By Tony Cheshire, New Zealand
At dog shows, run in conjunction with local agricultural and pastoral associations, one is given the opportunity to mix with and listen to the comments of the general public gathered around the ringside. A very enlightening experience this can be!
The majority of dog exhibitors come from the city, but most of the spectators are farmers, or connected directly with the farming industry. These farmers know how to appraise an animal. Though they may have no knowledge of the standard of points of any particular breed, by applying the final criterion, "How does it fill the eye?" they often pick the winner of a class long before the judge makes his placings known. The side bets amongst individuals in a group sometimes causes unfair criticism of the judge, but only from the losers.
As farmers, they regard a dog as an animal who is of value if he works. The city slickers, parading their fastidiously groomed and presented exhibits, are often the subject of amusing comment. Their dogs are generally dismissed with contempt.
At one such show I attended, a member of the show committee was providing an excellent service over the loudspeaker system, by giving the spectators a brief outline of the history and purpose of each breed, as it entered the ring. When he announced the start of the sheep and cattle dog section there was a noticeable rise in the degree of interest. The Collies and German Shepherds (Alsatians) all passed muster as a breed. Then in came the inevitable large line up of Pembroke Welsh Corgis. This was my own particular fancy and my wife was on parade with our dog, Mitch.
The announcer explained that the Pembroke Corgi was primarily a cattle dog, a heeler, and was still used as such in parts of South West Wales. This brought expressions of disbelief from a group of weather-tanned individuals who stood next to me.
"Hey, Cob," said one, "how would your Herefords like one of them round their heels?"
"Get its ruddy head kicked in", was the response.
"You know what, Charlie", said a burly, red-faced character on the edge of the group, "if I sent one of them Corgis around my herd the whole flamin' lot would think I'd gone crook in the head".
And so it went on.
Mitch got a third and was lucky to be in the cards.
He showed his worst fault to perfection, which was a complete lack of interest in anything when in the ring. This, coupled with a rather plain head, offset his good movement and lovely coat and colour.
The lassitude displayed by Mitch brought forth further derisory comment from the rustics.
"That dog", grinned one of them, pointing to Mitch, "couldn't catch a three-legged ewe with footrot".
With that they all decided the licensed tent had more to offer and were gone.
To be honest with myself I had to agree with them. In the show ring Mitch gave little assistance to anyone wanting to shout about his qualities as a working animal,
This was unfortunate as Mitch was one of the most alert, energetic and consistently hard-working dogs we ever used in the sheep yards.
We first met Mitch when he was five months old. His breeder still had him in his kennels, and told us he did not think Mitch would do much winning, but he had a lot of character about him. His temperament had already won over my wife, so with the two of them pulling at my heart strings, the purse strings were soon untied.
When Mitch was nine months old we took him along to my brother-in-law's sheep farm, some five or six miles from our home. My brother-in-law, Tom, was drafting sheep in the yards and we decided to give Mitch his first lessons.
With the drafting started and two of the farm dogs, Tip and Bob, keeping them moving, Mitch wanted to join in what he obviously thought was fun. I held him back for twenty minutes, while he watched the other dogs. He could not keep his eyes off them. Ears pricked, mouth open, tongue out, and eyes ever-watching, he was all attention.
After twenty minutes Tom told me to let him go. I did. He joined Tip with a joyful yelp, which soon turned to a howl of surprise and pain. The sheep moved immediately they heard him bark. He dived in to nip their heels and was promptly rewarded with a sharp crack of the hand across the nose. An hour later, plus a further six or seven smacks on the nose, Mitch had learnt to curb his natural instinct to heel. We never had to remind him again.
Mitch learnt a few other pointers that day, mostly from Tip, who was a great teacher. Usually he followed Tip, even to running over the backs of the sheep. Sometimes he became over-excited and appeared to lose his self-control. When this happened, he took off, chasing sheep in all directions, until Tip stepped in, bowled him over on to his back, and stood astride him, growling good advice in no uncertain manner. Tip never hurt him and his pupil soon got the gist of the message.
After this outing it was decided that Mitch would make a useful member of the farm team, in time. Most week-ends, or whenever required, he would be taken to the farm. As he matured he formed a warm affection for all on the farm, human and animal, and he possessed a quality of temperament which one usually associates with people of strong character and peace of mind.
Naturally Mitch could not measure up to the sheepdogs when working in the paddocks. At the command "Wayleggo round", off he would sprint behind Tip. But his short legs, thrusting with all the strength he could muster kept him far behind his leader.
In the yards and driving the flock along the road, it was a different story. Here he was in his element, strutting up and down behind his charges, a ring of command in his bark, the sergeant-major in full control.
Corgi herding sheep
Photo: Jeff Dillon (Flickr)
The stamina of the Corgi showed to full measure at shearing time, for Mitch would work right through from 7 a.m. till 6 p.m. At the end of the day he would be covered from head to foot in the slimy filth and muck only found in drafting races, but he never stopped. Long after the other dogs had given up, Mitch's bark could be heard as, once again, he went in under a particularly stubborn bunch of wethers packed into the corner of a pen and refusing to move. He moved 'em!
It was the day prior to shearing that Mitch gave me a moment of pleasure which I will always cherish.
I had a few days holiday owing me so I took them in early December. Tom, like most farmers, was a bit short handed at shearing time and I was willing to help where I could.
One morning a telephone call from the shearing boss told us that at 7 a.m. next day was zero hour as far as Tom's flock was concerned. Tom immediately rounded up the sheep and asked me to take them to the shearing sheds after lunch. I agreed.
The sheds were nearly a mile down the road. Not a nicely tar-scaled road, but formed with loose shingle, hard stones and plenty of fine dust. There are many such roads over the Canterbury Plains.
Nor'-west arch
Weather phenomenon around Christchurch
During the morning the barometer fell sharply and a nor'-west arch formed over the Southern Alps. By lunch time the wind was blowing at gusts of 35 knots and was as hot as if straight from a coke furnace. When we started the slow journey to the sheds, the temperature was 90 F. in the shade. There was no shade along our road! The wind blew across our path from left to right, which helped keep me out of the way of the clouds of dust rising from 2,800 moving feet.
The first quarter of the drive was covered fairly easily. A water race which ran alongside the road was freely used by the sheep dogs. As we progressed they spent more time wallowing in the cool water than in urging the sheep on their way.
Before we were half way to the sheds there was not a sheep dog to be seen. They had given up and gone home. In this heat who wanted to work? Especially for a stand-in boss!!!
This left me with one corgi to drive 700 sheep the remaining half mile. I knew Tom would be at the gates to the sheds so 1 had no worries about the leaders passing the entrance. They still had to be kept moving though, and they were no more enjoying the conditions than I was.
Mitch was a hero. The water race only interested him as a thirst quencher. He seemed impervious to the heat and just kept on with his job. No need to tell him to "speak up". Backwards and forwards he went, up and down, driving and urging, never letting up.
It was during this phase I noticed a large truck approaching, loaded high with bales of hay. I cursed. I had no dog capable of moving the sheep over to let the truck through. The driver turned out to be an understanding bloke and stopped while we slowly made our way past him.
When we were level with the cab I looked up to thank the driver. He had a mate with him and both were keenly watching Mitch. It was then that I recognised the driver's mate as the gentleman who had, but a few weeks earlier, given his opinion as to Mitch's ability to catch a three-legged ewe with footrot.
"Thanks", I said to the driver.
"She'll be right" he replied, "Good little dog you've got there".
He seemed to have time for a little chat.
"You should tell your mate that", I said, grinning. "He reckons my dog would be no match for a lame ewe".
The driver's mate looked indignant. "Never laid eyes on him before", he claimed.
I reminded him of the recent show. "Now I remember," he said, and paused. "Tell you what. Next time you show him let me know. I'll come by with a dozen frisky lambs and he'll put the rest to shame".
"No distraction allowed from outside the ring", I informed him.
He was silent for a moment and watched Mitch hurry along a few laggards. He shook his head almost in disbelief. "Best damn Corgi I've ever seen," he said. "And that's a fact." He meant it.
With that they were on their way.
Somehow, the stamp of approval placed on Mitch by those men of the country-side gave me a greater sense of achievement than any win in the show ring, before or since.
From The Welsh Corgi League Handbook 1969
30.10.2013
