An Irish Woman and Her Three-Legged Dog Beat Me at My Own Sheepdog Trial. She Said She’d Be Back Next Year to Do It Again

The whole town cheered for her.

I want to be honest. For about thirty seconds, I was not a good sport about it.

I’d been running dogs on that field for thirty-two years. My father ran dogs on that field. Ace was the best dog I’d ever trained. And a woman in rubber boots and a green raincoat had walked in from County Kerry and taken it like she was picking up the mail.

Then Ace walked over to Tess, sniffed her nose, and lay down beside her in the grass.

Ace had never done that with any dog.

So I walked over, too.

“Congratulations,” I said. “She’s the real thing.”

Siobhan looked up at me. Gray eyes. Freckles. A little scar on her chin. About forty-eight, I guessed. And she looked at me the way you’d look at a fence post you weren’t sure was going to hold.

“You’re the champion,” she said.

“Was.”

“You’re not happy about it.”

“I’m learning to be.”

She laughed. It was a good laugh, loud and with no apology in it.

“My husband used to say that,” she said. “Usually right after I beat him at something.”

“Used to?”

“He’s in Dublin,” she said. “With his new wife, our old accountant and most of the money from our farm. The divorce settlement left me eleven sheep, a three-legged dog and a lawyer’s bill the size of the national debt.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she said. “The sheep are lovely.”

I should have said goodbye. Shaken her hand. Gone home.

Instead, I heard myself say, “Would you and Tess want to see what a real Colorado sheep ranch looks like?”

She studied me for a second.

“Is this a pickup line, Mr. Price?”

“It’s an invitation,” I said. “My dog is in love with your dog. I’m just the driver.”