Eventually, Sherry held one of her weekend clinics, and I signed up. Sherry’s clinic was about as far from my previous “herding seminar” as could well be. We gathered promptly at eight thirty in the morning, with our dogs, in front of a large chalkboard. There were three Border Collies, two bred for sheep work and one from a cattle ranch. The other dogs were all working-bred Aussies, most with considerably more training than Bonnie, save one lone show Aussie, who had only seen stock a couple of times, and, as it turned out, didn’t really want to see them again.

After a brief lecture about where you and your dog were supposed to be in relation to each other and the stock, and a discussion of starting to drive, which I didn’t follow very well because Bonnie and I were not ready to start driving anyway, we began our ‘works’, most-advanced to least-advanced. That meant that Bonnie and I had to wait a long time.

Finally my turn came, and I marched out with my eager dog. These were the sheep I had been working for months, in an arena Bonnie and I were completely familiar with, and I felt relaxed and confident even with all the new eyes watching me.

The first thing that happened when I unpenned the sheep was that, rather than trotting out and then turning to stop and stare at us, as usual, the sheep took off and ran halfway down the arena before stopping. That should have warned me that they were frazzled by being worked in quick succession by so many strange dogs, but I was too inexperienced to read my sheep. Then I sent Bonnie in the wrong direction and the sheep, instead of moving toward me, split up and bolted in five different directions as my panicked, pent-up, badly-handled dog raced after them madly and I stood and watched like a complete idiot, shocked and astonished. Sherry yelled at me, RUN! RUN!, so I did, at my dog, who ran faster. Much faster. And the sheep ran faster still.

It was completely humiliating. Eventually Sherry gave up on us regaining control, and put us in the round pen again, just so we could have some success. I retired to the shady grass to feel very low and mutter repeatedly, “she never did that before in her life.” Someone said consolingly, “Well, now you know how she’ll act in a trial.” This was not as soothing as was perhaps intended.

The next session of works was after lunch. This time we went in reverse order, so I was third. I gaped when I saw that Sherry had written after my name on the schedule, “cattle”. Bonnie had delightedly contemplated my neighbor’s cattle through the fence many a time. But I had not the slightest idea what she would do if confronted with a cow. Nor did I know what I would do. The only cows I’d ever spent time with were dairy cows, placid, doe-eyed animals which could be led about with a halter. These were not dairy cows. Still, I wasn’t anxious to go back to the sheep either. So, for the first time, we took a hike over to the pasture where Sherry kept her “school” cattle.

We were accompanied by one of Sherry’s ace ranch hands, Billy, a big black tri dog. Billy was going to be Bonnie’s training wheels. Sherry said, “go bye,” and Billy galloped away to fetch the cows. “Now send your dog,” she told me, and Bonnie, at the word, dashed away after Billy as hard as she could pelt. They both disappeared behind the cows and I could see nothing, except the cows began to trot gently toward us in a collected bunch. “Move,” Sherry advised me, and this was easy advice to take.

Sherry climbed a post so she could see, and kept up a running commentary, like a sports announcer, very useful as I could see nothing except cows. “She’s doing great, grouping her stock, rating just right. . . wants to come in for a grip but she’s a little nervous . . . my dog quit on you, that’s because he’s decided Bonnie’s handling it.” And indeed, I saw out of the corner of my eye that Billy had wandered idly away to lift his leg on the fence, clearly thinking his part of the job was over. All I really knew was that no matter where I went, cows followed me. I could hear a yip back there now and then. Sherry told me when Bonnie heeled a lagger and got kicked in the jaw for her poor timing. That first kick often separates the cowdogs from the other dogs. Bonnie fell back for a few seconds, shocked, and then sailed back in, undeterred but more cautious.

We walked the cows up and down the pasture for half an hour, and then Sherry had me call Bonnie off. I could see Bonnie was pleased with herself. Sherry said mildly to our audience, “This dog’s only seen cows through a fence before,” and I knew she was pleased with her too.

I was more than pleased, I was amazed.

Cows, even dog-broke cows like these, do not just automatically move for a dog, nor do they automatically bunch, nor do they automatically follow a person, the way dogbroke sheep will do. I had already watched a couple other dogs with much more training make a mess of moving these exact cows. Bonnie did it like it was, well, inborn. She was a natural.