This information surfaced at Barbara Armata's herders' clinic. In light of it, Barbara set Blue aside from dogs that were on hand to improve basic herding skills. In Blue's three workouts with Barbara or her staff, he shared a sixty-foot ring with just a couple of sheep, and he started out on a long rope lead.

These sessions were the high point of the weekend for me - though the best moment (the peak of the high point?) was Blue being taught to wrangle by Alpha Anne, my own true love.

Barbara first set the pattern for Blue's four exercises. As most people are, she had been conned by Blue's charm. When they met, he had wagged his tail, tipped his face up disarmingly, and shivered with pleasure at making a new friend who now held his leash.

"No trouble here," Barbara had said to Anne. "This is a soft dog." As she spoke, Blue stepped ahead of her into the small paddock and spotted the two sheep. His explosive lunge didn't quite dislocate Barbara's shoulder, but it did nearly yank her off her feet. Coming back to the fence, she said evenly, "I think we're going to need this." And she picked up an item I'd never seen.

It's called a sorting paddle, and it wins immediate attention from errant animals. About the length of a canoe paddle, the sorting paddle has a hollow plastic head. Inside the head are marbles. Shaken, the thing makes a staccato rattle that can't be ignored.

Blue's need for the sorter followed on his three distinct states of consciousness (contrasted with several states of sleep, including near-coma under the kitchen table.) The Usual Blue is affable, ingratiating, eager to please. But there's also Blue on Alert, attention riveted in one direction, ears erect, nostrils sniffing. And beyond that - way beyond - is Blue Possessed, a dog overcome by compulsive response.

I think that all working dogs get galvanized into intense, single-minded states. Think, for instance, of a bloodhound that has picked up the scent; or a bird dog on point, still as a statue, aiming its nose at hidden quarry.

Usual Blue, we now understand, becomes Blue Possessed when he's sandbagged by a heritage of hunting down big, dangerous beasts. He then answers to nothing but instinct. Hence Barbara's use of the sorting paddle. A rattling whack with it against his chest is the mildest of shock treatments, but it snaps him back from search-and-destroy to being Alert Blue again, minding his master. In fact, after a few loud whacks, Blue got the idea; just shaking the rattle in the air was then enough to snap him out of frenzy.

But the paddle work all came after Blue almost separated Barbara's arm from her torso. A few minutes later, she said to us, "Well, I was wrong. This is no soft dog." But before addressing us, she had had words to say to Blue. This was just after she'd used the rope to haul him back from the sheep with a souvenir tuft of wool in his mouth.

Barbara, a natural actress, slipped into her own Alpha mode. Squatting, she grabbed Blue by the shoulders and sat him on his butt. Then she took him by the jowls and pressed her face right into his. Her voice was a guttural growl, not of rage but indignation.

"WHAT do you think you're doing? What do you think you're DOING? Those are MY sheep! You're NOT going to floss your teeth on MY SHEEP!" Well, I was just a listener outside the fence; but if I'd had a tail, it would have been between my legs.

Blue got the message, too. Though there were a few more lapses during the three sessions, he really caught on to what was wanted: a docile dog, doing his job of trotting behind and outside the circling sheep, ready to urge back any one that left the flock. But not by biting it.

Then came real excitement: my Anne going into the ring with Blue, two sheep, and Barbara. But Anne was to take on Barbara's role, leading Blue around the ring's perimeter, then bringing him to center to trot behind the two sheep as she moved them in a circle. My role was to stand outside the fence and try not to cheer or yell, "Look out!"

Things started well. Anne circled the ring, Blue on the long rope. As Barbara had, she then dropped the rope. Blue stayed right on track. Then Anne swung the dog toward the two sheep in the center. They immediately moved toward her for security, and Anne began backing away, creating a small circle with them following her and Blue just behind the sheep, the rope now trailing behind him. She urged Blue into a broader orbit, behind but outside the sheep.

A game lady, my Anne, and really good! She had stepped right into Barbara's role, backing in a circle, leading the sheep, controlling Blue. But then the younger sheep blew the whole thing.

This sheep was a big teen-ager, about seventy pounds, with much more willful energy than common sense. Suddenly he broke out of orbit like an erratic satellite and rocketed toward the fence. To Blue, that was the call of the wild. He streaked after the sheep, which bounced off the fence and into a new direction. Possessed Blue was right behind him. His mind wasn't on herding, but on chomping that bozo's back leg.

A panicked Anne yelled "NO!" and Barbara yelled "NO!" and I guess I did, too. Anne, bless her, somehow managed to stamp on the trailing rope's end. She then closed in on Blue and outperformed Barbara as an outraged alpha. Blue wilted and was himself again. Whew!

More training lies ahead with Barbara; and, to practice with Blue at home, we're buying one of those paddles. I just hope Anne doesn't go for it when my own mind wanders.

Jim Atwell lives in and views life from Fly Creek. Learn about his book at JimAtwell.com.