Last Saturday, I hit the county fairgrounds for the Saline Celtic Festival. Bagpipes skirled, Irish dancers whirled, spinners spun. There were highland games, weaving and knitting demonstrations, and, incongruously, an exhibition of exotic animals such as komodo dragons, which are native to Indonesia. Because it was a largely-rainy day, I attended just two events, giving a miss to such attractions as bagpipe bands and highland games, which I’ve seen before, and the Mr. Pretty Legs competition for kilt-wearing men, which I haven’t.
My first event was a herding-dog demonstration, starring Liam, a border collie. Border collies herd by showing up and staring, an intense, head-down affair. If a border collie stared at me the way Liam stared at his sheep, I’d probably just go where the dog wanted me to go. Border collies are fast, with a top speed of some thirty miles an hour. They are relentless. And they are indefatigable. They will work until they drop, as anyone who’s ever thrown a ball or a Frisbee for one knows.
Liam’s owner, who dressed to qualify for the Mr. Pretty Legs contest despite the weather, described Liam as a yearling and explained that, because of the dog’s tender age, Liam might not yet have all the commands down pat. Neither dog nor human ever ran out of patience, though, and boy, howdy, that dog did not stop unless instructed to do so.
The sheep stopped every chance they got, and endeavored always to distance themselves from Liam. Their group opinion seemed to be split, however, on whether it was worse to be anywhere near the dog or to enter a small, temporary pen set up in the middle of the demonstration field. Liam had no doubt at all about where the sheep were going. It took him repeated tries, but each try was better than the one before. Border collies are spooky intelligent. In the end, he prevailed. Into the pen the sheep went, mopping their brows and thanking their lucky stars that they were now safe from that dog’s nerve-wracking stare.
The other event I attended was probably the big draw of the festival: the corgi races. Specifically, the Celtic Corgi 500” Speed Championships. Yes, that is correct, five-hundred-inch. Corgis are those furry, sturdy little, low-slung dogs so favored by Queen Elizabeth II. They were originally bred as herding dogs and can cover ground at great speed—in the neighborhood of twenty-five miles an hour—although not for very long at a stretch.
Corgis herd by nipping at the heels of whatever critters they’re herding, and since they’re equal-opportunity herders, that may be ducks, sheep, cattle, or children. They don’t break the skin, but they do get their point across. Their point tends to be either, move along now, or stick together. Audience response to the announcer’s “Go!” at the beginning of each ten-corgi heat of the championship races was a collective, “Awww.”
Corgis are cute. From their adorable smiles to their perfect heart-shaped rumps, corgis are cute. All of the competitors had a sense that they were supposed to run from Point A to Point B, either because they’d practiced this with their humans or because they figured it out when the time came because of one owner stationed at the starting line and the other calling (or squeaking or waving) encouragement from the finish line.
But, while the dogs were clear on the A-to-B aspect of the race, they were lot less clear on whether their humans wanted them to go from A to B directly. It was the rare racer that finished the race in the same lane in which he or she began. Racers who proceeded only toward the finish line weren’t that common, either. There was a great deal of happy backtracking, and quite a lot of slowing down or stopping altogether just before the finish line, leading to come-from-behind upsets in almost every heat.
Something that happened in every heat, however, was that as soon as the competitors started running, the corgis started herding. The sight of all those running rumps triggered in the dogs the need to nip. And, if Nibbles nipped Mr. Teriyaki Sauce (and I’m not saying that’s what happened), then Mr. T.S. had to nip Nibbles back. Sometimes, one racer attempted to round up a group of others. Only Princess Luella, Field Marshal and Supreme Commander of the Shogun Assassin Hound Force Protectors of Wales* and a precious** few like-minded individuals went from A to B as fast as possible.
In the end, Luella took it all. It was a great running of the inaugural Celtic Corgi 500” Speed Championships.
14 July 2023
*At the opposite end of the name spectrum from P.L., F.M. and S.C. of the S.A.H.P’s of Wales was Gus. When the announcer reached Gus’s name, sandwiched among the highly imaginative names of others in his heat, the announcer paused a moment before delivering that worst-of-all comments extended toward the totally hapless: “Thanks for coming, Gus.”
**So precious.