"It's the greatest sport in the world," says Trimble, a retired district court judge, "and I'll tell you why. It's the only sport I know of where I could be out there trying to kick your butt this morning, and this afternoon, I might be scouting for your dog, trying to help you kick mine. This competition isn't about the owners or trainers. It's all about the dogs." [pagebreak] A Burning in the Chest
An hour after his first find, Two Pete still runs with the speed and intensity you'd expect of a racehorse 5 feet out of the gate. The morning course at Ames Plantation winds through a checkerboard landscape of food plots, timbered ridges, and big fields where the tin roofs of ancient barns rattle in the wind. The gallery, strung out for half a mile, is knotted up in small groups of riders, chatting. Far ahead, scouts and handlers range back and forth. Horses break ice in puddles on the trail, their hooves flashing. Only briefly do the spectators actually get a glimpse of the dogs.