A crowd had gathered, and Ogilvie made an announcement in the relaxed, gentle manner typical of persons who deal with sheep: “Folks, we’ve brought a five-year-old Border collie to show you how he does his job. The breed was developed many centuries ago on the border between Scotland and England. This breed of dog is not only intelligent but born with the sheep-herding instinct. Also, they’re workaholics. Here’s… Duncan!”
A rough-coated black-and-white dog with tail carried low came bounding from the truck cab, right on cue. He went directly to the penned sheep, rounded them up in businesslike fashion, and herded them into the next small pasture. They moved obediently and placidly in a close-order cluster of woolly backs.
Ogilvie said, “You’ll notice that Duncan doesn’t yap or make a fuss. He doesn’t have to. They know what he wants them to do. Even rebellious sheep obey him. If something happens to make the flock nervous, Duncan can calm them down just by being there.”
By the time the sheep had scattered in the second enclosure, Duncan rounded them up and herded them into a third.
Big Mac muttered to Qwilleran, “The poor devils must be all confused.”
“They’re sheep. Theirs not to question why.”
Ogilvie said, “There’s a silent understanding between a Border collie and his flock. Some folks call it magic. It’s a kind of mental telepathy. I think he reads my mind, too…. Now, in case you’re wondering about all this herding, we have to move the flock from one pasture to another to give them a balanced diet, as well as periods of shade and water. If sheep gorge too much, they can get bloated, and that can be fatal.”
Briskly and with authority Duncan moved his willing charges through the maze and back to the starting place. Watchers applauded, cameras clicked, and he trotted back to the truck.
“Good show!” Qwilleran said to the shepherd. “He’s a real pro!”
Big Mac said, “I wouldn’t mind having a dog like that.”
“That’s the problem,” Ogilvie said. “The Borders are so friendly that people want them for pets, but that’s not fair to the clog and not fair to the breed. You see, for hundreds of years they’ve been bred as working dogs, and if they don’t get enough work, they’re frustrated. There’s a story – whether it’s true or not, I can’t guarantee – but it’s about a Border collie living on a farm where they didn’t give him enough work to do. One day he trotted down the road to the next farm, rounded up their chickens, geese, hogs, and goats, and herded them back to his own farm.”
The food tents were offering mutton pies, fried herring cakes, bridies, and assorted sweets such as scones and shortbread. Qwilleran and Big Mac chose the bridies, a kind of meat-filled pastry turnover similar to Moose County’s Cornish pasties but without the potato. They carried their repast to a picnic table and were bantering with Scots from Bixby when Lois Inchpot walked past their table and pointed a threatening finger at them.
“You guys get out there in the bleachers and root for my boy, do you hear? He’s in the footraces, starting in a few minutes.”
Big Mac mumbled, “We’d better do what she says, or we’ll never get a second cup of coffee – free. Personally I prefer the heavy games to the races, although I know it’s traditional for Scots to respect speed. In the early days of clan warfare they needed fast runners as messengers as well as strong men for bodyguards.”
They went to the bleachers and roared encouragement to Lenny, while his mother stood up and waved her arms like a middle-aged cheerleader. In spite of their support he never came in better than third. Bike racing, not footracing, was his strong suit.
The big men who next paraded around the field were no candidates for Mr. America’s crown; they were just big, beefy heavyweights – some in kilts, some in shorts. All wore extra-extra-large T-shirts stretched tightly across their torsos. The logos on the shirts were an eight-point buck (Moose County), a raging bull (Bixby), and Pegasus (Lockmaster).
“What I’d like to see,” said Big Mac, “is the test of strength and grit called Hauling the Bucket, but it’s probably been outlawed. A guy picks up two iron buckets weighing a couple of hundred pounds apiece, and he runs – or struggles – down the track until he’s forced to drop them. The longest run wins. As the saying goes, if you don’t drop dead, you haven’t been trying hard enough.”
“What I want to see is called Tossing the Caber,” Qwilleran said. “Lenny says there’s quite a trick to it, and there’s a desk clerk at the inn who’s mastered the trick.”
The program listed five events, involving tossing, pitching, throwing, putting, and heaving.
1. Throwing the Hammer. It was four feet long and weighed twenty pounds. The thrower stood with. back to the goal and his feet planted firmly on the ground. Then he twirled and let it fly, his kilt swirling in a circle of pleats. A Bixby contender won handily.
