Flash the Sheep Dog Read online

  Just ahead a small flock of sheep was huddled into a grassy lay-by off the road. Between them and the road, lying on the edge of the macadam, panting and squirming, was a small sheep dog. Something peculiar about the dog’s attitude attracted Tom’s attention.

  “Stop, Uncle John!” he cried. “Please stop! I think there’s something wrong with that dog minding those sheep!”

  John Meggetson leaned forward to look, then he drew up the truck with a screech of brakes. He leaped down and ran to the dog. Tom jumped down after him. The dog gave a pitiful yelp. She struggled to rise, then flopped back on the road again.

  “She’s Bess! Matt Broughton’s little bitch! What’s up with her?”

  John Meggetson examined her with gentle, experienced hands. Her hind leg stuck out at an unusual angle.

  “The wee animal’s leg is broken!” Meggetson cried angrily. “She’ll have been struck by a passing car as she herded the sheep out of the way of the traffic.”

  “Was she taking the flock along the road by herself?” Tom asked in surprise.

  “That fool, Matt Broughton, will have stopped for a drink in the last pub we passed. He’ll have left Bess to look after the flock. He’s done it many a time, and I’ve warned him he’d do it once too often. He just laughs and says Bess can manage the flock as weel as he can. Now what’s to be done? I’ll have to get the poor wee animal to the vet in Peebles as soon as may be. I’ll go rouse Matt Broughton out of the pub!”

  He lifted the little collie with extreme tenderness and cradled her in his arms. She gave a little bark and looked towards the sheep still huddled in the lay-by.

  “A clever wee lass she is! She’s trying to tell me to look after her sheep. There was never a sheep dog with a greater sense of duty than Bess. A pity Broughton has no’ the wits to look after her better!” John Meggetson considered for a moment, looking hard at Tom.

  “Look, lad, if I leave you here with Jeff, d’you think you can look after these sheep till I get back?”

  “I’ll try,” Tom said.

  “Right! I’m trusting you, Tom.”

  He did not see the sudden grateful look that Tom threw at him, for he was busy releasing Jeff from the driving cab. The old sheep dog looked from his master to the sheep and back again.

  “Aye, Jeff! You’re to watch the sheep. Do as Tom bids you.” He clapped Tom on the shoulder to indicate that he was master.

  A couple of cars whizzed by at high speed. “You’d be better off this main road,” Meggetson said. “See, Tom, where the road forks?” He pointed in the direction. “The left fork leads to a side-road that goes to Broughton’s farm. Could you drive the sheep along there? Jeff’ll nearly do it for you.”

  “What would I have to do?” Tom asked doubtfully.

  “Get my stick out of the truck and watch for the sheep straggling on either side. Just point with the stick and say ‘Up Jeff!’ and he’ll pull in the stragglers. He’ll maybe not even need a word. Leave Jeff to it.”

  “All right! I’ll do my best,” Tom said.

  “Take your time and don’t hurry the sheep.”

  John Meggetson swung himself into the cab of his truck and set Bess tenderly on the seat beside him. He watched Tom start out to drive the flock with Jeff weaving back and forth behind them. As soon as they were fifty yards on their way he started up the engine and reversed and turned back on the road to Peebles. He drew up at the inn he knew Matt Broughton frequented. He found him at the bar, glass in hand.

  “A word wi’ ye, Broughton!” John said abruptly. “Did ye leave some sheep by the roadside?”

  “Aye, Meggetson, I did. What of it?” Broughton sounded aggressive.

  “I’ve got your collie bitch in the cab of my truck. She’s been injured.”

  “What’s wrong?” Broughton asked sharply.

  “We found her lying with her leg broken. She’d been hit by a passing car, no doubt. If I hadn’t found you at the first cast I was on my way with her to the vet.”

  This was sobering news for Matt Broughton. Careless though he might be, he thought a lot of the little collie.

  “Will you run us both in your truck to the vet, Birkhope?”

  It was often the custom among farmers to call each other by the names of their farms.

  “Aye,” Meggetson said briefly and led the way.

  Matt Broughton lifted the little animal from the seat with infinite tenderness. She gave a quick yelp of pain in spite of his care but she licked his hand.

  “Bess! Bess! I shouldna’ have left you by yourself on the road,” Broughton said contritely.

  “You’re right there, man!” Meggetson rebuked him. “Whiles I think you don’t deserve a good wee bitch like she is. She was still struggling to herd your sheep when we found her, squirming along on her stomach.”

  “D’you think the vet will be able to save her leg? He’ll not have to destroy her, will he?” Matt asked anxiously.

  “We’ll soon see!” Meggetson replied grimly.

  “I’ve been a fool!” Broughton blamed himself.

  After an examination the veterinary surgeon stated that Bess’s leg was broken in two places, but he could set the bone.

  “She’ll never run as she used to do at the sheep dog trials, though,” he added.

  “So long as she doesn’t suffer and she’s not lame! That’s all I care about,” Matt said contritely.

  “You’d better leave her with me for a few days,” the vet decided. “She’ll rest better here than she would round the farm.”

  The two men left the surgery. “I’ll run you along to your sheep, Broughton,” John Meggetson offered.

  “Thank ye, Birkhope.”

  Neither man spoke till they reached the road leading to Broughton’s farm and sighted Tom plodding along behind the flock with Jeff.

  “Who’s the laddie, Birkhope?” Matt asked.

  “My nephew. He spotted Bess lying injured by the roadside.”

  “A good thing he did! He’s managing the sheep pretty weel.”

  “He’s got sense enough to leave it to Jeff. He’s got a liking for the dog.”

  “Weel, I’m grateful to the lad,” Broughton commented.

  With Jeff’s help Tom had drawn the flock on to the grassy verge at the side of the road and stood waiting for them.

  “Right, Tom!” his uncle said. “Mr Broughton will take over now.”

  “Was Bess badly hurt?” Tom asked.

  “A badly broken leg, but the vet says she’ll recover,” Broughton answered. “Thank ye for what ye did, lad.”

  “We’ll be on our way now,” Meggetson said. He whistled for Jeff. “I’ll turn the wagon here.”

  “Thanks, Birkhope! I’ll not forget what you’ve done for me this day,” the rough farmer said, raising his hand in farewell.

  When they reached the main road John Meggetson gave a quick look at Tom. “You did no’ badly with Broughton’s sheep, lad.”

  Tom made no reply but his eyes brightened. His uncle went on, “We’ll say no more about this afternoon’s trip, if you’ll not do it again, Tom.”

  “I’ll do my best, Uncle John,” Tom promised. His heart felt lighter than it had done since he came to Scotland.

  When they reached Birkhope Aunt Jane came out to open the farmyard gate. “A long time you’ve been gone!” she remarked.

  “Aye, we met with a bit of trouble.” John told her about the injury to Broughton’s collie.

  “That Matt Broughton’s a fool for the drink!” she exclaimed.

  “I reckoned he’ll stay sober next market day for he’ll have no Bess to look after the flock for him. Give him his due, he’s fond of her and he was right shaken to find what had happened. He’s not a bad chap at heart.”

  “Och, you! You’d make excuses for your grandmother’s murderer!” Jane teased him, but she looked at her husband with warm affection. “Your tea’s ready, but I’ve no doubt you got a good dinner in Peebles,” she remarked.

  “Jings! We clean f
orgot our dinner!” Meggetson exclaimed.

  Jane stared at him. “Guid sakes! What made you forget your dinner?”

  Tom blushed guiltily as he thought of his bus ride, but Uncle John never turned a hair. “Och! It was just a matter of a young sheep that went astray,” he said.

  Aunt Jane was busy pouring out the tea and Uncle John caught Tom’s eye. Slowly Uncle John closed one of his own eyes. Tom blinked in surprise. Surely Uncle John, quiet staid Uncle John, had never winked at him?

  When Uncle John had smoked his pipe after the meal, he got up and said as usual, “I’ll away up the hill to take a look at the sheep.” Then, to Tom’s surprise, he added, “Like to go up with me, Tom?”

  Even more to his own surprise Tom answered, “Yes, Uncle John.”

  From the window Jane watched them go up the hill. “I wouldna’ have believed it!” she said to herself. “That trip to Peebles must have done them both good.”

  A few days later a battered-looking car arrived at the farm gate. Aunt Jane looked out of the window. “Mercy me! If it isna’ Matt Broughton!” she exclaimed.

  Matt brought a puppy on a lead behind him to the door. “Good day to you all,” he said. “Birkhope, I’ve come to thank you for what you did for Bess.”

  “Jings, man! There was no need to make a special journey, though you’re welcome here,” Meggetson told him. “How’s Bess doing?”

  “Fine! Just fine! She’ll be able to follow the sheep again. You saved a valuable animal for me, Meggetson, and to show you I’m grateful I’ve brought you one of Bess’s last litter. He’s a good dog.”

  John Meggetson eyed the puppy as an expert in sheep dogs. “Aye, that’s a good wee dog right enough. How old is he?”

  “Coming on for six months. He comes of the best strain of Border Collies,” Broughton said, not without pride. “If he’s like Bess he’ll not shame you when he comes to drive sheep. I’d like you to have him, Meggetson.” He held out his hand and John shook it in friendly fashion.

  “Thank you, Broughton. All the same, it was Tom here who saw the state Bess was in. I was driving the truck and might never have seen her. It was Tom who took along your sheep for you too. I think you should give the dog to him.”

  Tom gave a deep indrawn breath. Broughton turned to him. “Would you like to have the dog, lad?”

  Tom could hardly trust his voice. “Oh, I would! I would!” he cried.

  “Here, then, take him, he’s yours!” Broughton put the lead into Tom’s hand.

  Tom knelt beside the silky-haired black and white puppy and put his arms round him. “Oh, thank you, Mr Broughton!” He almost choked with gratitude. “What’s his name?”

  “I never gave him one. You can name him for yourself.”

  The little dog shot out a red tongue and licked Tom’s cheek.

  “See that! Out with his tongue like a flash!” Aunt Jane remarked.

  “That’s what I’m going to call him! Flash!” Tom exclaimed. “That shall be his name, Flash!”

  “A good name for a sheep dog!” Uncle John nodded his approval. “A short name like that is best when you call after him on the hills. There’s no sense in some of these fancy names that people give their show dogs. Imagine calling ‘Come awa’ to me, Wentworth of Montmorency!’ The sheep would be over the next hill by the time you got it out.”

  For the first time since he came to Birkhope Tom found himself joining in a hearty laugh with his uncle.

  That night, after supper, as Tom knelt on the hearthrug playing with Flash, John Meggetson asked, “What kind of a dog do you want Flash to be, Tom?”

  “What do you mean, Uncle John? He’s a sheep dog, isn’t he?”

  “Not a proper sheep dog till he’s been trained for it. I mean, do you want him to be like Jeff, a working dog, or just a plaything for yourself.”

  Tom turned the matter over in his mind, then he asked his uncle plainly, “But he’d be more your dog than mine, wouldn’t he, if you trained him to look after the sheep?”

  John Meggetson appreciated the honesty of this reply. “Aye, he would, if I trained him, but if you train him, Tom, then he’ll be yours for life. Understand, lad, I’m not wanting to take your dog from you.”

  “But I wouldn’t know how to go about training him.” Tom sounded worried.

  “If you’ll promise to abide by my instructions, then I’ll show you, but you must do the bidding and handling of the dog.”

  Tom’s face brightened. “I’ll have a bash at it, Uncle John.”

  “That’s a bargain, then. D’you know this, Tom? I wouldn’t be bothering about the dog if I didn’t know he comes of the best sheep dog strain in the Scottish Borders. His mother, Bess, has taken many a prize in the Sheep Dog Trials. There’s no reason why Flash shouldn’t become a champion.”

  “Champion of what?” Tom looked quite bewildered.

  “Do you mean to tell me you’ve never heard of Sheep Dog Trials?”

  Tom shook his head. Uncle John looked amazed.

  “Guid sakes! What do they teach you in London? Sheep Dog Trials? They’re held all over Britain wherever you get sheep farms. There’s an International Sheep Dog Society arranges these trials and folk enter their dogs to take part in a Trial Meeting.”

  Light began to dawn on Tom. “You mean the dogs enter for a competition, something like a Sports Meeting?”

  “That’s the way of it, only the Trials are concerned with the kind of thing the dogs do in their everyday work, fetching sheep in, driving them and herding them into a pen.”

  Tom looked interested. “And the dog that does the best becomes the champion?”

  “Aye, but he’s got to run in his local Trials first and win there before he can enter the big International Trials.”

  “A bit like winning a heat to get into the final race?”

  “That’s the idea. Only the dogs winning qualifying Trials can enter for the Supreme Championship. Folk who enter their dogs for the Trials have to be members of the Sheep Dog Society and have their dogs registered in the Society’s books.”

  “Does it cost much to be a member?” Tom asked.

  “A pound to join and a pound subscription each year.”

  Tom’s face fell. “Then I can’t enter Flash. I haven’t got two pounds.”

  Uncle John was silent for a minute or two. “Maybe we could find a way round that,” he said at last. “You could give your aunt a bit of help with the hens, and whiles do a bit of weeding in the kaleyard, and I’d be willing to advance the two pounds as wages.”

  Tom’s face lit up. “Why, yes, I’ll do that. Thank you very much, Uncle John.”

  “You’ll stick by your bargain?” Uncle John gave him a searching look.

  “I promise!” Tom answered firmly.

  “Right! I’ll send in your name to the Sheep Dog Society as the owner of Flash.”

  Tom’s eager freckled face beamed. “When can we start training Flash?”

  “Tomorrow! There’s one thing you’ll no’ have to do, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I saw you slipping the dog a wee bit of your aunt’s cake at teatime. Now, your aunt’s cake is too good for the dog, or else the dog’s too good for your aunt’s cake, whichever way you like. You’ll have to stop that, Tom, or you’ll spoil the dog.”

  Tom looked slightly ashamed. Nothing escaped Uncle John!

  “Flash’ll be like a man training for a race, mind! A fat dog’ll not win anything, any more than a fat man. One meal a day, only, like Jeff has. Mind, now!”

  “All right, Uncle John, I’ll mind that,” Tom promised, not realizing that for the first time he was using a Scottish turn of speech like Uncle John’s.

  3. Flash’s Training Begins

  “Maybe we could make a start on training your dog. I’ve got half an hour I can spare afore I look to the sheep,” John Meggetson said after breakfast next day. “The first thing he has to learn is to answer to his name and to walk behind ye.”

  T
om got up from the hearthrug where he had been kneeling beside the black and white puppy, rubbing him gently behind the ears. “I think he knows his name already, Uncle John. Watch this!” Tom lifted his voice a little. “Hi, Flash!”

  The dog lifted his head alertly.

  “Very good!” Uncle John nodded his approval. “He’ll be quick to learn, that one. Now he’ll have to go on his lead.” He took the lead down from a hook on the wall and snapped it on to the dog’s collar and handed the end of it to Tom. “We’ll take the dog outside to the paddock.”

  “Come on, Flash!” Tom said, giving a little jerk to the lead. Flash rose to his feet. The minute Uncle John opened the door, however, Flash made a rush for it, tugging Tom along with him.

  “No, no, Flash! That’ll not do! It’s for your master to lead you, no’ for you to lead your master.”

  Flash continued his headlong rush outside. John Meggetson followed. “Hold on to him, Tom. I’ll just get my stick.”

  Tom looked shocked. “You – you’ll not beat him, Uncle John? He’s my dog. You wouldn’t dare! I’ll–I’ll—” Tom almost choked.

  “Steady on, lad! Ye rush at a thing faster than your wee dog! Of course I shall not beat him! The stick’s to guide him, no’ to thrash him. I’ve never found cause to thrash one of my dogs yet.”

  Tom felt rather foolish. “Sorry, Uncle John!”

  “Aye, weel, I’m more pleased than vexed at your outburst, laddie.” Uncle John became serious. “But you’ve never to let me catch you thrashing your dog, either. No good sheep dog was ever made out o’ a cowed animal yet. You’ve to be firm wi’ him, but never let anger get the better of you. Now, take the stick in your hand and do as I bid ye.”

  Tom took the stick. Flash looked at it out of his eye corner but showed no fear.

  “Now pull the dog behind you on the lead and at the same time say plainly, ‘Come behind, Flash!’ Hold the lead tight.”

  Flash, however, had made up his mind that Tom meant to go for a walk and he bounded ahead.

  “Come behind, Flash!” Tom called loudly, pulling hard on the lead. Flash was brought up short but he strained at the lead, scrabbling with his feet on the gravel path. Tom tugged at the lead till the little dog, his four feet slipping on the path, was brought behind Tom, though Tom did not achieve it at the first pull. “My goodness, he’s tough!” he panted.