Monday, April 25, 2011

Preacher John Part II-B

Watch It, Buster! II-B

      John knew that was coming, “I can’t afford to campaign a dog.  And you know it.  So, it would just be the same deal of you supporting a dog with my name on the papers instead of yours.  Buster needs a new owner that will believe in him like we do.”
      “You’re right,” Bobby finally agreed, “but owners are not all that easy to find in this economy.”
      That was the end of the conversation as they pulled into the yard.  Mack was finishing up the last horse.  That afternoon they watched a preseason football game and didn’t talk any further about Buster.  Monday morning they were back at it.  Friday they would head out to the next trial and Bobby was a little worried about it.  The gallery talk at the last trial was that the grounds they were going to were really short on birds.  They were just far enough away to have experienced some different weather during the critical nesting and hatching time.  A late spring snowstorm followed by a very dry summer had the bird numbers way down.  Everyone said it would take a heck of a dog and some luck to find birds during the championship and the derbies would have to run after the championship when what birds were around had already been pushed.
      John continued to run Buster every day with cables to slow him down.  On Thursday he and Bobby ran him with one of Bobby’s best dogs.  Mack just about wore out his horse trying to scout both dogs as the workout turned competitive between the two dogs.  They swapped finds and backs for nearly an hour until John called for Mack to put Buster in the roading harness.  Bobby did the same with his dog and just shook his head as he looked at Buster, “If we could get him qualified, we could run him in a championship or two before we head South.”
      “That’s a pretty big if, and there’s no reason to rush him into the hour stakes.”  John said as Mack handed him the rope attached to his harness.
      “It might make it easier for us to find him a new owner.”
      “If Buster’s meant to be with us, things will work out.”
      “Faith is a good thing to have, John, but it’s been my experience that it rarely pays the bills.”
      “We’ll see.”
      In the morning they headed north and crossed into Canada for the next trial.  After hearing the reports about the shortage of birds, some of the pros had stayed home and the entry was somewhat smaller than at the previous trial.  They would probably get the championship done by early Monday and the derby would run that afternoon.  There were two surprises at the trial.  Buster’s owner had flown in to watch the dog he was thinking of buying run and to see Buster.
      The first day of the trial only two dogs had any bird contacts and one of those was lost before the end of the hour.  The other was the dog that Buster’s owner was looking at.  It had not been a very impressive race, but it was the only dog on the board at the end of the first day.  In the second brace on Sunday morning, Bobby put down the dog that had run with Buster on Thursday and he scorched the prairie with a true all-age race that took him to the farthest corners of the course.  With only five minutes left in his brace the dog swung wide to the right and stopped.  He was just a white speck in the distance standing near a small bluff.  Bobby raised his hat out in front of the judges and spurred his horse into a lope.  One of the judges and the gallery did the same.
      Buster’s owner was riding, as were a couple of other owners, as well as a young guy nobody seemed to know.  He had shown up Saturday pulling a couple of horses, but without any dogs.  Even at a lope, it took a few minutes to reach the dog.  Mack and Bobby got there first and waited for the judges.  They both dismounted and Mack held the horses while Bobby went in front of the dog to flush.  At first nothing happened and you could feel the disappointment starting to build in all who were watching.  Then a single sharptail boiled out of the far end of the bluff, set its wings, and glided for the horizon.  Bobby fired his gun and then collared the dog.  There were literally only seconds left.  He led the dog back to the horses and handed him to Mack.  He mounted and was about to have Mack turn him loose when the judge called time and told him to put the dog in the harness.  The judge could have asked that the dog be turned loose to show that he wasn’t going to follow the bird in a delayed chase, but this was a performance that he would be happy to use as champion, if it didn’t get beat by one of the remaining dogs, and he didn’t want anything to go wrong.
      The dog truck came up and everyone took a break as they swapped dogs.  John was standing off by himself drinking a Coke as Bobby and Mack put the dog that had just run back on the truck and got another one out for the next brace.  The young guy who had ridden the brace walked over to John and stuck out his hand – he was the second surprise, “Mr. John, I doubt if you remember me, but we met a long time ago.”
      John shook his hand and looked carefully at his face.  There was something familiar about it, but it didn’t register.  John had a knack with names and faces and even after being away from the sport for 25 years could put names to faces that he had known back in the day.  But the man standing before him looked to be in his mid-30s.  He didn’t sound like he was from South Georgia, and if John knew him from his field trial days he must have been just a boy back then, “You get to be my age and it’s sometimes hard to keep all the faces straight.”
      “My grandfather was one of your customers before your wife took ill.”
      That’s all it took.  The young man standing before him resembled his grandfather, William Sutton, and as John looked at him he remembered the boy.  They called him Trey, as he was William F. Sutton, III, and he had come south to some trials with his grandfather to watch the dogs run.  One of the two dogs John had qualified for the National the year Etta Mae had her stroke had been one of the senior Sutton’s dogs.  John remembered that Trey had even come to the house with his grandfather to look at some puppies when they were down for the Masters.  John had ridden in the gallery with Trey and explained what was going on to him.  He remembered him as a serious little boy who took it all in.
      “They still call you Trey?”
      William F. Sutton, III broke into a huge smile and then became serious, “No sir, Grandpa died about 10 years ago, and my father died this past winter, so there isn’t much point calling me Trey anymore, although I always liked it when Grandpa introduced me that way.”
      “He was sure happy when he had you along.”
      “It was mutual.”
      “I don’t think I ever met your Dad, but I’m sorry to hear about his passing.”
      “Thank you, and my condolences on Miss Etta Mae.  I remember sitting at her kitchen table and drinking iced tea while she made lunch for you and Grandpa and me when we visited.”
      “Thank you.  I remember that as well.  Your grandfather let you pick out a puppy that day.  Whatever happened to him?”
      “Grandpa kept him at the farm and he and I hunted him whenever we got the chance which was never often enough.  I got busy with girls and sports then college and grad school.  Then I joined the family business which I just sold after my father died.”
      “Your grandfather had a big beer distributorship up North if I remember correctly.”
      “Nothing wrong with your memory, Mr. John.  People drink a lot of beer and the business had grown substantially in the last 10 years.  But my father died behind his desk and I decided I didn’t want to go out the same way.  I found a buyer and moved down to Grandpa’s farm in North Carolina.  Now, I’m thinking about getting some dogs and having some fun.”
      The break was over and the judges were mounting up.  Mack stood at the breakaway holding another dog from Bobby’s string.  When the call to “let ‘em go!” came the dogs were off across the prairie with the handlers singing to them.  The judges fell in behind and the gallery followed.  John and the young Mr. Sutton were at the back of the gallery.
      “Well, Mr. Sutton, what did you think of that last brace.”
      “I think it would be just fine if you called me Trey. “
      They talked about the braces they had ridden that day and the lack of birds.  Trey explained that he had added to his Grandpa’s farm and hoped John would come see it.  He was trying to re-establish huntable numbers of quail there.
      There were a number of prairie all age races to watch, but the birds were just not there.  Just about everybody at the trial understood.  They had all made the choice in their lives to run their dogs on wild birds as much as possible.  These were hallowed grounds they were running on, and next year they might be covered up in birds as they had been in years past.
      For this trial it was easy to sort out the winners.  Bobby’s dog was the only truly all age prairie dog to handle a bird.  The judges could easily have withheld the runner-up slot, but they knew the situation and went ahead and named the dog that Buster’s owner was thinking about buying.  It solidified the deal, and Bobby was glad for the other trainer as he had lost his best customer to the recession.  That left Buster’s status up in the air.  Bobby decided to wait for the derby stake before he confronted the man about his dog.
      It was hot during the championship, but even hotter when the derbies ran.  The mercury had risen well into the 90s when Mack brought Buster to the line for John.  The owner was in the gallery as was Trey.  Buster already had some fans among the group and they rode along as well.  And he didn’t disappoint them.  When turned loose he flew to the front with effortless grace and deceptive speed.  He was soon a white spec on the horizon – twice as far away as his bracemate.  In the first 20 minutes of the 30 minute brace he showed to the distant front four or five times and John would point him out to the judges who were right up behind him.
      At time, Buster was nowhere to be seen.  Mack, John, and the judges looked for him for five minutes. The judges conferred and they all looked for another five minutes.  In the judges’ minds, if they could just get a glimpse of the dog, even if he was still running, they would place him on his race.  Derbies are about potential and Buster showed tons of it in the way he scorched the sun-baked prairie searching ever farther to the front for birds.  Finally there was nothing to do but call for the tracking collar receiver.  At Buster’s first trial, when they called for the tracker it emitted the rapid beep of a dog on point.  This time when it was turned on it gave the steady slow beep of a dog in motion far to the front towards the lake.  Bobby sent Mack for the truck, and he and John rode on leaving the gallery, judges, and other handlers behind to complete the stake.
      It was a couple of miles to the lake, and as they rode in that direction they could see ducks and geese leaving the water in large numbers.  They didn’t need a tracking collar to tell them that Buster had found the water and was probably having some fun.  By the time they got close to him he was halfway around the lake running in the shallows watching the waterfowl flee in a great commotion of splashing, beating wings, quacking, and honking.
      When John got close he yelled, “Watch it, Buster!”
      The dog slammed on the brakes and styled up into as beautiful a point as anyone could ask for.  The only problem was the water was almost up to his belly.  And there he stood.  Caught in the act, he wasn’t about to compound his crime by moving now that he was on point.  There were still birds swimming around in the reeds in front of him.  John blew his whistle and tried to call him into shore, but Buster wasn’t moving.  Bobby started for the water but John stopped him, “It’s mine to do.  Don’t worry, I won’t melt.” He said with a twinkle in his eye.
      John walked out into the knee deep water and mud and bent down talking to the dog.  He gently stroked Buster’s head as he explained to him that these weren’t their kind of birds.  He told him he was proud of him for finding them but next time he needed to come back a little sooner.  He finally slid the roading harness over the dog’s head and lifted him up out of the water and carried him to shore.
      Bobby grinned as he looked at the old man and the young dog, “Do you think he was listening to you?”
      John thought a moment before answering, “I know he listened to me . . . the question is will he remember what I said at the next trial?”
      Bobby smiled and then thought about the owner.  He hoped there would be a next time.  This was not a dog for the owner’s new trainer.  He wouldn’t give the dog the trust he needed to achieve the greatness Bobby and John saw in him.  Mack was close to the lake with the truck and they loaded the horses and went back to the trial headquarters with an almost dry dog in the back seat.  Mack gave him a similar lecture, in a similar tone, as they rode back in.
      Needless to say Buster didn’t place, but many came over to John to comment on the dog – including the judges who said they’d be watching for him in the future.  Bobby was off to the side talking with Buster’s owner and it was obvious that the conversation wasn’t going well. 
      Bobby came back with his head down and wouldn’t look John in the eye.  He walked over to the chain and unhitched Buster.  He started to lead him away.  Trey stepped in front of him, “Where are you going with that dog?”
      Bobby explained that the owner was moving him to his new trainer.  John stared off across the prairie unable to watch as Buster was led out of his life.  Trey asked Bobby to wait a minute and walked over to the other trainer and Buster’s owner.  The conversation lasted for a while.  Finally, Trey reached in his pocket and pulled out his checkbook.  He wrote out and handed the man a check then shook his hand.  When he came back to Bobby he said in a loud voice that all could hear, “Put my dog back where he belongs.”

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

Preacher John Part II-A

Watch It, Buster

Many would have been disappointed to have come as close as John did to winning Buster’s first derby stake, but John had always had a positive outlook on the world — especially when it came to dogs.  And Buster — he was just happy to be riding in the back seat of the dually as they headed down the road to their training grounds after the trial.  John, along with Bobby and Mack, now knew what they had.  Buster had the potential to be a winner at the highest levels in the field trial world, and it had taken the calm and experienced hand of John to bring it out of him.  He was just a derby and had a long way to go, but as they talked about his first performance, as Bobby drove across the prairie with the sinking sun lighting up the sky behind them, they were all excited.
      Bobby looked at the old man who had been his mentor and teased, “I guess it was a good thing that nobody brought up that rule about old men not running dogs in field trials.”
      John turned and looked at Buster sleeping soundly with his head on Mack’s lap in the back seat and then looked at Bobby, “You know, when your Momma pleaded with me to bring you up here the first time, she told me that if you ever sassed me, I had her permission to do whatever it took to keep you in line.   And I don’t think there’s a statute of limitations on directions from your momma.”
      In the back seat Mack was trying, not very successfully, to keep from laughing.  In the part of the South where all three of them had been born and raised, the mothers rule the world and only the lowest of the low ever did anything against their momma’s wishes — if they could help themselves.  Bobby just smiled at that memory.  It felt good to be spending time with John and right to be able to give back to the old man who had given up his life as a dog trainer to be near his ailing wife.
      And then there was the dog.  Buster was becoming even more than Bobby had expected, but there was a real problem that he hadn’t shared with John and Mack.  Bobby had been giving Buster’s owner regular reports on his progress during the summer and, despite what he had told John, the owner was not all that happy about paying Bobby and having “some old geezer” work his dog.  Bobby tried to explain and finally had to offer to keep and run the dog for free as long as the owner agreed to pay the entry fees.  When Bobby had called him to tell him about Buster’s first go, the man had failed to see the up side and berated Bobby for letting John lose the dog.
      Bobby tried to explain that without John, Buster would not have been able to come so far.  The man’s only point was that the dog still managed to lose the stake.  He finished the conversation by telling Bobby that he was thinking of buying a dog that was on the string of one of Bobby’s rivals that had some impressive wins last year as a derby.  Bobby and everyone else who had seen the dog go as a derby knew it wasn’t going to make it to the top of the all-age world.  The dog could find and point birds and broke out early but lacked that hard to define element that all the best dogs seemed to have.  It was a combination of desire and intelligence that made them better than most.  Buster had it, but his owner couldn’t see it.  But then Bobby couldn’t remember him riding more than a trial or two.  Bobby hoped he bought the dog and became the other trainer’s headache, but at the same time he was worried about what would happen to Buster.
      They had 10 days in camp to work the dogs before the next trial and they were up and at it each morning except for Sunday when John and Bobby drove into town.  John went to church and Bobby drove over to the next town to go to the Super Wal-Mart to get the groceries for the week.  Buster rode along with them.  Mack used Sunday mornings to spend extra time cleaning the kennels and tending the horses.  A string of six horses might seem like a lot to some folks but with three of them riding working dogs or at a field trial, they needed to keep them all in top shape.  The horses’ feet were the weakest link and Mack checked them every day.  He had been a farrier at one time and was spending this particular Sunday morning re-shoeing the horses.
      Bobby picked up John at the small Baptist church in the center of town.  On the ride back to the lease, he finally broached the topic of Buster, “I think we should buy Buster.”
      John was startled, “That doesn’t seem right.  Here you’ve got a dog that has an owner and you want to buy him.  How many of the other dogs do you own?”
      “None.”
      “So, why do you want to own Buster?”
      “Well, I’m not real sure the owner’s going to support him.”
      “What aren’t you telling me?”
      Bobby was quiet for a minute and then two.  Finally, he glanced over at John who was one of the best dog and horse traders he had ever known.  Bobby knew the first one to speak would end up on the short end of this conversation — had known how it would probably turn out when he started it.  So he sucked it up and told John the whole deal. 
      When he finished, it was John’s turn to mull things over and this brought on another long silence.  John looked straight ahead and spoke quietly but firmly, “Bobby, you got to do what’s right for your business first.  You can’t buy a dog that you don’t have an owner for.  So, if the man will sell the dog we better find Buster a new owner or let him go down the road.”
      That was the harsh reality of it.  Mack and Bobby and especially John had become attached to Buster.  But training dogs and running them in field trials is a business and one of the cardinal sins of that business is owning a dog that beats your customers’ dogs.  And Buster would do that, if not at the next trial, then at the one after that or the one after that.   Bobby knew John was right but he didn’t want the old man to have to give up the dog.  He had one last shot, “Why don’t you become Buster’s owner.”

Friday, April 15, 2011

Preacher John Part I-b

Except for Atlanta, Nashville, St. Louis, Kansas City, and some smaller cities along the way, they drove through endless fields of corn and soybeans, changing to corn and grain, and finally mostly grain and hay as they moved north and west until they reached the true prairie country.  John rode in the front as Mack and Bobby swapped off driving and napping in the back seat.  As they left the busy highways of the middle of the country behind, John even took a couple of short hitches behind the wheel of the big dually.  He was amazed at how much better the trucks had gotten in the last 25 years.  He was also startled when he looked down at the speedometer as they rolled north on I-29 above Omaha and the needle was a couple of notches over 80.
      It was dark when they reached the old clapboard farmhouse that John knew so well.  Inside Bobby had done some modernizing over the years.  There was also some newer furniture in the living room and a big flat screen TV attached to a satellite dish.  But it was still familiar to John.  They didn’t dare put the dogs in the kennel until morning when they’d had a chance to check for snakes.  They ran out their chains and fed and watered the dogs, then put them back in the trailer for one more night.   During the night the temperature had dropped down into the low 50s and their day began at first light.  They killed two snakes that had crawled into dog boxes in the kennel, washed down the runs, and then put the dogs in them.  They killed another snake in the run-in shed and then turned out the horses in the corral.  The rancher who owned the land had recently put a fresh round bale in the feeder and the horses were soon arrayed like spokes on a wheel around the bale.
      They continued to set up the place.  The two dozen pigeons that they brought for yard work went in the coop, the grain and dog food went in the shed. They got the four wheeler running and rigged it up with harnesses.  Mack put eight dogs in the harnesses and took off down the road for a half hour work out – he would do that three more times to get all the dogs started on their summer conditioning program.  Bobby grabbed a checkcord and a young dog and started doing yardwork.  Many of the dogs in the kennel belonged on Bobby’s field trial string, the young dogs were field trial hopefuls, and there were a few gun dogs that were being worked for one of the smaller plantations that didn’t have a full time trainer.
      As Bobby led a dog out to the one old cottonwood in the yard, John followed along and asked, “What do you want me to do?”
      Bobby had expected the question and had thought long and hard about his answer.  It wasn’t in John’s nature to sit around and watch – he’d want something to do.  “As much or as little as you want to.  Although I have one problem you might be able to help me with.”
      “I will, if I can.”
      “See the big male pointer with the full liver mask?”  Bobby pointed and John nodded, “Well, he goes back to some of those dogs you used to run.  But he’s a derby this fall and I haven’t been having any luck working him.  He fights me every inch of the way and every time I turn him loose I wear out a horse trying to round him up.  The man that owns him told me not to bring him back south if I couldn’t place him in a derby up here.  I think he’s got what it takes but I can’t make the connection with him.  He’s your kind of dog, John.”
      John wandered over to the pen and just looked at the dog.  The dog didn’t bark or jump around, he just looked back at the old man, hoping that he would unhook the latch and give him a chance to run the country like he did last summer as a puppy.  John reached for the latch and he could see every muscle in the dog’s body tense, but still he didn’t move.  John started to open the door and then shut it hard as the dog tried to bolt for freedom.  He calmly said whoa and then walked away.
      “Let me think about it.”  John said as he walked back over to Bobby and the shade tree.  They talked of dogs and field trials for the rest of the morning while Bobby kept up the yardwork.  When Mack had finished roading all the dogs, they took a break for lunch.  As Mack and Bobby headed for the kitchen door, John went over to the kennel and repeated the process of getting the dog to attempt a break out.  Bobby smiled.  He knew he had hooked John.  He also knew that John was the best chance the dog had.
      In the afternoon they saddled up three horses and took a ride out around the lease.  Bobby kept riding down along the sloughs and into bluffs checking for birds and found them in most of the expected places.  It looked to be a very good bird year.  John worked the kennel door twice more after their ride and on the last time the dog stayed put, allowing John to enter the run.  John spent a few minutes stroking the dog and talking quietly to him.  When he left the kennel the dog tried to seize the opportunity and found the door one more time.
      John fell asleep in the chair in front of the TV while Bobby was fixing dinner.  After dinner they talked for a while before going to their beds as the evening twilight still lit the western sky.  That night John’s dreams took on a new aspect – the liver and white pointer that was now his responsibility ran the prairies and pointed birds.
      The next day they fell into a routine they would follow until the 15th of the month when they could begin working the dogs on wild birds.  Mack got up and cleaned the kennels and then roaded dogs until they had all been out.  Each day he added a little time and a little more speed to the workouts.  He and Bobby had agreed long ago that roading should be faster with less pulling.  They wanted dogs that would be able to run the endurance stakes in the South as well as go flat out for an hour in the late summer and early fall trials on the prairie.  Bobby kept after the younger dogs in the yard.
      John could go in and out of the kennel with ease now and Buster – he had re-named the dog – as in “watch it, Buster” – would sit patiently and wait for the old man to put a pinch collar over his head.  Buster came up hard against the collar a couple of times before he allowed John to lead him around the yard.  John drove a stakeout right next to where he and Bobby were working the young dogs and Buster would spend the mornings there.  He fought it at first and then gave in.  After a few days, John went out after supper and took Buster for a walk down the road.  When they came back John took the dog to his room and closed the door.  In the morning he took him for another walk and then brought him in the house where John gave him a bowl of water, a strip of bacon, and a pat on the head before the dog laid down on the floor next to the old man’s chair.  The next time they went to town, Buster rode in the back seat with Mack.
      Buster began doing the same yardwork as the rest of the puppies and derbies.  He mastered each task John asked of him but it was obvious from his body language that he understood this was not what a real bird dog was designed for.  When up on the whoa barrel, Buster would stare off to the distant hill dotted with small bluffs, with a look in his eye that would lead you to believe he knew where he should be and was only doing this to humor the old man.  When they checkcorded Buster into carded pigeons he would slam into a majestic point and then all the style would drain out of him as he realized it was just another dumb pigeon.
      When the 15th arrived the program changed.  Dogs were turned loose on the prairies and birds were found.  Some were pointed. Some were busted and chased.  When that happened Mack or Bobby would ride down the offender and bring him back to the spot where the birds had got up.  At first, they would just get a couple of taps with a flushing whip – as the summer progressed the price of infractions would escalate.  For the first hour each morning, Buster found himself in a roading harness attached to John’s horse.  After just a few days he was backing the pointing dogs on his own.  By the start of the second week, John wanted to turn him loose.
      He asked Bobby to put a set of heavy welding cables on him so he could not get away from him.  Bobby offered John his electric collar, but John had quit training dogs before they’d gotten good and had never used one.  He did agree to allow Bobby to put a tracking collar on Buster.  Even dragging the cables, Buster took off for the nearest bluff at a full run.  All three of them loped along behind him and saw the dog freeze into a beautiful point just on the edge of the thicket.  Mack was off his horse first and picked up the end of the cable.
      John got off, walked into the bluff, and a whole brood of sharptails blew out the other side.  Buster never moved.  He just watched them fly over the hill.  John came back to him and spoke in his soft Georgia drawl and stroked the dog. 
      “I’ll be damned.” Bobby said shaking his head, “What do you want to do now?”
      John reached down and unhitched the welding cables.  Bobby started to object but John spoke to Mack, “Just hand me that checkcord, when I get back in the saddle.  That’s enough for today.”
      Mack did as John asked.  Buster fought the rope, wanting to go find more birds, but a “Watch it, Buster!” from the old man quickly had him headed back to the truck where more dogs were set loose.  Buster finished his hour in the harness before being returned to the trailer.   John stuck with his plan, slowly allowing Buster more time loose with the cables and always ending it with a find.  The next step was to leave him down for two finds, and then to run him with another dog.  It was going well, but John was not yet ready to turn him loose without the cables.  The roading and running with cables had Buster rippling with muscles that were becoming harder as the summer progressed.  He still slept on John’s bed and rode in the truck.  He even went to church with John on a couple of Sunday mornings.  Many of the people at the small church still remembered John and asked after Etta Mae and then offered their condolences.  Buster was staked out in the shade and then many folks came over for a visit after the service as others talked in the churchyard.
      John had already decided that no matter what, Buster would not be buried on the prairie if he did not get the obligatory placement.  John knew the dog was capable of getting it done in a derby stake, but so were many others and there were always things that could go wrong.  At times, at places like Mortlach in Saskatchewan, you could see a dog a mile away while at other times they could practically disappear right in front of you.  Luck was always a factor.
      By the time of the first trial, Buster had proven to John, Bobby, and Mack that he knew where the birds were.  John still kept him under control with cables but had reduced the weight and let the dog have more independence.  Once or twice Bobby had used the tracking collar to locate the dog, but always found him on point – almost in a trance as he drank in the scent of the birds before his nose.
      When they were loading up to go to the first trial, John turned to Bobby, “I’ve done what I can with Buster, now it’s up to you.”
      Bobby’s mouth fell open as he looked at John, “What are you talking about?”
      “Well, I’m too old to be running a dog in a trial.”
      “I don’t remember ever reading that rule.”
      “Your customer isn’t paying you to have some old man run his dog.”
      “All the owner cares about is the dog getting a placement.  He wouldn’t care if the devil himself ran the dog, if he could get him around.  But you’re the only one that dog is going to listen to.  Either you run him or he stays on the chain.”
      John did not answer for a long time.  He turned and stared off across the prairie.  A tear welled up in his eye.  He wiped it with his sleeve and then turned back to look Bobby in the eye, “I guess I don’t have any choice.”
      The next day the championship began and John visited with those who knew him back in the day.  Many of the younger trainers knew his story and he soon found himself surrounded by them in the gallery as they asked him about the dogs he had run.  Some even asked his advice.  The championship lasted for three days and for an hour each day he roaded Buster at the back of the gallery.  One of Bobby’s dogs took runner-up laurels to make it a good start to the season.
      Buster drew the sixth brace out of twelve for the derby and John had butterflies in his stomach as Mack held the dog at the breakaway.  When the judges told them to, “Turn ‘em loose,” Buster broke away with a breathtaking burst of speed.  Everyone watching assumed he’d let up in a moment or two.  But he didn’t.  At the 15 minute mark he was just a dot on the distant horizon going to the right side of the course.  Then he went over the hill.  As the course turned away from where they had last seen the dog, Mack was already wide to the right at a full gallop looking for Buster.  When he got to the top of the hill, he reined in his horse, and raised his hat.  The two judges almost beat John to Mack.
      Buster was posed up in front of a small bluff with his head high and his tail pointing straight to the sky.  John got off his horse and handed the reins to Mack.  When he stepped in front of the dog, six sharptails came out of the thicket and sailed towards the distant horizon.  John collared the dog and handed him off to Mack.  He struggled a little getting back in the saddle but he was soon sitting tall as he experienced once again the thrill of a good dog getting the job done in the heat of competition.
      As John rode to the front past the judges, one of them leaned towards him, “Just hold on to him for 10 more minutes.”
      “All I can do is try.  It’s up to the dog to do the rest.”
      Five minutes later the dog was gone again.  Mack was off like a shot as John continued to ride to the front, singing to his dog.  When the judges called time five minutes later, Mack still had not returned.  Five minutes after time, the judges conferred and then suggested they ride off in the direction where they thought the dog had headed.  When they got to the top of a rise in the prairie they could see Mack galloping from bluff to bluff.  They waited another five minutes before they turned to John and one of them said, “That is the best looking young dog I’ve seen in a long time, but we can’t wait any longer,” and handed Bobby his tracking collar receiver.
      John knew how things were and thanked them for looking at his dog.  When Bobby turned on the receiver it gave off the steady beep of a dog on point behind where Mack was now riding.  John followed Bobby to a huge bluff where Buster was so buried in the cover that they would have ridden right past him as well, if they hadn’t had the signal from the tracking collar.  John got down off his horse and flushed the birds for Buster then just hugged the big dog.  Mack arrived and tried to apologize for missing Buster.  But John just smiled as they put the harness on the dog and said, “There’ll be other trials.”

Monday, April 11, 2011

Preacher John by Michael Alan Fowler Part 1-A

Preacher John sat in the front row of chairs next to the coffin that would soon be lowered into its vault and covered with red South Georgia dirt.  As he listened to the real preacher, Pastor Tom, extol the virtues of Etta Mae, he could smell smoke in the air.  Quail season was over for another year.  The private jets and fancy Suburbans would not be back again until next winter.  Many of the plantations were owned by rich northerners who erroneously believed they were the backbone of the region.  The first member of Preacher John’s family in Georgia had been a carpenter who came to this land with Oglethorpe in 1733.  Since that time, some had flourished, others had moved on to the West, and some, like him, had been happy to just make a living and enjoy their friends and families.  One of the most amazing thoughts he had was that Etta Mae had lived as long and happy a life as she did.
      She had a stroke 25 years ago at the age of 50 that would have killed her had they not still had a party line phone.  She had grabbed the phone when the pains hit but could not work the dial.  Old Mrs. Smith, who was cousin to Etta Mae and lived down the road, just happened to pick up the phone to make a call and instead of a dial tone heard Etta Mae crash to the floor.  She ran to the then new house next door that had a private line and called for the ambulance and then she and the neighbor lady ran to Etta Mae.  They got her to the hospital in time to save her life, but the road to recovery was long and steep.  She got better – but never well.  When Etta Mae was recovered enough to understand the story she praised God for saving her.
      It had been February and Preacher John was in west Tennessee working the two dogs he had qualified for the National Championship.  He had been to Grand Junction many times before, had even knocked on the door a couple of times, but felt these were the best two dogs he had ever brought to the line – this was going to be his year.  When he called home that night, as he always did after the dogs and horses had been fed, his eldest son, John, Jr., answered.  Preacher John was on the road home a half hour later and at Etta Mae’s bedside the next morning.  Later that day, he called the owners of the dogs that were supposed to run in the National and told them they needed to find someone to handle their dogs.  He made a couple of suggestions.  The dogs ran but without John’s guiding hand neither one made a real bid for the championship.  Later in the week he called his other owners and within two weeks his kennel was empty.
      He was 50 years old and had been training dogs and chasing field trials since he got out of high school.  He married Etta Mae the day after graduation and she traveled with him at first.  She was a good hand with a horse and everyone asked her to scout for them.  After John, Jr. was born, they hauled him along too.  In what seemed like just a blink of an eye, they had three kids and John, Jr. was starting school.  Etta Mae stayed home then, but John called her every night, even when he was at camp in North Dakota and had to drive 15 miles into town with a roll of dimes for the pay phone.  When he was home, he always went to church with Etta Mae.  When he was on the road, if he didn’t have a dog to run on Sunday morning, he found the local Baptist church and went.  He was a part of congregations from Manitoba and Saskatchewan to north Florida, from Illinois to North Carolina, and many places in between.  It wasn’t that he was all that religious; it was just that he didn’t ever want Etta Mae to think badly of him.
      It was how he got the nickname, Preacher John, from the other dog trainers who were more likely to worship at the altar of Jack Daniels or Jim Beam and were often so hung over on a Sunday morning after a Saturday night social that saddling a horse and running a dog became a much greater challenge than normal.  He loved the life – the horses, the dogs, and the open road.  But, by the time Etta Mae was out of intensive care, he was out of the field trial game.  He farmed some and worked harvesting trees for a while, then took a job managing one of the plantations.
      He liked that work – tending the land to grow as many quail as he could.  And he was good at it.  For a dozen years, he drove five miles down the road from his house to the plantation office.  He had a big crew that worked for him – a dog trainer, an assistant dog trainer, and a couple of stable and kennel hands who also drove the wagons during the quail season and their wives who cooked and cleaned for the big house as well as assorted part-timers who helped out when needed.  During the season, they took care of the owners and their guests when they flew in from Boston or their home in Palm Beach.  At the end of each season, they hosted a field trial and Preacher John got to visit with all his old friends and Etta Mae and the ladies of the church put on a supper for them.  The rest of the year they took care of the land and the quail.
      At the end of it, the family from Boston sold out to some dot-com, overnight mega-millionaire who knew everything or could look it up on the Internet.  He hired a young guy out of Auburn with a Masters’ in quail to run the place.  The new owner offered to have John stay on part time as the boy’s assistant, but John was 67 and felt it was time to retire and devote full time to taking care of Etta Mae.  And for these last years, it was a full time job.  Etta Mae’s heart had been patched up so many times, she always joked that they should have just put in a zipper.  When they weren’t going to doctor’s appointments, there was always someone visiting.  Grandchildren and now great-grandchildren were always being dropped off at the house while their parents went shopping or to supper.  Sundays after church most of them were there for dinner.  Etta Mae was pretty much relegated to a supervisory role, but it was still her kitchen.  Now, she was gone.  Preacher John hoped that Etta Mae was right and that she was now sitting at the knee of God beside his son Jesus watching over her family here on earth.
      As the graveside service ended, Preacher John was surrounded by his family and accepted the condolences of the many members of the community that had turned out.  At the end of the line was a man John knew well.  Bobby Pickett had played football with his youngest son and then gone to Tech to play for the Yellow Jackets.  He had blown out his knee his sophomore year and come home.  He had always loved dogs and horses and had asked John to take him on.  He had learned the field trial game quickly and had a great way with a dog.  John helped him get his first customers, and Bobby had gone on to win all the big trials.  He had been handler of the year a couple of times, run a few Top All Age Dog winners and even won the National.  Bobby hugged John and then held his hand and looked him in the eye, “What are you going to do now?”
      John hadn’t even thought about it.  He was 75 years old and tired, “I’m going to get some rest. Then I’m going to sit in that rocker on the porch and watch my grandchildren and great grandchildren chase each other around the yard.”
      “That’ll be fine for a while.  But I know you.  You won’t be able to sit there for very long.  Why don’t you come to North Dakota with me this summer?”
      Bobby had taken over John’s lease and still stayed in the old farmhouse that John had first rented 50 years ago.  It was a tempting offer but, “You don’t need some old man to look after.”
      “I’m pretty sure you can still look after yourself.  Just think about it.  I’ll check back with you before I head north.”
      John did think about it.  He thought about it a lot – the endless prairie with rolling hills of grass interspersed with wheat and other grain fields.  The sharptails, huns, and pheasants brooding their chicks through the summer months.  The cool mornings when you had to get up and get as much done as possible before the scorching heat of the day made it too hot for the dogs, horses, and people.  The magnificent sunsets that light up the sky in a whole palette of reds and purples.  At night, when he wasn’t dreaming of Etta Mae as she was before her first stroke, he dreamed of the prairies – of young dogs finally giving up chasing and pointing, of the proud walking horses loping to the dog, the flush of the birds, and the crack of the shotgun as he fired its blank cartridge into the air.
      But it was just a dream.  He was too old and too tired.  He never called Bobby, and Bobby never called him.  Then on the first of July he heard a diesel pick-up thumping as it pulled into the dooryard.  He stepped out into the sweltering heat of summer in Georgia to find Bobby climbing out of the driver’s seat.  John invited him in and poured him a glass of iced tea in the air conditioned kitchen.  After a few minutes of small talk, Bobby just looked at the man who had made it possible for him to live a life he loved.  Finally, he got to the reason for his visit, “I was going to call you, but I figured it would be too easy for you to say no on the phone.  I’m leaving for the prairies in the morning.  You need to come with me.”
      John didn’t say anything at first.  He thought of all the reasons why he shouldn’t go, “What about my house?”
      “Turn off the lights, have one of the girls come clean out the refrigerator, turn down the air conditioning, and close the door on the way out.”
      John thought some more, “I don’t have any gear.”
      “Neither did I the first time you took me north.  Now, I’ve got enough to outfit most of a field trial gallery.”
      “What about . . .”
      “Mr. John, we could sit here for hours and you could think of reasons not to go and I could shoot them down one by one.  Or you could just answer one question for me and then I’ll leave you alone.  Do you want to go?”
      John started with another objection and then stopped.  He thought of another and then another but didn’t say them out loud as he knew Bobby was right.  They were just excuses. “Yes.”
      Bobby smiled at the old man and reached across the table and squeezed his hand, “Alright then, let’s get to it.  Make some calls, pack a bag, and we’ll be on our way.”
      “Now?”
      “Yes, now.  I just came over to pick up a couple of dogs.  I have to go home tonight and we leave from my place in the morning.  We’ll be on the lease for the Fourth of July.”
      “I can’t leave now.”
      “Are we going to have to go through this whole deal again?”
      “No, but . . .”
      “Good. Let’s get to it.”
      John called John, Jr. and was at a loss for words.  John, Jr. helped him out, “Bobby called me a couple of days ago and told me what he was planning to do.  My only regret is that I can’t go with you.  We’ll take care of everything.  You don’t have to call me every night like you did Ma, but check in once in a while.”
      John looked at Bobby who was trying to avoid him, but John could feel the smile on his face and remembered the sheepish grin he had all those years ago when John would catch him taking a short cut with a dog or a horse.  He just shook his head and went over again all the things he wanted his son to do to make sure Etta Mae’s house was taken care of.  And then Bobby helped him pack a bag and they left.  He stayed in the spare room at Bobby’s that night.  It was the first time he hadn’t slept in his own bed since the night after Etta Mae’s stroke 25 years ago.  It took him a while to fall asleep but he finally drifted off and dreamed of the prairies.
      He woke to Bobby moving around in the kitchen before the sun was up and soon smelled the coffee brewing and heard the bacon sizzling.  John went to the bathroom first and then joined Bobby and Mack in the kitchen.  Mack was a short, wiry black man of indeterminate age.  He was Bobby’s scout and helper in all things and this would be his tenth trip to the prairies.  John had met him last night when they had pulled in and unloaded the dogs that Bobby had picked up.  They had 32 dogs and six horses to load in the trailer before they could pull out. It was 30 hours of driving time to the lease and they’d try to do it in two very long days.  Over the years, Bobby had found the perfect spots to get the dogs out, water them and the horses, load up again, then get fuel and food, and get back on the road in the shortest amount of time.