Free Competition Can Be Murder by Connie Shelton

is paying, I will too”
    “Charlie, I insist. It’s not often we have a friend over. Please stay.” I knew a further argument about payment would insult her, so I smiled acceptance and followed her in the direction Ian had led the others.
    We stood at the back of the group, who had all taken seats on the sizeable rocks that lined the driveway. Ian stood about twenty yards away, shepherd’s crook at attention, five adult dogs pacing the area with their eyes always on him.
    “Each of the dogs has his own set of commands,” Ian announced to the crowd after welcoming everyone. “I use whistles to single out the dog I want. He’ll come to attention then I’ll give him the command to go where I want him. Like this.”
    He called out a dog’s name, then whistled a short chirpy sound. One of the dogs, who’d been up in the rocks near the spectators, dashed down the short hill and came to Ian’s side. He gave another whistle, three quick chirps, and the dog raced across the open pasture to a flock of twenty or thirty sheep who were grazing about two hundred yards away. The dog circled the sheep until they gathered together in a neat little bunch.
    “With each different whistle command, I can make the dog do what I want him to,” Ian announced. “For instance, he’ll circle to the right.” Chirp-chirp.
    The dog circled the flock, going to his right around them. Ian produced a different whistle sound, a three-toned ooh-ooh-ee, and the dog changed direction and circled to the left. One quick chirp and the dog stopped in his tracks and lay down.
    “I’ll have him bring the flock to me,” Ian said. A two-toned ee-ooh and the dog was up again, maneuvering the twenty sheep across the pasture to Ian. When they reached the patch of beaten earth where he stood, the dog backed away and the sheep stopped.
    “Now we’ll have two dogs take them back.” He shouted the names of two other dogs and they came to attention. Again, a series of whistles brought them circling the sheep and the flock retreated about a hundred yards until Ian whistled the dogs to gather them into a bunch.
    I looked around at the faces of the audience. All registered amazement as Ian continued to put the dogs through several series of moves. He called up one of the pups we’d just been feeding.
    “This pup is fifteen weeks old. He’s been in training since he was four weeks,” Ian told the group. “He can’t work with full-grown sheep yet, but he’s learning his commands.”
    He whistled for the pup to run out to the flock and return, which the little guy did admirably before Ian commanded him to lie down with the other grown dogs. Then he ordered one of the two dogs who were still guarding the flock to bring a single sheep to him.
    “The Scottish Blackface is mostly raised for its wool,” he said. He grabbed the sheep unceremoniously, wrapping his arm around its chest and plopping it into a sitting position. With Ian’s strong arm under its armpits, so to speak, the sheep went nearly limp and Ian picked up a pair of shears and proceeded to shear about half its body with a few deft moves.
    “Anyone else want to give this a try?” he asked, looking out into the crowd.
    We all became suddenly shy, no one wanting to be the guinea pig for something we all knew must be much harder than it looked when Ian did it. When no one stepped forward, he quickly finished the clipping and released the sheep. He balled up the wool, which had come off the animal as one neat pelt, and tossed it onto the ground.
    “Selling wool has become a losing proposition for us here in Scotland,” Ian said. “The government dictates the price we can get. My cost to raise a sheep, feed it, shear it, and ship the wool is higher than the price I sell it for. A lot of shepherds have been in the business for generations, but are having to get out now.” Sparks flared in his eyes and I could tell he was just getting warmed up on the subject.
    I glanced toward Ramona and caught