I have told this story before, so my apologies to those who have already heard it. I grew up in northern California, and attended my first FT as a spectator in the late 1970s when I was a teenager.
Collars were hot back then, and there were way too many pigs. But there was one little girl that stole my heart. She was there to work! She LOVED it! She LIVED for it! She flew like the wind on marks and blinds. For a know-nothing novice like me, how could I not fall in love with the drive and desire, when surrounded by so many that acted liked they would rather be anywhere else than there? :!:
On the land blind, it was one those days where this hard-charging ball of desire, didn't want to handle. When the owner/handler got her back to the line, he started storming back to his car. Like any teenager, I didn't know anything. I didn't know any better.
"What happened?" I said trying to keep pace.
He turned to me all red faced, with steam coming out of his ears. "WHAT HAPPENED?! What the
[email protected]#K do you think happened?!?! You have
[email protected]#King eyes, you saw what happened!!!"
I felt two inches tall. I crept back to the gallery and hung around the back away from anybody, 'less I ignorantly piss them off too. :?
A couple hours later the man saw me in the gallery and apparently felt sorry about what had transpired. He found me and apologized, and asked if I wanted to meet his dog.
We went back to his car, and he got her out of her crate. He let me pet her, and she kissed my face, but she really wanted to go back to the line (of course). He said she needed to be pottied and if I kept a tight hold on the leash I could do it for him, which I did. For the rest of the weekend I pretended she was my dog.
The man was Peter Lane. The dog was
FC-NAFC Kannonball Kate. But to novice me, I didn't know what that meant, she was just a beautiful dog.
