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

I went to the committee meeting.

I’d never spoken at one in thirty-two years. They looked surprised to see me.

I said three things.

That the trial’s liability policy covered handlers, spectators and livestock, and said nothing about how many legs a dog had. I knew because I’d been on the committee that bought it.

That Tess had run a cleaner course in Meeker than any dog I’d seen in a decade, including mine.

And that if they pulled her, I’d pull Ace, and I’d tell every handler in the Rocky Mountain region why.

The vote took four minutes.

Tess ran.

She ran a beautiful outrun on the big Steamboat field, three legs and all, and the crowd started clapping before the sheep were halfway down the course. She finished second. One point behind a dog from Wyoming that had cost its owner twenty thousand dollars.

Ace finished fourth.

I didn’t care at all.

Siobhan flew home to Ireland on Tuesday. I drove her and Tess to the airport in Denver. There’s a lot of quiet road between Meeker and Denver. We used most of it.

At the curb, she hugged me. Quick and hard.

“Thank you for the committee,” she said.

“Thank you for the trial. Nobody’s beaten me in three years. I’d forgotten it’s good for a man.”

She laughed. Then she stopped laughing.

“I’ll be back next September,” she said. “To defend my title.”

“You’d better bring a good dog.”

“I’m bringing the best one,” she said, and looked down at Tess.

Then she looked at me.

“And Callan? Take care of Ace for me.”

She walked through the doors without turning around.

That was a year ago.

Last week, an envelope came from County Kerry. Inside, an entry form for the Meeker sheepdog trial, already filled out. Handler: Siobhan Keane. Dog: Tess.

And a note, in green ink.

*Practise. You’ll need it.*

Ace has been practising every day.

So have I.