The Finalist

John Pace got the word on his return home to Georgia from North Dakota where he had spent July and August training pointers. Six to nine months to live. The end would likely come quickly, until it did he would likely be able to work.

He took the news philosophically, for there was no other way to take it. He had no children, his wife had died two years ago. He would follow his routine until he could not. His horses and tack would go to the dog owners who had campaigned with him. His truck and trailer would go back to the lien holders. His home, a double-wide on ten acres, was rented. His deposit would cover the last month’s rent.

All the dogs in his kennel belonged to others except one August-whelped and thus off-age derby. He was from the final litter of his now dead blue hen brood bitch. He had named the pup Bud, registered name The Finalist, before he knew of his own fate, so the irony was not intentional. The sire had been the reigning National Champion. Bud’s fate would become the obsession of John’s final months.

There was something special about Bud, John Pace had sensed early. Precocious. A natural front runner. A good nose, a drive to find birds. John was careful not to rush breaking Bud on the prairie, for he knew the time had not yet come. But by mid-November Bud had broken himself, becoming naturally steady to wing. John delayed the final step, steady to shot. That came Christmas week.

John entered Bud in the Georgia Derby Championship. He did not place, but attracted attention. Three handlers asked if he was for sale. John said maybe, but gave no asking price. He had said “agent” on the entry blank, not wanting to reveal who owned Bud.

He entered Bud in the Continental Derby Championship. It was among his favorite stakes. It came at a good time and on good wild bird grounds. He was still not feeling the decline he knew would come soon. And Bud was maturing and getting better with each workout. He had no plan but to let fate determine Bud’s future.

Bud drew an early brace, after lunch the first day. He scored three finds and ran a good forward race, intelligent and responsive. Sixty were entered. When all had run the judges called for a runoff between Bud and a pointer bitch named Melissa, handled by Arch Fain, an Alabama pro with whom John Pace had a history. They had been banned from competition for six months three seasons before on account of a fist fight, the cause of which was disputed.

To be continued ….