial Unicode MS';">A bizarre series of events resulted in just that, and a few years later a black and white fur-ball<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>tumbled out of an airline crate and into my arms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Troy started licking me the moment he came out of that crate, and fifteen years later, he was still licking me when he transitioned into the next world.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: 'Arial Unicode MS';">But oh, the places we went and the things that we did and the people that we met in between!</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: 'Arial Unicode MS';">He was just nine months old when I bought a dozen rambunctious Cheviot yearlings and started herding; it took me all of three weeks (maybe)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>to teach him everything I had learned about it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It took him the rest of his life to teach me a fraction of what he knew from the moment he was born. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: 'Arial Unicode MS';">In the beginning we had only a small ring to train in, and so we walked our wild woollies<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>almost daily to larger, neighboring fields.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And we lost sheep - everywhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sheep in the swamp, sheep in the garage, sheep on the neighbors second-story deck; sheep in ditches, sheep in the woods, sheep in a pond.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No sheep was ever injured or ever really misplaced - in fact, they often looked quite puzzled at the unexpected turn of events, and participated in these adventures with impressively good grace and a surprising sense of humor.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: 'Arial Unicode MS';">Troy always tried to prevent these mishaps, but he was dealing with a hopeless dunce. It took me a long time to learn to leave him alone and just trust him when we were in a jam. In the meantime, his solution was to simply listen (perhaps a bit too well) and do what I asked him to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He let me make the mistakes, and then he let me figure out how to salvage the job.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: 'Arial Unicode MS';">And yet he always had my back during these recovery missions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I (we) waded in the swamp to carry the sheep out, I (we) got cut up by the sawgrass heaving sheep out of ditches, and I (we) walked sheep two miles home the day we (I) couldn't get sheep on the trailer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But his teaching method was effective; I rarely made the same mistake twice.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: 'Arial Unicode MS';">Troy taught me to trial, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From Novice-novice to the USBCHA Nursery Finals to Open and even the USBCHA semi-finals, we won and lost our share.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had this knack of looking at me when we were at the post in the big trials, and then heaving a deep sigh as if to say, "She's a basket case again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guess I'll just have to take care of it."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then off he would go, and do, and my confidence grew and I learned to have fun and I dared to dream. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="mso-hansi-font-family: 'Arial Unicode MS';">Troy isn't here anymore, and I still miss him. But every dog I work with and every trial I enter just builds on the foundation he laid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'd like to think that, now, maybe I can actually share the things he taught me whenever I'm training young pups or running green dogs, and that maybe now I'm a better student as they, in turn, teach me.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="mso-hansi-font-family: 'Arial Unicode MS';"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">If only every handler were so lucky.</span></span><o:p></o:p></div>
2013 National Sheepdog Finalshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15849082748942661362noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2454395344449246966.post-23215713251232485582013-05-19T21:23:00.000-04:002013-05-19T21:23:29.104-04:00Dave Young - The Great Rabbit Muster of '68<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Dogs, more accurately a Border Collie, helped open up the world of
agriculture to me. My first one, Lassie, hum...wonder where that name came
from, was a natural. Although not directly from Alex McKinven, I believe she
was more than likely from his very early lines. I should have asked him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As 14 year old part time urban rabbit
farmers, a friend of mine and I were deep in the production heavy carcass
rabbits, yeah...right. A dream of financial freedom and an excuse to skip
school, one in a very long list, was driving force behind this endeavor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Soon though, subsidies from not so
understanding family members began to dry up. An action plan was needed. What
to do... oh what to do? Gardens could free us! Not our gardens though, the
neighbors’ gardens. The Mizner's garden was right next door. Well weeded and
packed with all kinds of rabbit fodder plus, we schemed,( heh, heh, heh) that
the natural occurring rabbit tracks could be a possible alibi, not that 14 year
olds ever needed one. A short muster from their warrens, the garden was
surrounded by trees and hedges providing the much needed cover and nutrition
for both the rabbits and their wary keepers. How do we get them there?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lassie could help do this. We should have
thought of this sooner! The initial drive worked well. Unlike sheep, hungry
rabbits seem to drive easier. We got them to the garden unnoticed. After a
short while of foraging, both species were full. The return drive is where
things really fell apart. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rabbits everywhere.
Kids, rabbits and one really happy Border Collie all stomping through the
Mizner’s garden. Much to the satisfaction of Lassie, the gather took a couple
of days. In the end poor hutch construction was the excuse... coccidiosis, our
eventual downfall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p></o:p>2013 National Sheepdog Finalshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15849082748942661362noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2454395344449246966.post-70051126066848519142013-04-30T19:00:00.000-04:002013-04-30T19:00:59.321-04:00Haley Howard Hunewill - “Please Mom, give me a Border Collie command”<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: 28.0pt 56.0pt 84.0pt 112.0pt 140.0pt 168.0pt 196.0pt 224.0pt 3.5in 280.0pt 308.0pt 336.0pt;">
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica','sans-serif';">My Mother and Father had a ranch with sheep, cattle, horses and Border Collies since long before I was born.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From when I was very small, I would go with my mom to move sheep and cattle and train the dogs, it was my favorite thing to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, while growing up I thought that every six year old’s favorite thing to do was work the sheep and have my mother say “Away to Me” or “Come Bye” as I enthusiastically ran around the sheep mimicking the moves of Border Collies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica','sans-serif';">When I was two years old my mom gave me a Sheltie puppy; Lilac was my best friend and constant companion. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would “work” Lilac on the sheep, and she would bark and balance the sheep to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could walk around the arena and Lilac would bring the sheep, if I walked through little obstacles...so would the sheep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was a small local trial at the fairgrounds and I was all excited to go and show Lilac.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was seven years old at the time and I knew Lilac and I could win that trial; after all, Lilac was an expert at walking the sheep through obstacles at home!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The day of the show arrived and we were ready, we’d been practicing a lot and I was carrying my mother’s shepherd’s crook which was a couple feet taller than me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We walked to the chalk ring and I pointed to the sheep fifty feet away and said “Lilac, get the sheep”; instead of running towards the sheep and barking like usual, Lilac stood there...casually looking around, looking at me, and doing NOTHING!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried the command again and Lilac wandered away and started sniffing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My face was beginning to burn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hurried towards the sheep saying “get the sheep, get the sheep!”, but nothing worked, Lilac acted like she’d never seen a sheep in her life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I managed to make it out of the arena and under the grandstands before bursting into tears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica','sans-serif';">After the incident with Lilac, my mom let me start working one of her trained older Border Collie bitches named Rudy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rudy and I would do small chores around the ranch which I thought was the best thing ever, almost as fun as having my mom give me commands where I could pretend to be the dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had been working Rudy for nearly a year and we were getting pretty handy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My father was going to run in a local cattledog trial and encouraged me to enter, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After much practicing, the big day arrived.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was not so sure this time after my last “trial” experience, but things had been going very well at home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sent Rudy on the twenty five yard outrun and she took off immediately.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So far so good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rudy made the outrun in no time; however, she came to the fence, made an abrupt turn to balance the cattle to the fence and laid down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And would not move not matter what I said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I walked my horse down to the cattle and all Rudy would do was balance the cattle to the fence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“TIME”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica','sans-serif';">When I was ten my father gave me my first Border Collie of my own, a red puppy named Scarlet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Scarlet turned out to be the toughest, most hot headed, weak and hard biting dog I’ve ever had.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even though I couldn’t teach Scarlet very well, she taught me many things...how to suture up a sheep she’d ripped open, how to make a muzzle out of a plastic cup, how to wait patiently while my Father could work her perfectly and she’d be a Holy terror with me, how to help fix a friend’s fence that Scarlet chased a heifer through...and most of all she taught me how to handle a tough dog and carefully read “dog body language” that would signal an explosion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I obviously hadn’t had enough humiliation because I even tried to trial Scarlet a couple of times in Novice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first one wasn’t terrible, but each time got worse until I decided enough was enough when Scarlet chased one sheep through a fence and nearly over the Border Collies In Action booth...that was too much Border Collie action for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica','sans-serif';">After having toiled with Scarlet for four years, I got my next puppy, Diona, when I was fourteen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Diona was the most amazing dog I’d ever had, not only did she obey me, she WANTED to obey me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She wasn’t the most natural youngster, but she was so willing that she would try to learn anything I showed her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Being young and home schooled with lots of time on my hands, I was happy to spend hours training Diona on and off the sheep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even now looking back, after training dozens of dogs, Diona truly was unique in how willing and obedient she was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Surprisingly after having had many bad experiences trying to “trial” Lilac, Rudy and Scarlet, when Diona became trained enough, I was very excited to give it another try.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some trialing friends told me I should run Diona in “Nursery”, that she was the right age and she could do well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn’t sure what class that was, but took their word and started off in Nursery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even though for the first several trials Diona seemed to think that the sheep were at the fetch gates, we got around the course and I was always on cloud nine afterwards with how well Diona listened and tried for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a few trials, we qualified for the National Nursery Finals and I was undecided about entering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was 2001 and I was only seventeen at the time and quite intimidated, I would be competing against the best handlers and dogs from across the country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My friend, Ray Coapman, gave me a book on competition training for athletes (a lot of mental training) and wrote a little note that said “even though all the best handlers will be at the Nursery Finals, they will all have young dogs, too, and it will be a level playing field”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I studied that book endlessly and practiced and practiced with Diona to get ready.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was terribly nervous to compete in the National Finals, I could barely utter “Away” to send Diona on the outrun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Luckily Diona being calm and steady as she was, was not upset by my extreme nervousness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had a little trouble here and there and I didn’t think we’d place very high, I was surprised to finish fifth in the first go round.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyone who was at the 2001 National Finals in Klamath Falls Oregon would remember the wind and dust of that terrible drought year, it was quite tremendous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When my second run rolled around the wind was whipping in my face, as we walked to the post, and the dust was moving rapidly across the field.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sent Diona...it seemed to take ages for her to get behind the sheep, I could have counted my heartbeats.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I took a deep breath and blew the loudest stop whistle I could manage into the wind. She stopped right way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All the way around the course, even though I could hardly see sometimes due to the dust in my eyes, Diona never missed a beat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We ended up winning the second go round.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When everyone had run and the trial was done, I ventured over to the score board, I hadn’t looked all day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I kept adding and re-adding...it looked like I was ahead by one point.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When it was announced that Diona and I had won the Nursery Finals, I was in shock - for days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica','sans-serif';">After winning the Nursery Finals, Diona and I went on to compete in Open, eventually winning some (shedding proved to be very challenging for me) to get enough points to run in the Regional and National Finals a few times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We won the Regional Finals once and were Reserve twice and ran in the Final day of the National Finals a couple of times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We also qualified to compete in the 2005 World Sheepdog Trial, however Diona became quite sick at the last minute and I couldn’t take her overseas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By then I had some other dogs, too, that I was training and trialing; I especially enjoy training dogs and learning to work with all types.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I won the 2003 National Cattledog Finals with my dog, Cap, and in 2006 I won the National Nursery Finals with, Ross, after having won both go rounds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I learned to judge some years ago and enjoy traveling to judge trials and feel it is a small way to give back to the sport I love so much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am very fortunate to have been able to follow my love of training and working with dogs my whole life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every day I look forward to working with my dogs, client’s dogs and helping people get started with their own dogs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What is it they say...”If you love your work, you never work a day in your life”.</span></div>
2013 National Sheepdog Finalshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15849082748942661362noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2454395344449246966.post-40750675309219751832013-04-06T08:13:00.000-04:002013-04-06T08:13:10.869-04:00Werner Reitboeck - Kip<div class="Style" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">One day I arrived home with 22 ewe lambs. As I lowered the ramp of the trailer they jumped out with great joy and raced into the pasture, where, after a few minutes of exploration, they settled down. They ate lustily of the delicate spring growth of grasses and legumes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A few days later I was horrified to see one of the little lambs limping. I walked up to it carefully, talking soothingly. Any time I came within a certain distance the lamb just walked quietly away. I<i><span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; mso-font-width: 86%;"> </span></i>decided to try a new method: I would approach the lamb at a crooked angle, like a plane flying in crosswinds, never looking directly at the lamb, gently humming some idiotic tune. Then, at the last minute, I tried to grab it unawares, jumping for it like some soccer super-goalie. Alas the lamb and its friends still managed to evade me easily. This however enabled me to check out their droppings from extremely close range. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I thought I would be able to corner the limping lamb in the barn. So I decided to bring all the lambs into the barn. There I would be able to separate the lame animal and check its feet. I was convinced that it suffered from footrot. Any book I had read seemed to attribute any lameness to that problem. I<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; mso-font-width: 50%;"> </span>was further convinced that within a day or two, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>if not treated properly, my whole flock would be suffering from this infection. So out came a bucket of feed and I enticed them by shaking the bucket ... they gave me a look or two but that was about it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then I tried to talk to them by calling baaaaa, baaaa or maaaa, maaaaa changing my pitch from an enticing, deep sexy ram call to an “'I’m in trouble" high lamb-call with everything in between. That resulted in a few more looks or rather stares, some of which seemed to be full of concern and worry but no mad rush to the barn. (However since that day it seems that my neighbors look at me quite oddly at times and they go out of their way to explain the simplest things in kind of baby language). If anything the lambs seemed to be etching gently away from me. Then I remembered that in some authoritative book I read it said that sheep have Latin education and would come rushing if called with the magical word "ovine." "Ovine, ... oviiiiiiine, oviiiiiine." My throat started hurting and I was near despair. All the lambs were happily munching on grass and trefoil. It seemed to me that by now they had decided to ignore that maniac by the barn gate. Back I went to the house for reinforcements. Kate, my wife, quite willingly put on her rubber boots, our two months old son Anthony went into a sling around her front and out we went. Once more we tried to entice our lambs into the barn. As this did not succeed we then tried to herd them in. We kept racing after them, dashing in here or there; we tried to sneak up on them to herd them quietly and kind of push them towards the barn alas in the last moment they always, with a few hops, got out of reach. Eventually Anthony woke up and let us know of his displeasure ... that at least seemed to get the lambs' attentions. I suggested to Kate she might want to drive the sheep now with the help of Anthony. The look I received for that idea told me I should plan a different offensive. Eventually, with the help of neighbors, we did get the lambs into the barn. It only took six of us to herd 22 lambs.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I caught the lame lamb but I could find nothing that in any way looked like the descriptions of footrot in my book on sheep health. As I sat in the house afterwards, still huffing and puffing I<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; mso-font-width: 65%;"> </span>realized that there must be a simpler way to handle sheep. </span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I had read about herding dogs and decided to look into the matter more closely. I remembered that in one sheep magazine I had seen an advertisement for a book to train herding dogs. I rummaged through stacks of papers in my"office" until at last I found that publication. There were four books advertised: the cheapest probably would be not very good, on the other hand the dearest was close to$ 50.00 ... so I ordered one in the middle. Next day, as luck would have it, I came across a notice advertising border collies for sale. After discussing it with Kate I phoned the number advertised and arranged to look at the pups that very afternoon. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I was shown into a barn and there in a horsestall were seven black and white bundles of energy. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There are many ways to choose a pup. In the end it comes down to personal preference. After a cursory glance at me the pups went back to their preoccupation in trying to catch some of the hens that were also housed in the barn, the only one that I could catch was a little tri-coloured male. He had decided that grabbing my shoelaces was as much fun as trying to catch one of these elusive hens. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Over the next few months Kip followed me around wherever I went, he quickly and without effort seemed to learn his "down," and "come." When he was about seven months old I bought a few more ewes. To prevent any spread of possible disease I kept them apart from the rest of the flock, for a month or so they were in a separate pasture. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">After they had settled in for a few days I brought them a little grain that I placed into a tub in the middle of the pasture. Then I fetched Kip. I laid him down about thirty yards from the ewes who did not even notice us thanks to the grain in front of them. I started the first training session with Kip. Day after day we went back with those ewes and worked them. I diligently read up on how to train but basically Kip's instinct needed just a touch of correction here and there. He had to learn what I wanted of him, he had to learn my commands. He quickly mastered the fetch which meant that from then on he would help me with the main flock. I now could bring the flock into the barn within minutes. I stood by the barn door and Kip fetched the sheep and their lambs to me. I had to stand aside to let then pass by me into the barn. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Pretty soon Kip helped me at all phases of my work with the sheep. He had an uncanny sense that made him realize what I wanted of him. All he really knew was to fetch the sheep but that was enough to make it possible for me to look after my livestock efficiently. Whenever I was working outside he would be loose to follow me around, give me advice on any number of things from carpentry to baling hay. That August somebody told me that not too far from our farm there was a sheepdog trial. So our whole family. Kip included, jammed into the car and went to have a look. There were a few dogs in the Novice class and looking at it I thought that Kip could do this too. So we asked if we could enter the following day and so that Sunday morning I proudly went to the post with Kip. But just before the trial a red van drove up and a murmur went through the crowd: Amanda had arrived. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As I stood by the post and released<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kip he rushed up towards the sheep but, ignoring them, he first went up to the dog that was lying not too far from them. That dog ignored him so Kip first tried to find out if that dog had any homosexual tendencies, when he still was ignored – he lifted his leg. This at least got a reaction, not so much from the dog but from his handler who started rushing at Kip, brandishing her crook, blond hair flying – an angry Viking warrior princess if I ever saw one. To this day I am easily intimidated by Amanda.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kip on the other hand decided that Bart, which was the setout dog, was not worth his attention and started to work the sheep. We did finish the course, I think there were only 6 or 7 dogs in that class and we even got a yellow ribbon. Both of us were now efficiently hooked!</span></div>
2013 National Sheepdog Finalshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15849082748942661362noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2454395344449246966.post-25160646465547112682013-03-09T12:43:00.000-05:002013-03-09T12:43:47.928-05:00Fiona Robertson – Bringing in the Cow<div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXOGOBqn3BePlmndUqeS_mYrWr0JgYMrnVb_C6EMTMYMtajqocOioW_CzmViu3Vt7xwsnVZpT8bmHFAtpOawT1XUHXSVgUPI-JEFzVSu8PEKN5tJqxNsqPNhs41cHs43rLnuzRaMHlQCbk/s1600/Jess_to_post.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ea="true" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXOGOBqn3BePlmndUqeS_mYrWr0JgYMrnVb_C6EMTMYMtajqocOioW_CzmViu3Vt7xwsnVZpT8bmHFAtpOawT1XUHXSVgUPI-JEFzVSu8PEKN5tJqxNsqPNhs41cHs43rLnuzRaMHlQCbk/s320/Jess_to_post.jpeg" width="320" /></a><span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">My very first sheepdog puppy, Jess, was gifted to me by the late Alex McKinven, of North Hatley, QC, Canada (formerly of Fifeshire, Scotland) for looking after his dogs on weekends he was away showing cattle or competing in sheepdog trials.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was well-bred and VERY keen to work, but the problem was that she was well bred and VERY keen to work – if you get my meaning!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In other words, for a beginner with no background in farming or livestock or dogs, she was a whole lot more dog than I could train or handle!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But we struggled through and at the age of two she competed, with me as co-pilot in her first Novice trial. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It didn’t go well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">However, because I was now a “seasoned” dog trainer and handler (we all are, while we’re in Novice, right?) when our neighbor asked for help with his cows, we accepted readily.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They had never used dogs before – didn’t know anything about working stock dogs – and were a little apprehensive, but I assured them of Jess’ prowess and skill and my complete control over her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They agreed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The farmer’s wife – charged with evening milking – was about 8 months pregnant at the time and was having difficulty bringing in the cows from the lush June pastures. Actually it was only one cow, determined to burst her udder rather than leave the clover buffet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On account of her non-mobile state, the farmer’s wife couldn’t walk all the way out to shoo her towards the barn, so I, being an expert stockdog person, offered to “fetch her with my highly trained dog”.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Because cows are no different than sheep, right?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And even though my dog has never worked cows, she’ll be a superstar and save the day, right?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And even though I hadn’t actually <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">completed</i> a novice course (due to my dog only being half trained, at best) she’d instinctively know what to do, right?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The situation could have been a horror story, with a ripped udder, broken legs or a kicked dog, but you’ll be relieved to hear it was very much a comedy.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I sent my dog on a right hand outrun (because that is the only way she’d go) and she went out gangbusters (anyone who knew Jess will remember she did EVERYTHING gangbusters – with an emphasis on the “busting”).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She got behind the rogue cow, walked (ran) in to lift…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And then I see her little black and white face around the side of the cow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seemed so small in the distance, yet so clear was her expression: <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“What the heck is this?”<o:p></o:p></i></b></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Er…. “Walk up?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Having found no sheep at the top of the field and likely being very peeved at me for tricking her into thinking there were, Jess left the cow and ran back down the hill.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And the cow followed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Actually, the cow gained speed until she was in full mad-cow chase mode; head down, bag swaying as she galloped after my tiny, helpless little dog.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">As Jess, looking with sheer panic over her shoulder with tail tucked between her legs, leapt through the space in the gate, the cow skidded to a halt and the Farmer’s wife caught her.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Wow, thank you!” she said to me, looking at my (shaking) dog in awe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“That was really something!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those dogs sure are incredible.”</span></span></div>
2013 National Sheepdog Finalshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15849082748942661362noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2454395344449246966.post-37600150550465208702013-02-15T21:11:00.000-05:002013-02-15T21:11:12.830-05:00Amelia Smith - Lost in the Translation<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Back then, 600 miles round-trip was a long way to travel for a dog trial. And, when you’re only running 1 dog in novice? Well, you gotta crack out somewhere. I cracked out in a desolate area of central California on a barren field alongside a feedlot with a mystery-breed, black and white ranch dog named Chica.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The novice always ran last and we hardy souls, there were about 4 of us, running in it sat around all day (think 7 hours) watching the open handlers on parade with *real* Border Collies, intimidated by their perceived skill, and waiting our turn to shine, or in my case, for a turn.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">It came, and I was confident. Chica, a ranch remnant, completed the outrun, all 75 yards of it, and that’s where the trouble began. I couldn’t blow a whistle yet, but had managed to get voice flanks on my rough-edged, little dog. Try as I might, however, and as luck would have it, she wouldn’t take them…none of them…not one. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">When the sheep zigged, I flanked Chica to cover, but she either ignored me outright, or went the wrong way. My collar tightened, so I did what came naturally, and raised my voice…same result. I raised it louder to my very best “outside” voice…no change, but in spite of me, Chica got sheep to my feet, and we were now to the pen!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Round and round for what felt like eternity, the sheep circled, the dog flying counter to every flank I delivered before time was mercifully called on our run. Mortified, I began to walk, alternately glaring at my dog, and staring at my boots. The imagined sound of derisive whispers rang in my ears, and that’s when I heard my name. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Our judge, George Grist, had beckoned to me. Oh Gawd! It was worse than I thought. I was so bad that I required attention!!! Did he speak to everyone after their run? Who knew? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">For those of you who don’t know him, George Grist has helped many handlers get their start. He’s bred lots of good dogs, helped put working Border Collies on the map, but George is not the man you’d expect to see pictured beside the word “diplomatic” in the dictionary. Webster’s notwithstanding, in his most compassionate voice, George made me laugh when he gently asked; “Is your dog on backwards flanks?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
2013 National Sheepdog Finalshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15849082748942661362noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2454395344449246966.post-51692428348698035062013-01-27T20:28:00.000-05:002013-01-27T20:28:52.488-05:00Jennifer Glen - Lesson Learned<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span lang="EN-CA"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">My first border collie, Bob, is now almost 14 years old. He came in and out of my life starting when he was 7 weeks old until I finally bought him at 6 months. This was a few years before I met my husband, and I was working at a sheep ranch in California.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t think I needed a border collie because I thought I had it covered with my border collie mix.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, the ranch I lived at had tried to sell young Bob a few times and he kept coming back so I bought him for the worst reason: I felt sorry for him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It turned out to be the best decision of my life.</span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN-CA"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Bob was a great starter dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe, no I’m certain, that <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">definitely</b>, for my ego, he was too good of a starter dog. Actually he was a mediocre dog and I am a mediocre handler but together we got it done well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We learned together but he always seemed to know more than I did, so I let him show me the way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can’t do this with all dogs, but he would never grip unless attacked, or run sheep into a fence or lose them off a field and he always stopped (a little too well sometimes) when he was told. We only walked to the post twice in novice, when he was<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>14 months old, and took a second place and three firsts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">There is a phenomenon with novices, when we get a few wins, that we figure we know exactly how to do it now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean, how hard can it be to do open when we clearly aced the novice classes?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We quit taking lessons from our teachers (because we know more than they do), do most of our training by ourselves and sit in the back of open trials sometimes quietly, and sometimes a little too loudly, pointing out what the open handlers are doing wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hear this also happens in the agility world and I saw it play out again this past summer at a sheepdog trial. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I heard a novice complaining to another novice that if we open handlers would just stop our dogs, we would be doing better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When it came time for said novice to run her dog, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">IF</b> she could have stopped it, she would have noticed the sheep kept on running, and you were better off with good flanks on a listening dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But there is so much in the details that we don’t know at the beginning and we are so full of our own success that we don’t think we have anything else to learn.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">This is how it started to play out with me and Bob.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After my blazing (so I thought) success in the novice trials, I took on the nurseries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In two trials I had my finals qualification and a few months before our first Nursery National Finals, Bob and I entered our first open trial…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>AND WON IT. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">So!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Clearly, I did know what I was doing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn’t like other novices.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was as good as I knew I was and watch out National Finals!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That year, 2001, they were in Klamath Falls, Oregon and I was going.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were a lot of nursery dogs that year but how many of them had already won an open trial, huh?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was really just a formality, this running of the course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They should have just put my name on the trophy ahead of time and save themselves the effort of running the trial because I obviously was going to win it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">In my defence, I was nervous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like, going to vomit my breakfast if I could have eaten it, nervous, so I must have had some inkling in my swelled head that something might not go well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe it was because I knew that all but one of my wins had come on my home field, or maybe I remembered that my open win was actually a tie and instead of a run off, they gave it to me based on my outrun, lift, and fetch scores. Or maybe, just maybe, I might have been a little nervous because I realized my dog had never been any further than 200 yards in his life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nah!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These things couldn’t have been bothering me because at that time, I didn’t know enough, to know what I didn’t know.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">This was the year of the infamous nursery outrun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I swear it was 500 yards, but Geri Byrne would probably tell you it was closer to 400.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It didn’t matter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was far.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Farther than Bob or I had ever been.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was cold, rainy and windy as I walked, hunched with fear and chills, to the post and sent my dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bob ran out like he knew where he was going and I started to relax.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Until, he got to about 150yrds and started to turn in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>LIE DOWN! (this was going to make getting that trophy a little harder)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, Bob did, but when I flanked him again, he continued on his merry way, crossing over his course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>LIE DOWN!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now Bob was beginning to realize there was a problem and so was I.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried every trick I had, which were very limited back then, but Bob was not going to go back any further than his 150 yards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dejectedly, I called him off and left the field.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Oh, did reality hurt!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had been walking 10 ft off the ground but now I slammed into it full force and it hurt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My pride was severely wounded and to make matters worse, all the nursery dogs got to run a second run so I got to repeat the good times all over again, but this time, when Bob didn’t find them and I called him off, he ran under the judges table and hid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even he was embarrassed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Haley Howard went on to show me that year how easy she could make it look, taking home my trophy, and I swore Bob would never run too short at a trial again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And he never did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, my novice mistakes unknowingly continued when I taught him to run too big.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, he was a good boy and by the time I retired him he had won 4 open trials and that made the losses a little easier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I never look back on that year in 2001 at Klamath Falls, without cringing.</span></span></div>
2013 National Sheepdog Finalshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15849082748942661362noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2454395344449246966.post-17002886428796248602012-12-29T05:59:00.000-05:002012-12-29T15:28:14.622-05:00Rob Drummond - The Barn Door<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEGrKSN8e5-7Sza6kTf6XZuaAXy3shAaKQKk4RkN5-ttei9cYcDk-2QxTthwRDDcA3Ai-eUXO37RHo1NWsUcLBVNkJLe-ia95IUXPacCYqdEabsyCBxEd-hoZFMbILEgl0c3YoUSuW5yDH/s1600/RobDrummondFace.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img bea="true" border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEGrKSN8e5-7Sza6kTf6XZuaAXy3shAaKQKk4RkN5-ttei9cYcDk-2QxTthwRDDcA3Ai-eUXO37RHo1NWsUcLBVNkJLe-ia95IUXPacCYqdEabsyCBxEd-hoZFMbILEgl0c3YoUSuW5yDH/s200/RobDrummondFace.png" width="141" /></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Winter started in October that year. Snow began to fall on the 24th and kept coming through mid-April. The field had turned to seed so grazing was finished. The ground was dry and brown and the clean white snow was almost refreshing. This was the fall that marked the end of my first full year as a sheep farmer. My flock was small, maybe 20 or 30 head, but they were all healthy and if everything went as planned, I would have my first lambs in February. It was a little scary, but exciting. The sheep were safely in the barnyard on hay and grain, protected by my Great Pyrenees, Scout. Scout joined the farm as an 8 week old fuzz ball, but had matured quickly and was becoming a reliable guard dog. I never lost a night’s sleep worrying about the sheep when he was on duty. He was cautious but kind to strangers and he was always hopeful that maybe some day one of the border collies would play with him. He was a happy dog and we were ready to take on the winter.</span></div>
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By the end of December the snow was proof of the devil. It was hard to keep the barnyard clear and the snow banks were getting higher than the lift of the tractor bucket. The cleared areas were like skating rinks, and on more than one occasion I was pulling myself up off the ground, only to see the UPS driver watching the nightly spectacle from the warmth of his truck. We didn’t exchange words, but I’d like to think that he was watching to make sure I was still conscious. <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
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The border collies were bored, and the only way to keep them happy was to let them take turns doing chores. They just had to push the sheep into the barn and hold them there while I filled the grain troughs on the opposite side of the barn door. Ice had seized up the rollers and the 12’ monster was stuck in a half open position. I let it go because the last thing I wanted to do was try to force it and end up rehanging it in sub-zero temperatures.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
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Most nights the chores were routine and the dogs knew what they had to do. They were all pretty competent, although a little disappointed at the repetition and simplicity of their work. Scout would wander through the barn checking his flock, and he was mostly respectful of the work the other dogs did. The only one exception was my dog Andy. For some reason Scout mistook Andy for a bitch in heat, and Andy spent much of his time wiggling and squiggling away from his 97 lb. suitor. Andy was a good natured dog and calm in all situations that didn’t involve sheep. When sheep were in his radar, every muscle in Andy’s body was tense and you could see the steam come out of his ears. There were demons in Andy’s head telling him to “move the sheep, move the sheep quickly”.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
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Andy was always a crap shoot at a dog trial. Always the dog that was either going to take the blue ribbon, or send your blood pressure off the charts. When he was listening he was brilliant, when he wasn’t it was a train wreck. During a train wreck, fellow handlers would hear ANDY!,ANDY!, ANDY!, shouted in a progressively louder, deeper tones, and then they would hear the judges last words: “ Thank you. I’ve seen enough!”<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
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On this one particularly cold, nasty evening, it was Andy’s turn to do the chores. The UPS truck had come and gone without incident. Andy had gathered the sheep into the barn and stood holding them while I began to pour the grain into the troughs. I’m not sure how it started, maybe Scout had decided to serenade him, or maybe it was those demons in his head, but what I saw was the back side of Andy racing around behind the sheep. With a loud crash, the first few sheep hit the barn door on their way out and knocked it off the runner. My instinct was to put my arms out and hold it up, but in an instant I was flat on my back, under the door with the rest of the flock charging across me. A quick assessment told me I was still alive and conscious, but I could hear the flock heading out into the small pasture beyond the barnyard, no doubt with Andy hot on their heels. As I began to utter my first hideous words, the sound changed. It was getting closer, and in that instant I realized that Andy was bringing the flock back to the barn. I sucked in enough breath to yell “ANDY LIE DOWN!” He did, and in a fairly controlled fashion, the flock came back over the door, over me, dropping everything they had in their stomachs through the cracks in the barn door. I was laying on the ice, under the barn door, covered in sheep droppings, but I was alive. Life was good. As I lay there considering the best way to get out of the situation, I heard a loud sniffing sound. It was Scout. He realized I was under the door and was sniffing his way over to me. Then he found me, and like any good guard dog, he decided to mark his territory to keep the predators away. Now I was laying on the ice, under a 300 lb. barn door, covered in sheep droppings, being urinated on by a 97 lb. guard dog.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
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When I got out from under the barn door Andy was nowhere in sight. That was a good thing. I assumed he cleared the 4’ fence and went back to the house. I straightened out the barnyard, turned out the lights and went to find him. I was still fuming. I went through the kitchen door and said “Where the hell is he”? My wife took one look at me and said “you look nasty and you smell worse. I don’t know what you did to that dog, but the poor thing flew past me and ran into the closet”.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;">
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I explained what had just happened outside, but received no sympathy. Apparently, the barn door should have been fixed in the fall, I need to be wearing cleats on the ice and I never should have been using such a hair trigger dog in the barnyard in the middle of winter. “Andy was just doing what Andy always does.”Of course she was right, but it took a while to calm down and Andy spent most of his time in the closet for the next few days. Eventually I forgave him and the lambs started coming and the ground began to thaw and all was forgiven. He has since retired, but for several years after that I still took Andy out on the trial field, but when the judge would say “I’ve seen enough”, I’d just smile and say to myself “That’s what you think, you ain’t seen nothin”.</span>
2013 National Sheepdog Finalshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15849082748942661362noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2454395344449246966.post-83223505289658780772012-12-16T20:30:00.000-05:002012-12-16T20:38:53.597-05:00Amanda Milliken - Bart and Meg<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in auto;">
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<span lang="EN-CA"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My mother was the first to get sheep in our family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was hard to believe she was breaking with her suburban traditions and raising fresh lamb. But she did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A neighbour had a single sheep that flocked with his cows and had not been shorn in two years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He asked if it could join our flock and while we said yes, we could not catch it at shearing time, so it slipped by.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My sister Cathy got a Border Collie from Bill Wyatt of Tennessee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We all thought it was a singularly clever dog to bring all those horses in, and wished we could get our setters to do that trick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once, she stopped up at mothers and watched the sheep and cattle from outside the fence in a meditative way, (which I now know to be showing us some eye.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I said "Hey, Meg.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Get that sheep." and in five minutes, she put that uncatchable single in the barn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I rushed to the house and told Mother we had to get one of these dogs and we did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From a Kemptville horse vet, Cal Kobluk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cal's came from a Schaeffer guy from University of Pennsylvania.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bart was my first Border Collie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Interestingly, Cal Kobluk called a few weeks ago to get a Border Collie from me.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He was a smart, engaging pet dog with his black belt in fetch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We violated every good training principle in training him, but how were we to know what to do?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was no one around to teach us anything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No internet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No books. An annual sheep expo in Toronto advertised a sheepdog training clinic with Glyn Jones (Bodfari).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went to figure out how to train my dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bear in mind I had no understanding of the outcome of training, so I didn't even know where I was headed. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bart was the cleverest of the lot at the clinic and Glyn used him all day, to show everyone how to start<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went home and did everything he said to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bart's training generated a lot of community interest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mother's riding pals came over to watch him progress every week and he came along very well, becoming a useful dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-CA"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The next year, I went back to Sheep Focus to do the next level of clinic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the registration, the money takers said I should enter the trial.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I asked what you had to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When they told me, I said OK.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bart and I won our first open trial.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I meandered around after that with the dogs, for a year or two.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cathy's Meg moved to our place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I got a bitch called Hazel, a granddaughter of Bart and Meg, I settled on sheepdogging as the sport I would do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thirty years later, I would still do it, if I could.</span></span></div>
2013 National Sheepdog Finalshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15849082748942661362noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2454395344449246966.post-22597135700253806282012-11-20T16:15:00.000-05:002012-11-20T16:15:54.382-05:00Sue Schoen - Asa<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 12pt;">
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">My first Border collie, Asa, was pretty useless. I grew up in a livestock-free suburb of New York City. I knew Border collies were really smart. I hoped that Asa would fall somewhere between Lassie and Flipper. Asa and I were a good match. The good news was that I did not know how dreadful we were and, I had a lot of enthusiasm and perseverance. I was advised that I wouldn't get anywhere without my own sheep, so I found an abandoned farm near my house. This was no small feat on Cape Cod. I fenced in about 10 acres, cleared the land of all manner of toxic debris and commenced training Asa on 5 aged, cast-off ewes which I bought from Jean and Joe Kennedy. These sheep were as dogged as sheep could be, so Asa actually looked pretty good sometimes. What I mean is, she would run out around them and they would run straight towards me. Well, actually that was only if I was standing near the barn. If I was very far from the barn, they would head for home and Asa would lie there and watch them run by her. Other than that, she did not lie down much. Thankfully, my memory is not too clear about Asa's outrunning ability. I think she sometimes hugged the fence and stopped somewhere along the way to have a cigarette. I do remember that sometimes she ran straight up the middle - just like bowling. It did not seem to matter to the sheep - they started running once Asa left my feet. I seem to remember that she was not excessively proficient in driving - as in anything we did caused the sheep to end up at the barn. But I am definitely a "glass half full" kind of person. I found it easy to overlook these small imperfections in her work. Overall, I was thrilled and proud to have such a brilliant dog.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">After a while I was satisfied with our mastery of this particular group of animals. Fresh sheep. That's what I needed to stretch our skills. I bought 5 Corriedale ewes from a nice lady who sold livestock fencing. </span><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I drove an hour to get them. They lived in a stall, they were enormous, and they had kind of a desperate air about them. I suspect they were bottle lambs. We hoisted them into the back of my pick up. I don't really know what happened next exactly. I do recall that these sheep arrived shortly after we brought my daughter Emily home from China. In those days Emmie spent a lot of time in the backpack, peering over my shoulder, bright brown eyes watching every foolish move I made. Maybe, it was jetlag or PTSD from becoming a parent on a trip to China with my husband Gene who almost died of pneumonia while we waited for Emily's paperwork to clear. But for some reason I decided one night that we would take these fresh sheep for a little walk through the woods. Give Asa some hill work. I think it was kind of late in the afternoon. Like around sunset. Somehow, the sheep got away from Asa (or maybe she did a little chasing) and they took off down the path into Beebe Woods. Three and a half miles of trails. Loads of side trails. Emily on my back. Darkness imminent. I was able to track them for about half a mile. I felt like Daniel Boone. Then suddenly the poop and stirred up leaves disappeared. I went home feeling a little panicked. It was dark. They were gone.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">I called the Falmouth Police Department. "I've lost some sheep." I told the sympathetic dispatcher. "OK." he said" "Nobody's found any sheep tonight, but you never know. Do they have any identifying characteristics?" I gave him my number. Half hour later he called back, "Is this Bo Peep?" Mr. Hoskins of Upland Road had called to report the presence of sheep in his mud room. Were they mine? Emily and I were in the truck within seconds and arrived at the Hoskins' residence in a couple of minutes. He lived off of one of the side paths where I had lost the trail. Mr. Hartley Hoskins had enticed my five strays into his mud room with rabbit pellets. They were all in there, huddled together on the rich, red oriental carpet, gazing at the oil paintings on the wall. It was a lovely room with leather furniture. There was a beagle asleep on the sofa. Mr. Hoskins was delighted to host them. Apprehending them with rabbit pellets had thrilled him no end. He thought they were charming. His wife would be home from work at any moment and he was sure she'd love to meet them. I checked the rug carefully. No sign of pee or sheep turds. I wondered what it would cost me to have that rug cleaned. I felt an urgent need to get my sheep home and settled in their pen for the night. I backed the truck up to the open screen door, thanking Mr. Hoskins fervently for his hospitality, and stoically offering to take care of any damages. No problem, he said. He knew my husband from work. I felt the noose tighten. We hoisted them into the back of the truck. It must have been Mrs. Hoskins who passed me on the driveway as I was pulling out. I waved a friendly greeting and stepped on the gas.</span></div>
2013 National Sheepdog Finalshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15849082748942661362noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2454395344449246966.post-89797769436532077202012-11-09T09:22:00.001-05:002012-11-12T22:23:37.969-05:00Barbara Ray - The Bridge<div align="center" class="Standard" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">In 1980 I was gifted my first border collie pup, Tuxeda, which I dearly loved and hoped would help me manage the nearly 300 commercial ewes I had at the time. Having no knowledge of the breed I was amazed at how fast she learned basic obedience. But soon she started to show interest in the horses and sheep which caused my opinion to change.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">In those days there were no training clinics or lessons from professional handlers nearby. In fact there were only a handful of handlers in the country and I knew none of them. It was my impression a good dog would figure out what job was being done and pitch in to help. After all I had watched Rin Tin Tin and Lassie do this every week on TV as a child.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">One hot summer day the farm help and I attempted to get the flock to clean new pastures which involved crossing a slatted bridge over the river. The task was difficult. The usual method of shaking a bucket of grain and running like hell to avert the stampede had failed. Managing the sheep over the bridge meant shoving the crowd every few inches where they could clearly see the flowing water below. They surely imagined death was imminent as their feet might slip between the slats with every stride. Oh I forgot to mention, the bridge had no sides, so pushing too hard might cause some to plunge into the river some 25 feet below. Perhaps pushing a loaded tractor trailer with flat tires up a hill might have been easier. Two of us worked 45 minutes shouting and shoving the sheep on and nearly all the way across the bridge when my eager young dog appeared on the other side of the flock to flatten our efforts. The little devil swam the river and thought she could help. Colorful language echoed off the mountains. Tuxeda proudly caused all the sheep to break past us and land off the bridge on the original side. Holy high blood pressure! Just another day on the farm.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I like to think I have learned something from my really dumb days. That young dog could have most likely been shaped into a fine farm dog had it passed through the hands of a knowledgeable trainer. But I gave her to a disabled gentleman as a companion where she could no longer harass livestock.</span></div>
2013 National Sheepdog Finalshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15849082748942661362noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2454395344449246966.post-38863768095824024792012-11-08T19:39:00.000-05:002012-11-12T22:23:50.153-05:00Lori Cunningham - Novice Trials<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">My first trial dog was named Nick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I was walking to the post in a novice novice trial, one of Nick’s back feet somehow slipped through the loop of my hiking boot shoelace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Freaked by his foot being caught, he proceeded to dance wildly around in several circles, cinching his foot tighter and tighter, tying himself to my foot. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Panic mounted and he made a break for it, taking my leg with him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went down hard. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My crook went flying somewhere like a javelin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nick started screaming like he was on fire, and dragged me around on the ground by one foot like a sled dog as he tried to get free.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After what seemed like forever, I managed to struggle upright enough to untie him from my boot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think I crawled to the post.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t remember what happened after that, but I’m pretty sure we didn’t win. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
2013 National Sheepdog Finalshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15849082748942661362noreply@blogger.com2