If you use working dogs on your farm you have to realize that, at some point, the dog(s) that are working will, like all of us, slow down, break down and wear out. A lot of working-dog owners will begin looking for their next herder when the older dog is about three.
Our border collie, Sam, is now twelve and Bronte six. We are a bit behind. For several months we have been thinking about bringing a new pup onto the farm to help with our growing flock of sheep. The reason that we haven't done it yet is because both dogs, Sam especially, are so good at their job. Our dogs live to work. They have both done well in sheep dog trialing also but they love the challenges of farm work best of all. Each morning we gather the sheep in their upper paddock and take them down into the pasture for the day. Bronte is almost all black and has prick ears making her resemble a wolf. When she zips around the sheep to flank them toward the gate, they pay attention. Physically, Sam is the Border Collie on the dog food bags. He has the perfect black and white markings and his ears tip slightly which makes him appear friendly and gentle...which he is. To a point. When a ewe decides she would rather go left than right, Sam slows drops into a low crouch and simply looks at her: asking, in his Sam way, to continue after the shepherdess down the hill. If the ewe still resists, he asks bit more forcefully, adding just enough pressure to change her mind. Most of this is done simply with his eye.
They are invaluable to what we do. They take only a few minutes minutes to do an hour job. Based on this, and the fact that training a border collie to herd takes a good couple of years, we began looking around. We spoke with several people about their litters but, nothing felt quite right. So we did what we often do. We procrastinated.
About four months ago a friend told me about some people at a nearby farm who were expecting a litter of Border Collies. Both parents were on sight which was very appealing. I tentatively made another call. Gwyneth and I had several long conversations about what we were looking for, and how they were proceeding with this, their first litter. We began to get a little excited.
Come early February, as the snow blew drifts across the roads and icicles decorated our roof line, we got word that seven pups had been born. In the following weeks we made two trips to their farm. The first time the pups were crawling, army-style around the pen, eyes barely opened and squeaking more like Guinea Pigs than puppies. The second time, full on running in that pot-bellied drunken wobble of a new canine. I had first pick of the litter and now was the time. I steeled myself against all adorableness and kept my mind clear about what I was looking for. I wanted the pup to be curious, forward, bright and attentive to his siblings but to have some independence as well. I also wanted a female who had a rough coat.
Then my father’s health began to fail . He was hospitalized for three weeks during which, due to Covid restrictions, we could not visit him and I began to question the timing of our decision. Having a new puppy had seemed wonderful and exciting, but now it seemed crazy and overwhelming in the face of everything going on. Paul reminded me of the motto by which we try to live our lives, “As hard as you can, for as long as you can.” And so, even in the face of my father dying, I took that step forward into the unknown: the start of any real adventure.
I walked over to the pen in the barn: one of the pups looked right at me, trotted over to the fence, promptly sat down and wagged its tail. Very bright, clearly curious and obviously independent. Something in my stomach flipped. However, I stayed steady, chose the top three that interested me and brought them outside. Two spent much of their time using their new growling technique and wrestling with each other but the one who had come over to me at the fence looked around and promptly wandered off in search of some other happiness. Suddenly one of the chickens scooted past and everything stopped. First “my” dog began to walk slowly and deliberately toward the chicken, a bit of a crouch and clear purpose in his step: more telling was that as the chicken made note of him and began to move, he dropped to the ground and stayed perfectly still. The papers were signed.
I was going to be the new guardian of a curious, bright, independent puppy who was a male and the only smooth coat in the bunch. Go figure.
Last weekend we gathered up our Muir. All of the traits that I saw in him have remained true and obvious. Just as my older kids were when I brought home a sweet new baby that stole all the attention, Sam and Bronte are a bit rumpled by the addition. I tried having a sit-down with them, reminding them of their indelible positions on our team (Sam being flock manager). He patiently stood and let me talk with him but I was only getting one eye, and that one was full of disdain.
So here we are. Lying in bed, listening to our newly crated pup swear at us, getting up before the sun (like farmers!!) and disengaging needle-like teeth from our clothes and hair.
Spring is the time of new life on the farm. Sam remains top dog and it is time for him, and for us, to impart some of our hard-earned wisdom on a youngster.
And so it goes.
Melissa Perley
