In the late summer, I decided to go down south and watch the ASCA stockdog trial called the Cayucos Cup. More driving! I had begun to observe on the horizon an approaching idea that Bonnie and I would be ready to trial someday. Someday. So, I wanted to do more research. Also, I like watching dogs herd livestock, a lot.

The Cayucos Cup is held at Kathy Warren’s Villa Creek Ranch, about a hundred and fifty miles south of my house and a mere walk from the Pacific Ocean. There is no fast road to it from my house, so it took a long time. I had put in a great many miles that week going to sheep places for Bonnie, and didn’t know how tired I had become until I finally got there in late afternoon. The ranch was beautiful, with towering hills of pale, latesummer grass.

I checked out the parking lot: no minivans, just big pickups and rv’s(I had begun to evaluate trials by the parking lot method). There was an apparently permanent camp of trailers there, where I had been promised room, but the key to my trailer was missing. Luckily I had brought a tent just in case. I set up my tent with a bit of difficulty in the strong cool onshore wind, and took my dog for a walk, feeling lonely.

Dusk deepened. It would have been too warm except for the incessant salt wind. I ate some of the food I had brought, which was: grapes, fresh mozzarella, a sourdough baguette, and some fresh Black Mission figs. I remember this because I lived entirely on these items for a day and a half. Over by the trailer village, large canopies had been set up with long tables filled with food, a commercial coffee urn of margaritas, ice, everything. Crowds of people were laughing and eating together. I wandered over but the few people I was acquainted with only noticed me vaguely. I felt a long way from home.

Finally I gathered up my nerve, and approached a familiar-looking man who didn’t appear to be doing much. I had seen him at Sherry’s but never actually spoken to him, because he was a real big guy who wore a cowboy hat and chewed tobacco and drove a large pickup truck. Despite these things he turned out to be very friendly, and he and I and another guy who did not chew tobacco sat by the margarita urn yakking our heads off and tossing off weak margaritas, until everybody else went to bed and the moon rose over the hills like a giant peach, and the coyotes began hollering that weird incoherent gibberish they do. They were very close.

In the morning I asked around about where to get good coffee. Somebody offered that the gas station down the road sometimes had a couple of different kinds of coffee; I had forgotten that cowboys aren't exactly espresso connoisseurs; if I wanted upscale coffee I would have to find it myself. Luckily Cayucos is a tourist town and such things are to be had.

As in the first ASCA trial I had observed, only Aussies and Border Collies were entered, except for one stumpy-tailed mix (of Border Collie and Aussie). I had the happy idea of volunteering to be a timer for the sheep runs. This gave me a seat next to the judge and a chance to both watch the trial in a focused way and listen in on the educated commentary between the second timer and judge as each run unfolded. Here are some of the many things I took away with me from those hours I spent with my eyes glued to the arena and a stopwatch in my hand:

Be prepared. At this trial at least, virtually all the Started dogs were trained sufficiently to manage the simple beginning course. And the Advanced dogs were for the most part capable of driving light sheep through a course at an arena’s-length distance from the handler. In fact the overall level of work was impressive, and some runs were simply beautiful. But some of the Open dogs were a mystery; a surprisingly large minority of them seemed to have simply gotten their started titles and then moved on to the next level without accumulating the ability to drive. The Open sheep were weren't sticky, but they were heavy enough that they refused to drift--sans a dog who could drive confidently, they stayed right where they felt safe, with the handler at the Open Handlers line. Maybe their owners hoped that benevolent sheep fairies would step in and get their stock around the panels. But the sheep fairies weren't feeling benevolent that day.

Abandon ideas that don’t work. It was painful to watch handlers screaming commands at their dogs when the dog had long ago stopped listening. After you tell a dog to stop barking, or to lie down, five or six times without results, you may as well give up and try something else. Or thank the judge and leave.

Thank the judge. Not very many people did this, but it was certainly a nice touch when they did.

Praise your dog. Please. Even if you had a terrible run, your dog just worked his heart out for you. The professional trainers all praised their dogs after their run was over. They knew they would be back in that arena soon, and their dog would remember the last thing that happened there, as dogs always do.

My eye had sharpened over the summer. I immediately saw which dogs instinctively controlled their stock, and even could pick out when they overrode their nervous handlers’ erroneous commands (as in, “I had to assume you meant the other Go Bye”). It was easy to see when training failed at a critical juncture, as in when slicing in instead of big square flanks meant the difference between all the center pen points and none of them.

I went away tired and happy, having learnt a great deal, made some new friends, and watched some real good dogs work. Only Bonnie was unsatisfied, having spent two days sitting around doing nothing much at all. Well, her time would come.