Going rogue: The day of the dogs

Sunday, 8 June 2025

There were good dogs and bad sheep. There was Harry and Gary, Hank and Frank. And there were four people who would eventually walk away with the sport’s most coveted prize - a simple green tie. Mike White travelled to the New Zealand sheep dog trials near Hanmer.

The wait was killing Sam Shaw.

After four days of competition, she was the last competitor in the zig-zag hunt at the New Zealand sheep dog trials.

Shaw had already made the top seven from the 280 starters, but had now drawn last spot in the final run-off.

So here she was, her huntaway Rogue at her side, watching as the other six finalists attempted to manoeuvre three sheep up a brutal flank of North Canterbury high country.

First competitor Andy McNab had managed it, his dog Khan barking relentlessly behind the sheep till they reached the top of the course.

But then disaster after disaster.

Todd Rowland and Hank saw the sheep career off course through the tussock and scrub, ruining his run.

Sam Jamieson and Gary got the sheep to within metres of the finish when one broke right and the others followed.

“It is what it is,” Jamieson sighed as he walked off the course.

Ben Butterick and Gus lost the sheep to the left halfway through their run.

John Batley was so stunned he’d qualified in top position, he’d had to borrow the obligatory jacket and tie for the finalists’ photo. But his dog, Drum, couldn’t match his first-up performance, and the sheep galloped off to the right.

Each time a competitor failed to complete the course, there was a collective “Oooohhhhhhh” from the crowd behind them slugging cold beers on a cold day, then consolatory clapping.

Dan Broughton’s dog, Harry, was whimpering with excitement as he waited to be let go, but the bastard sheep turned to face him as if they wanted to go back down the hill, then skipped left, and ran away.

With five competitors failing to finish, Sam Shaw knew a clean run could win her the title.

Only one woman, Steph Tweed, had previously claimed a national championship, in over a hundred years of New Zealand sheep dog trialling.

Rogue was the daughter of Tweed’s famous huntaway, Grit, and Shaw knew from the very start she was a top dog: good head, good “noise”, a steady walk.

Shaw had been here before in run-offs for national titles, but never quite made it.

“I’m real shit. I never win,” Shaw said without a sliver of self-pity.

“I don’t win a raffle on a good day.”

But now she had a real chance to change that. All she had to do was keep it together for the five minutes it would take Rogue to bark the sheep up the hill, keeping them from balking or bolting.

Her mouth was dry and her nerves up as she waited her turn.

She wore a pink cap and brown boots.

She clutched a piece of polythene pipe.

She swivelled as she waited, trying to keep warm and limbered, as the skies sulked a shade of grey that threatened snow.

And then she marched to the mark, waited for three unpredictable Perendales to be released, and let Rogue make some noise.

It had all begun so very differently a few months before.

As Christmas passed and droughts threatened, sheep dog clubs around the country began holding their annual events.

There are always four events: two for huntaways where they bark sheep up either a zig-zag or straight course; and two for heading dogs, where they retrieve sheep from high on a hill, and bring them back to the flats, to either a wide circle, or a wooden pen.

At 157 clubs, men and women with burnt cheeks and black dogs would arrive in utes and try their luck.

Some were spectacular. Some had wasted petrol getting there.

In between, they would talk of farming and fickle rainfall.

“How’d your turnips go?”

“Yeah, the lambs go quite well on it.”

They talked of ageing and ills.

“Got it down his crotch - worst place you can get it. And he’s vaccinated for it.”

And inevitably, they would talk of dogs and trials past.

“He’s a good mate of mine, but how he got a New Zealand [title] f…ed if I know.”

“I won the double at Taumaranui, then ballsed it up.”

If they did well enough at local events, they progressed to the national championships, this year held at Lochiel Station, near Hanmer Springs.

On beautiful terraced land above the Waiau River, hundreds of hulking Hiluxes and Rangers and D-Maxes and Amaroks twisted up the gravel road to the competition grounds, dogs in the back, sniffing sheep shit and success.

By the end of the week, scarcely a tyre would remain unmarked by these talented and curious dogs.

Shouted commands echoed around the hills, along with whistles that mimicked some exotic bird in a rainforest.

But a dog trial is generally a place of understatement.

There are precious few personalised number plates, and no show ponies.

There are cartons of Speight’s Summit opened on truck bonnets. Craft beer is something from the city.

There are moments of huge energy and speed. And at other times, stealth so slow it’s as if everything is frozen, and the scene could be a pastoral painting.

There is a uniform of sorts for competitors: boots, jeans, puffer jackets or fleeces.

And the ultimate prize is a green tie.

Sure, the four winners are presented with an engraved silver tray and a trophy, but for most, the green tie, embroidered with the NZ Sheep Dog Trial Association insignia, is the greatest laurel, signifying membership of an elite group.

Few will ever get one.

Instead, most are left to lament their imperfections, replaying their faulted runs endlessly in their head.

There is always plenty to blame: crap weather; idiot judges; deaf dogs; shit sheep.

But few rely on these excuses.

They just shrug, slip a collar around their dog’s neck, stride back to their ute, flip down the tailgate, and tell the dog “Get up”.

Because, the reality is, there is little point trying to explain being outwitted by a cloven hoofed mammal with a brain a tenth the size of a human’s.

Brian Dickison reached into his pocket, pulled out his teeth, and popped them in his mouth.

“I have to take them out to whistle,” the 69-year old from Waikaia said.

Teeth had played a part in the run of Reggie, his two-year-old heading dog in the short head and yard event.

“He gave one of them a bite. You’re not supposed to do that. I’ll lose quite a few points for it - but I got them in, I got the job done.”

The short head event saw the dog bring sheep down from a hill, on to the flat, through a gate, and finally into a pen. All within 16 minutes.

Ben Millar was first up, standing on his mark, as lean as his dog, King.

What was remarkable was that one of the other seven finalists was his father, Stuart, a four-time national champion.

Ben was 23 and one of a young cohort of competitors indicating the sport was healthy and growing.

But it wasn’t always like this, he admitted.

“I actually used to hate dog trials when I was a kid, being dragged along.

“But once you get dogs, it’s a bit different.”

King was six, and a hell of a dog. He was also a reminder of the ongoing rivalry within the Millar family.

“I actually got him from my old man when he was a pup. I haven’t been given a pup since.”

If he beat his father there would be bragging rights, but also consequences on their Rakaia Gorge farm, Ben reckoned.

“I’d say I’ll have some shit jobs to do next week.”

But they were always playing for second.

Leo Jecentho from Huntly had put in two stellar runs with his dog Jake, and everyone knew he couldn’t be caught.

For Jecentho, 71 and still working as a stock manager on a Waikato farm, it was his first national title after 30 years of trying.

He’d come close several times before, but never given up hope.

“No, I walk out to my mark every time and that’s what I aim for - I want a green tie. You’ve got to have that attitude.”

Robyn Stephens had travelled down to the championships with Jecentho.

Her father was a prominent triallist, but she didn’t take it up until she was 58, three years after he died.

Now 75, Stephens revelled in the increasing number of women involved in the sport.

“There’s always that little bond of, ‘Hope you go well, do it for the girls.’”

With her greenstone whistle and red woollen hat, Stephens reckoned she had plenty of years left in the sport.

“I’ve got to learn a bit yet. And being round Leo, you realise what you don’t know.”

Her dogs had done OK, but nothing outstanding.

“They’re has-beens. All, ‘could have, should have, would have.’

“They absolutely know the commands. But if they don’t do it, then you have a big mistake, and it’s, ‘Thank you very much, see you next year.’”

The wait was still killing Sam Shaw.

Rogue had turned in a fantastic performance and got the sheep up the zig-zag course without a hint of catastrophe.

Exhausted and elated, she’d been congratulated all the way back to the bar, well-wishers telling her she had probably won.

But then, the organisers decided to delay revealing the winner until the following evening, when the other events had finished.

So Shaw had spent a day in limbo, wondering if she’d done enough to overhaul Andy McNab.

“They’ve been ratshit to me,” she laughed, a beer in hand to dull the nerves.

But when they finally announced the results, Shaw was a clear winner, writing herself into the record books as the first woman to win “the zig” and only the second woman to win a New Zealand title.

She was swallowed in a succession of hugs and handshakes.

She had no idea what to do with the precious green tie.

Somewhere out in the dark Rogue was in the back of her truck, curled up tight to keep warm, dreaming dog dreams.

Dog triallists aren’t emotional or demonstrative, to the point of being almost taciturn.

There is a blessing in this when it comes to prizegivings.

Winners decline to make speeches.

Officials pay short tribute to the organisers, the judges, the sponsors, and the quality of the sheep.

And then it’s over, bar the beers and banter.

Shaw had a ferry to catch the next day on her way back to her parents’ Poverty Bay farm where she works.

Jecentho was also heading off, up to Blenheim that night, and then a 6am ferry.

It had been a long way to come, but it was worth it.

And all the way home, he would picture where on the wall he would put his winner’s trophy, picture his small and perfect dog in the back of his truck, and smile at what they had managed to do, together.

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