The Heart of a Dog

by Albert Payson Terhune

The Master took Bruce to his first A.K.C. show with much trepidation. He knew how perfect was this splendid young collie of his. But he also knew that the judge might turn out to be some ultra-modernist who preferred daintiness of head and smallness of bone and borzoi fore-face, to Bruce’s wealth of bone and thickness of coat and unwonted size.

Modestly, therefore, he entered his dog only in the puppy and novice classes, and strove to cure his own show-ague by ceaseless grooming and rubbing and dandy-brushing of the youngster, whose burnished coat already stood out like a Circassian beauty’s hair and who was fit in every way to make the showing of his life.

In intervals of polishing the bored puppy’s coat, the Master spent much time in studying covertly the collie judge, who was chatting with a group of friends at the ring’s edge, waiting for his breed’s classes to be called.

The Master was partly puzzled, partly reassured, by the aspect of the little judge.

Angus McGilead’s Linlithgow birth was still apparent in the very faintest burr of his speech and in the shrewd, pale eyes that peered, terrier-like, above his lean face and huge thatch of grizzling red beard. He was a man whose forebears had known collies as they knew their own children, and who rated a true collie above all mere money price.

From childhood McGilead had made a life study of this, his favourite breed. As a result, he was admittedly the chief collie authority on either side of the grey ocean. This fact, and his granite honesty, made him a judge to be looked up to with a reverent faith which had in it a tinge of fear.

Such was the man who, at this three-point show, was to pass judgment on Bruce.

After an eternity of waiting, the last airedale was led from the judging ring. The first collie class, “Puppies, male,” was chalked on the blackboard. The Master, with one final ministration of the dandy-brush, snapped a ring-leash on Bruce’s collar, and led him down the collie section into the ring.

Four other puppies were already there. McGilead, his shrewd pale eyes half shut, was lounging in one end of the enclosure, apparently listening to something the ring-steward was saying, but with his seemingly careless gaze and his keen mind wholly absorbed in watching the little procession of pups as it filed into the ring. Under the sandy lashes, his eyes caressed or censured all the entrants in turn, boring into their very souls.

Then, as the last of the five walked in and the gate was shut behind them, he came to life. Approaching the huddle of dogs and their handlers, he singled out a shivering little puppy whose baby fur had not yet been lost in the rough coat of maturity and whose body was still pudgy and formless.