Last week, I went up to Gwen's, after a fairly long break. She had Bonnie and I sort her ewes from the weaned lambs, letting the ewes out into the 150 acre field, since all the enclosures were filled with something. Bonnie shines at sorting and pen work, which is partly the result of much practice and partly just her personality. I was impressed at how she could gently winkle a group of lambs out of the end of a dead-end alley. My idea would have sent her all the way to the back, and the lambs would have squished farther and farther into the corner until finally they burst out in the panicked run for freedom. But I'm getting to trust my dog more. I just said, "bring 'em out, girl" and let her do her job. She didn't go to the back. She went about half way, saw the lambs begin to panic, and just stopped. The lambs filed past her at an easy trot.

Then we had to go gather the ewes, who had meanwhile drifted fairly far away, under 'Heart Attack Hill'. When they saw Bonnie and I walking toward them, maybe a hundred yards away, they turned and ran straight up and over the hill.

Well, damn. I didn't feel like chasing sheep. Isn't that what my dog is for? "Bring 'em Bonnie," I said (noticing my repertoire of commands is getting smaller all the time), and off she flew, disappearing over the brow of the small mountain while I stood there wondering what would happen next. What happened next: nothing. Well, damn again, I guess I'm going to climb that stupid hill anyway. So I labored up, and by the time I got to the top I saw my dog galloping toward me, without the sheep. No sheep in sight at all.

I said, "You lost 'em, girl, you go find 'em. Find 'em!"

Okay, Boss, Bonnie said gladly, spun around, and dashed off in a new direction with complete conviction. In about half a minute she reappeared with all the sheep.

I thought about how far we had come since our first visit to Gwen's. I was a little worried when Bonnie came back the first time without the sheep, but not very. It was too much to ask of her to bring sheep from out of sight — and I wasn't even in the same place she left me! She had done the reasonable thing — relocate me, and then go back and get the sheep. We had both gained a lot of confidence in each other and in ourselves in eighteen months.

It made me reflect upon the "building an outrun" concept. If I had indeed built one, such that I could signal my dog to go wider as she ran away from me, how much good would it have done me in that situation, where I had no idea where my dog was in relation to the sheep? Even if she could have heard my whistle (if I had a whistle, knew how to use it, and she knew what it meant), it would have been useless. I had to simply trust that my dog would do, not what she was trained to do, but what she was bred to do: bring the sheep.

A couple days later, I had a lesson with George. By now, we were beginning to see some progress on the pressure thing. When I pushed, she gave. She could walk the sheep around easily in a small area, and pick them up in a relaxed way. George told me that there were three stages to training. First, the handler learns to be consistent and clear. This causes the dog to react correctly. This stage is where most people believe it's time to move ahead to the next lesson, but that's a mistake, because the dog has not yet understood, she is only reacting to your consistency. The third stage is when the dog truly understands what the concept is, what you are asking for. That is when you truly begin to work as a team. "It's like dancing with a partner."

Bonnie was at the beginning of the second stage. I was getting more consistent, and she was reacting to my increased clarity by giving me the behavior I wanted--she was flanking wider, rating more carefully. But we were still a ways away from stage three, I felt.

George had me work three of his own dogs, a very strong-eyed Kelpie, a young started Border Collie, and a just-barely-started Kelpie. Both of the latter two were more upright workers. I had a hard time understanding his strong-eyed dog. I have to be honest: though I admire how well those creeping slinking dogs control stock, they make me uncomfortable. I don't seem to exist in their world. In a way they are as extreme as a greyhound or a bulldog — so exaggerated they feel abnormal. When you say "that'll do," it is as though they wake up from a trance. Suddenly they become a dog again (usually a rather hyperactive dog).

As with the only other very strong-eyed dog I had worked, this dog froze the sheep on the fence and was difficult to peel away from that position. When I backed away to give him and the sheep room to get off the fence, I expected him to do what my loose-eyed dog would have done — immediately change position to let the sheep off the fence and move them toward me. But nothing happened — I had simply moved out of his frame of reference. He and the sheep were both mesmerized. George had me call him off for a second to break his concentration and let the sheep go.

George's looser-eyed dogs were much easier for me to learn things from. His pushy little BC reminded me a lot of Bonnie—very free-moving, she was beautifully pliable to pressure from me, and I could actually place her exactly where I wanted with mere shoulder movements and tiny gestures, but if I didn't watch her she would have her nose in the sheeps' butts just like my dog would. I think I obtained what George wanted me to, from experiencing her: this is the kind of flexibility I want to get from Bonnie. In contrast to this dog, Bonnie felt resistant and stiff, a willing but awkward dancer, not quite knowing what I wanted.

George said, once your dog understands how to move away from your pressure, if you have an instinctive dog who wants to work with you, you have everything you need. I am beinning to see how this is true. "It's simple!" he said, but of course simple and easy are two completely different things.