Magnificent, Mischievous, Magical, Maniacal Muir

I headed down to the garden this afternoon, vegetable basket in hand. It has been a month since the
garlic scapes were cut and the leaves are now beginning to brown. Time to harvest. I stuff my feet into
my brilliant yellow Crocs and begin walking down Magic Road. Following close behind are all three
Border Collies; Sam, the oldest, ponders the situation: he knows that going down hill means coming up
and, at thirteen, going up isn’t as much fun anymore: so mid-hill, he decides to turn back. Bronte lopes
along happily and Muir the pup tears down the hill as fast as his legs will carry him. He’s learned the
importance of being first. The sheep, in their barnyard due to the heat, press against the fence and
watch the parade from on high. A few call out after us but it is half-hearted: they don’t want to be out in
the field wearing wool in this heat. The chickens look up with one eye at us, pausing their dirt baths
just long enough to be sure those dogs are on the right side of the fence. Once passed they get back to
basting in the rich soil, their dinosaur claws frantically tossing dirt, wings lifting up and down as if
flying on the ground.

In the garage is our make-shift nursery. This afternoon Paul and I have to move them into a larger cello
box because they are growing so quickly: their downy fluff being replaced by more feathers each time I
peek in. Rhode Island Reds, so we were told at the farm store, at the moment are still yellow but with
what looks like streaks of spilled red paint on them.

I spend an hour tugging garlic from the manured earth. Like potatoes, each time I pull I am surprised
and rewarded. Large white bulbs with dirty rooted beards get tossed into my vegetable basket. Later I
will sit outside at the picnic table and get them ready to hang for drying. They will swing in the wind
and decorate the outdoor stairwell down to the basement until hardened. I check the french green bean
patch and tenaciously lift leaves, searching for the camouflaged strings of green. They are so
delightfully thin that they are almost impossible to discern from the stems. I pull a few purple stalks of
rhubarb for a friend to make a pie. I make note of the broccoli heads, still miniature since their last
cutting, but not for long. I want to beat the green worms to them. Lastly, I push ruffled leaves of kale
around the garlic and pause to admire the beautiful basket that I have filled. I look around before
closing the gate to the garden to see if I have left a Border collie eating raspberries or happily digging
potatoes. I don’t see them and feel a moment of sadness. For so many years Sam would wait for me.
Anywhere, everywhere. I would be mowing the field and would look over to see Sam lying in the
shade watching me zig-zag back and forth. I heft my overflowing basket onto one elbow and open the
garden gate and there is Muir, lying under a big maple to avoid the sun. When he sees me, his tail gives
a few wags of acknowledgment and I feel relieved to still have a companion to walk back up Magic
Road with me.

Muir is over a year now and well into learning to work with sheep. There are many slow steps in this
process but we are beginning to trust one another. I trust him not to eat my sheep and he trusts me not
to send him on a fool’s errand. We stand quietly at the gate together before entering each morning. I
watch him eye the ewes and wait for him to look up at me asking what is next?. This relationship is
dependent on the idea that we need each other. A young dog will often begin by thinking he doesn’t
need any guidance- at all. This leads to something not unlike having a teenager with selective hearing.
Muir walks up on the flock quietly and lies down. The sheep eye him because he isn’t fooling anybody.
If one of them challenges him, he immediately challenges back but still gives away the enjoyment of
what he is considering a game by wagging his tail.

He doesn’t quite know yet that his power lies in his demeanor. This immaturity, lack of finesse, if you

will, sometimes leads to him exploding into the center of the herd scattering sheep to the four corners
of the pen or field. He looks over at me, knowing my reaction, but being unable to help himself.
Muir watches chickens with a religious intensity. He has a path worn along the back fence of the hen
yard and sometimes, for effect, he’ll race right up to the fence and buzz the ladies. They squawk
indignantly as he struts proudly away.

I try to take him with me to as many places as possible away from the farm. This helps him to learn
about children, people and other dogs. He recently accompanied me into a clothing store and spent the
time I shopped napping beneath the rack of clothing The women at the register fawned over him: it
doesn’t hurt that he always looks a bit like he is wearing a tuxedo. He sat quietly, making himself even
more appealing and accepted their pats with a dignified, handsome nod.

The ATV is God to Muir. If I happen to start it, at any time, he becomes so excited that he immediately
picks up a stick and stuffs it in his mouth as if to try to contain his enthusiasm. Each morning he lies
down next to it and watches me do barn chores, knowing that when I am finished I will drive down our
road as he races ahead of me. This happens with the absolute regularity of the old post office: rain,
sleet, snow. etc.. When we return to the front of the house routine dictates that I slow down enough for
him to levitate up to the back of the ATV onto a shelf that Paul added just for him, and he rides,
panting, pushed against my back as we cruise into the lower barn.

On one ATV ride this week as I was trying to keep up with him racing down our road, I looked around
at the lushness of the trees lining the road. The wind was blowing all the earthy smells to me and the
early morning sunshine warmed my face as I turned to look at the dark pines rise against the green of
the mountains. The sky was a brilliant blue with only one white cloud that looked as if it were placed
there as carefully as a dollop of clotted cream. I watched my little black dog streak through the grass
alongside me, stick still stuffed in his mouth and I felt free. I had a thought that if there comes a time in
my life when I live inside of my memories, this is the place I want to be.