For The Love Of A Dog

The warmer weather means more than just ruts and mud boots; driving past the pond on some of these newly-above-freezing nights we begin to put our windows down in anticipation of the familiar sound of the peepers. For about a week or more in April we’ll pass the pond in the evening, roll down the window and say, “not yet.” Last night we heard a few isolated wood frogs, no peepers. Our road runs between the larger pond on our left and a small tributary on our right; once the chorus begins we are able to sit, engine off, and listen to it in stereo. Bach is amazing- but no peeper.

Spring is also the time for training Muir to work with sheep (and shepherdess.) Today began boot camp at a friend/trainer who has experience in starting pups. Our three Border Collies are working dogs and, smart as they are, still need to learn the ropes of herding sheep before being able to control their flock. This, his first real experience in a ring with sheep, was exhilarating and exhausting both. At one point, as he was working with the other trainer, I was standing outside of the fence and Muir looked over at me with a look not that different from ones my kids would give me in a difficult situation, “Why are you not getting me out of here?” I too felt exhilarated and exhausted and I couldn’t help thinking back on working and trialing with my older border collie, Sam.

Sam came to us at five years of age, fully trained as a trial dog. At first Paul and I just hung around the trials: herding groupies bringing our folding chairs, sun-shading baseball caps and packed lunch. Sam sat upright in the shade at my feet watching the action, a bit unsure as to why he was sidelined. After a year or so, I decided I would like to be part of the herding community and worked with several trainers. Sam, Paul and I even went to Virginia and we trained for a week with one of the top herders in the country. The cross communication between human and animal is imperative in this working relationship and it continues to fascinate me. Sam knows more than I ever will about moving sheep and I learned far more from him than he did from me. At his peak Sam was strong, capable, smart and kind to his flock. He never worried, never hurried, but always got the job done. So many times I remember him racing past me and giving me a sidelong glance of disdain at the request I had just made of him. He didn’t like it but he always did it. And if my mistake had cost us, he never smirked. Well not much anyway.

When we started our sheep farm, Sam became the flock manager: Bronte, beautiful and graceful, his trusty sidekick. But one never questioned who was the boss. Watching the sheep walk up the hill from the field each evening you would always find Sam quietly leading from behind. Confidence allowed him to take the back seat knowing he was doing the driving. All he asked for was a pat when finished. He’d come over to me, lean into my legs and wait for it. Sheep dogs work for the satisfaction of doing the work, they don’t need or want treats, they just don’t want to stop. The quick nuzzle and pat was thanks enough. I could not have started this farm without Sam.

Sam is now thirteen. His rear legs give out unexpectedly, sometimes causing his back end to collapse suddenly so that he finds himself sitting in the middle of walking. He looks to us, slightly embarrassed, before lumbering back up again. He doesn’t hear much anymore and we have to run to the front of him and use dog sign language to ask him to come to us. Funny thing about hearing difficulties though: sometimes after I carefully open the M&M jar that I keep on the shelf in the kitchen, he quietly appears from around the corner looking up at me expectantly.

He sleeps next to our bed each night and snores like a freight train. When I get up in the night and head for the bathroom I have to place my feet carefully, find out what position he is stretched out in and, quite athletically I might say, vault over him. Lucky him, he doesn’t hear me so he won’t move a muscle.

Muir is coming in from the bull pen for Sam. Because of Sam’s hearing loss, it won’t be safe for him to herd the sheep this year: they smell insecurity and would take full advantage. When we loaded herding gear into the car today for Muir’s first training session, Sam lay under our dining room table and watched us. His ears pricked up when he saw my Shepard’s crook and whistle. Like everyone eventually, Sam is now living in his post- glory days. Sleeping, his legs twitch and move and I imagine him running, without collapse, after a tennis ball or an ornery sheep. When we would sit in the bleachers at our son’s basketball games I saw this same look on my father’s face. The look that said, “I’m pretty sure I could still do this given the chance..” My heart ached as we closed the front door to leave, Sam inside the house.

Loving a dog is difficult because we know it is only for the short term. We just get one year of a puppy and they are ready for senior dog food at seven. Sometimes it isn’t just Sam who is surprised when his legs give out on a walk because when I look him in his now milky colored eyes, he is always young, always strong, always ready, always Sam.

This summer, when we walk the sheep down to the pasture in the morning, following them will be the new sheriff in town. But, if you turn around and glance back to the top of the hill, there sits the old sheriff, quietly watching, but always presiding.