Country showground, muddy grandstand, waiting for my turn,

Pat his head, encouragement, and hope to God he’s learned,

Watch the one before you, hope for some minute mistake,

Tiny things are all it needs, a faultless run to break.

Here’s the score – a ninety-nine – oh no, it cannot be!

Hundreds are impossible, the mob is only three,

Second place will be our fate – oh, you think maybe more?

Come on Sailor, silly dog, you’re talking perfect score!

Get away then, round the back, that’s it, now bring them up,

God, I’ve loved that dog since I first saw him as a pup!

Here they come, he’s doing well, now gently through the gate…

Excellent! So far, so good, yes boy, you’re doing great!

Through the crush and round the peg, one tries to break away!

Got him! Well done boy! You stopped him in his tracks, Okay!

Push them to the holding pen, the final, hardest test,

That’s the way, you don’t need me, you champ, you ARE the best!

In! I wrap the chain around, sit there, you mustn’t budge,

Wait to hear our score. look, there’s the man, the national judge;

All around the showground people cheered as P.A. thundered:

“Australian Champion Cattle Dog is Sailor – score: One Hundred!”

 More of my NATURE POEMS