With dogs, as with horses, youth will be served. By the time a horse is six, his racing days are past; and he has something like twenty years of cart or carriage mediocrity ahead of him. His glory as a track king has fled forever.
And with dogs—whose average life of activity runs little beyond ten years—ring honours usually come in youth or not at all. Yes, and they depart with youth. The dog remains handsome and useful for years thereafter. But his head has coarsened. His figure has lost its perfection. His gait stiffens. In a score of ways he drops back from the standard required of winners. Younger dogs are put above him. Which is life—whether in kennel, or in stable, or in office, or in the courts of love. Youth wins.
Yet the passing years seemed to take no perceptible toll of Bruce. His classic head lost none of its fineness. His body remained limber and graceful and shapely. His coat was mightier than ever. Even McGilead’s apprehensive and super-piercing glance could find no flaw, no sign of oncoming age.
The years had, hitherto, been well-nigh as kind to Angus, himself. Dry and wiry and small, he had neither shown nor felt the weight of advancing age. Yet, now, passing his sixtieth milestone, an attack of rheumatic fever left him oddly heavy and slothful. Instead of taking the stairs two at a time, he set a foot on every step. And at the top of any very long flight, he was annoyed to find himself breathing absurdly hard.
He found himself, for the first time in his life, sneering at youth’s gay ebullience, and snubbing the bumptiousness of his growing sons.
“Youth!” he snarled grimly once to the Master, as they met at a show. “Everything’s for youth, these days. It was a-plenty different when I was young. Just as a man begins to get seasoned and to know his way around, folks call him an oldster and fix up a place for him in the chimney corner. Youth isn’t the only thing in this world. Not by a long sight. Take Bruce, here, for instance. (Yes, I’m talking about you, you big ruffian! Give me your paw, now, and listen to me tell how good you are!) Take Bruce, here, for instance. Nearly eight years old. Eight in August, isn’t it? As old, that is, as fifty-odd for a human. And look at him! Is there one of the young bunch of dogs that can win against him—under any judge that knows his business? Not a one of ’em. He’s finer to-day than he was when he came out at his first show. Us oldsters can still hold our own, and a little more. Bring on your youngsters! Me and Brucie are ready for ’em all. (Hey, Big Boy? Gimme your other paw, like a gentleman! Not the left one.) Why, first time I set eyes on this dog I said to myself—”
"I’ve got something up at The Place that’s due to give Bruce the tussle of his life in the show ring some day," bragged the Master. “He’s Bruce’s own son, and grandson. That means he’s pretty nearly seventy-five per cent. Bruce. And he shows it. His kennel name’s ‘Jock.’ He’s only eight months now, and he’s the living image of what Bruce was at his age. Best head I ever saw. Great coat, too, and carriage. He’s the best of all Bruce’s dozens of pups, by far. I’m going to show him at the ‘Charity’ in September.”
“Are you, though?” sniffed McGilead. “It happens I’m judging at the ‘Charity.’ (Some liars can say I’m beginning to show my age. But I take note they keep on wanting me to judge, oftener’n ever.) I’m judging at the ‘Charity.’ And I’ll be on the lookout for that wonderful pup of yours. All pups are wonderful, I notice. Till they get in the ring. Being old Bruce’s son, this youngster of yours can’t be altogether bad. I grant that. But I’ll gamble he’ll never be what his Dad is.”
"You’ll have the first say-so on that," answered the Master. “I’m entering Bruce for ‘Open, Any Colour,’ at the ‘Charity.’ (By the way, it’s the old fellow’s last show. I’m going to retire him from the game while he’s still good.) Little Jock is entered for ‘Puppy and Novice.’ It’s a cinch they’ll come together before you, in ‘winners’!”
“And when they do,” scoffed McGilead, “don’t feel too bad if Bruce gets winners and the pup don’t get a look in. Jock may never see a winners’ class. Plenty of these promising world-beaters never do. You’re as daft on this ‘youth’ notion as any of ’em. Here you’ve got the grandest collie in the States. And you turn your silly back on him and go cracking your jaw about an upstart pup of his that most likely has more flaws than fleas—and a bushel basketful of both. Grrh!”