Dog Dilemma; Crossbred or Purebred?

   The plan had been to get a female English Shepherd, last Spring... Y'all may remember that plan. However, that never happened. I had a deposit down on a lovely sable-colored girl, and she was supposed to be shipped to me in May. Everything seemed good to go. However, I had a continuing feeling of anxiety in the pit of my stomach about the situation. Something wasn't right... It took a few weeks, but eventually I came to the realization that I am simply not ready to have another English Shepherd. Not yet. Gyp was the best dog I have ever had, and possibly ever will have had. He was intelligent, loyal, had great instincts, and was always right where you needed him.

 And that was my problem. I didn't feel like I could have another English Shepherd now because Gyp was so darn good! I was afraid I would constantly be comparing her to Gyp, expecting her to be like him, and getting upset when she failed to meet those expectations. That's no way to treat a dog. So I cancelled the deposit, and began researching other breeds for our budding farm. 

 I have researched so many possible breeds that I could probably be an impromptu AKC/UKC dog judge. Oy vey. It's been a lot. During June and July, it looked like we might get a Border Collie from a renowned breeder here in the states. The pups were born, we picked out a male that we liked... All seemed good. Then the breeder called one afternoon and said some other big wig breeder wanted a pup from this litter and she wanted to give him/her our chosen canine. What does one say to that?? I guess I could have held my ground and kept my deposit, but I figure if something's supposed to happen then it'll happen. Maybe this was fate's way of saying "No Border Collie". 

 Back to the drawing board.

  In the end, it was probably a good thing about the collie pup. I am dying to compete in sheepdog trials, but if I'm truly honest with myself, I have to admit that I'm not in that stage of life where I can jump up and toodle off to some competition. Not with a farm, and young kids. Sigh.

  It also probably worked well since Hubby and I agree that we really need a dog that has hunting/tracking instincts too. So now we were looking for basically a variant of the English Shepherd. A herding, hunting, guarding, companion kind of dog.

  We need something that can track a wounded deer, keep a wild hog pinned in one spot (Hubby is quite smitten with hog hunting and is trying to get me into it; to which I said I would only do it with dogs!), flush rabbits and birds out of the brush, retrieve downed waterfowl and other small game, herd our growing number of calves (and soon nurse cows), help with adult hogs (if we decide to go the route of breeding), alert us of strangers on the property, and still be a dog I can trust around a toddler. 

 Yeah. Basically we need an English Shepherd on steroids. 

 I was eventually pointed in the direction of a breed that I hadn't considered before: The Catahoula Leopard Dog. Looks like a hound, but does whatever you need it to do. I've been around these dogs before, but I had only experienced poorly-bred, hyper, idiotic specimens. I got in touch with a breeder who had champions in the ring and field, and was shown that these can actually be very impressive dogs that come with an on/off switch. Bingo. The breeder is willing to put me on a wait list for next spring, but is asking $650 per pup. A price I'm willing to pay for quality, but then there's the other side of the pendulum's swing:

 A crossbred.

 My husband does not understand paying that much for a dog. Neither does any of the family that I've found myself married into. Sure, they all like dogs, but to them a crossbred works just as well as a purebred. I'm hesitant. Using crossbreds for working seems an awful lot like playing with fire, or simply getting a grab bag of instincts. But then, I'm also willing to try something new before judging it; so I'll consider a crossbred.

  There's a family an hour north of me who has a litter of pups from their working farm dogs. The sire is a Blackmouth Cur/Catahoula cross. He hunts, herds, and guards. The dam is a Blue heeler who works cattle. They've got seven pups up for sale in the next few weeks; asking price is $180, but they'll consider a swap.

 I admit, I'm tempted by these pups. But still hesitant. Purebred or crossbred? What do you think? Which option would you go for? 

A Logical Dog Lover

 The past couple of days have been a bit heavy for me as I've gotten back into the writing world and have been given the jolting reminder of what people can be like through social media. The same people who might politely hold their tongue when talking to you face to face, may be fire-and-brimstone hurlers when hiding behind a computer screen.

  Over the last month and a half, I've had an idea brewing that I wanted to try. I wanted to work with a English Shepherd breeder, and together we would raffle off a pup here on the blog. The perks to this idea were that the breeder would have a pup sold, get some free publicity, and maybe get a waiting list down for future litters. The English Shepherd breed would have gotten some much needed limelight, which was my main focus; I love this breed, and wish more people knew about them! I know of no other breed that is as intelligent, useful, or unique. The only perk I hoped for myself was maybe a few new readers. I wasn't in it for the money at all. I just wanted to make someone happy, when they found themselves the new owner of a working farm dog to help them with barn chores.

  Now, I am not stupid. I could easily see that there could be some bad outcomes of this idea. The pup might go to a bad owner, or a pet flipper, or what-have-you. But I figured with some very careful rules and guidelines, we could pretty well avoid the kind of people we didn't want.

  I got all the details written out; hours of evening work, scribbling away with pen and paper. My goal was to start the raffle at the beginning of December, and pick the raffle winner on January 1st. It took me days upon days to find the courage to put my little brainchild of an idea up on the English Shepherd Breeders Facebook page... I don't believe one knows true vulnerability until they've tried handing over their writing to the public. The public tends to have very sharp fangs. But I did it anyway. My plan was sound, the idea was fun, and someone would be blessed with a young farmhand to start their new year with.

  Three hours after posting my idea on Facebook, I deleted it. In frustrated, emotional, hurt tears, I took it down.

  The public has very sharp fangs.

  "Dog people" are an interesting breed of human. And I had forgotten just what they're like. The breeders, whom I had gotten to know over a year of being a member, were mortified and disgusted that I would even think of doing such a thing. They accused me of exploiting the breed and wanting to turn it into something as common as a Labrador. They claimed I was unfit to own an English Shepherd, if I thought we could simply give a puppy away without doing a home check first. And went on and on about how "their" breed was much too precious to share with the public. They call these dogs "the farmer's best kept secret", and couldn't understand why I would want to expose the breed to publicity.

  Trying to maintain my politeness at their harsh condemnations, I replied with an apology at bringing the idea up, and that I would wait until I had pups of my own to hold such a raffle.

 That comment only fanned the flames instead of diffusing them. Breeders who I had been working with to reserve a spring pup banned me from their wait lists. The comments became more abusive. The core message from them all was that I am not fit to own a dog because I am willing to give one away to a person who needs one.

 I love dogs. Always have, always will. All animals are special to me, but there is something that feels particularly right about having a good dog at your side. BUT, they are also "just dogs" to me. I retain a level of logic towards them. They are dogs; not furry children to have their picture taken with Santa or wear costumes. They are not creatures to be idolized above humans. They are not family members that need a cemetery stone, or an ash urn.  And they are certainly not too precious to withhold from decent homes, which is what most animal shelters believe. Shucks, I spent my entire summer trying to adopt an amazing female Akita that desperately needed a home; but the shelter wouldn't let me adopt her because she would have been in a one-income family, and they preferred a two-income family.

They would have preferred that she stayed locked up in a kennel all day, and gotten a quick 15-minute walk in the evenings, instead of being loved and exercised all day!

 America has gone to pot in a lot of aspects, but most notably where dogs are concerned. They have become our idols. Something to violently stand up and fight for on social media. I still remember all the flack I got when I rehomed Gyp. He was an amazing dog, but my life was changing and he couldn't cope with it. I was getting married, my husband was joining the military, and we were looking at living in town, where we most likely wouldn't have had a backyard. Gyp was high energy and needed to run a minimum of 5 miles a day, and be able to work livestock on a daily basis. Anything less than that made him hyper, explosive, and unpredictable. Knowing this, I did the kindest thing I could: I gave him to a gentleman who lived nearby on a farm, and wanted a running partner. It's been a year and a half since doing that, and I still get emotional when I think about him. But I don't regret putting him in a better situation. The "dog people" were horrified that I did it. To a dog person, you're supposed to keep a dog until it dies; no matter what. This sounds quite noble, really. The loyalty and perseverance of it all is not lost on me. But their passion is skewed; and so many of them own unpredictable, unhappy dogs that would be better off with a different owner who could give them what they need. Keeping a Border Collie as an apartment pet because you refuse to rehome him to a local shepherd is not kindness. America thinks it is, but the harsh, cold truth is that it's cruelty. There is nothing noble, loyal, or honorable about keeping an animal in the wrong situation. There is nothing kind and loving about forcing a Border Collie (or any other high energy, working breed) to live in an environment that turns him into a menace due to lack of exercise and mental stimulation. It's far kinder to sell the dog (and there is no shame in getting money for an animal!) to the RIGHT owner, and look for another one that better suits your needs.

  Buying a pup is often times harder than adopting a child these days. And that saddens me. Having to fill out page upon page of forms for the breeder to look over, give at least five references, get a signed paper from your vet, AND have a home inspection before you might get a "yes" from a breeder is insane. But that's what America is now.

 I am a dog lover. But a logical one. Yes, I do hope to have litters of English Shepherds and Scotch Collies in the future, but I refuse to stoop to the disgusting level of all too many breeders these days. There will be no forms for you to fill out, stating how much money you make in a year, how many kids you have, and if you smoke or not. There will be no home inspections done. And there will be no references required. Because I TRUST YOU. And it's really none of my business. If you're willing to pay $500 for a pup, and an extra $350 to ship it, then you're obviously committed to some level in caring for this creature. It's time we put dogs back in perspective of importance. A child should not be easier to adopt than a dog. We cannot expect this nation to make any progress while we sit around and dust off the pedestals that we've placed our pooches on. In fact, I really don't think there's much hope of change until we start making humans more important again, and dogs go back to what they should be: Fun pets that have a job. Nothing more, nothing less.

  And so, I deleted the Facebook post. Getting a spring pup will most likely be quite difficult now, since most of the breeders have my name. But I still think it was a great idea. The English Shepherd is too good a breed to keep a secret. And too good a dog to not share with one of you readers who would really benefit from having a working partner around your place.

 Oh, and for the record, Gyp is doing great.

Poor Girl's Mudding

"You even have mud in your hair..."

  Such was the incredulous statement by one of the family members here as she stared at me; her gaze roving from head to toe. I grinned and winked at her before walking to my bedroom to change. I was splattered with mud from top to bottom. Both front side and back side. Mud in my hair, on my face, on my hat, on my Carhartt coat, on my jeans, on my hands... And I was blissfully happy. Mud is something I love. 

  No, I wasn't out rolling in the mud. Or making mud pies. 

  Gyp and I went mudding. Well, "poor girl's mudding" anyway... True mudding is something you do in a truck, or on a ATV. Speeding your way through big mud puddles and enjoying the crazy messiness of it all. Mudding is a BLAST!! Although, I think you have to be a certain level of redneck/country to enjoy it. Or at least not mind the fact that you have mud in your teeth. To continue though! Gyp and I went and did the cheater version of mudding!!

  The temps outside were hovering around 40F, and there was nary a cloud in the sky. Gorgeous weather by anyone's standards! I wanted to be outside and glory in the sunshine, and I knew that Gyp needed to burn some serious energy; but I didn't want to run since the back roads here were muddy, slushy, wet, and not runner friendly. So I grabbed a bicycle and a dog leash. Gyp needs some ground training for this urban mushing, right? Might as well see what happens when he's got a wheeled invention behind him!

  This idea was rather foolish, and I jolly well knew it. My plan was to simply leash him up and hold the leash in my left hand, while biking along with him. Who knows what would happen! But by Jove, I was going biking! And my dog was coming! Never argue with a Caity when her mind is made up! 

  All in all it went pretty well. Gyp had never seen a bike before, but didn't really care since he was suddenly able to run full tilt down the road. We started out slowly, so I could watch his reaction to the bike; once I felt comfortable that he wasn't going to freak out, I psyched him up with a loud "Step up and HIKE!" and he took off like a rocket. I was on gear 6, going downhill, and he was still beating me. He was even pulling me ever so slightly. Together we floored it, like the crazy duo that we are. Over pitted gravel roads, going through every mud puddle there was, alternating between shouting, "Hike!" to encourage Gyp and hollering "Heck YEAH!" when we hit a particularly large mud puddle. We did still have three near mishaps though. One when Gyp stopped suddenly because he caught whiff of a critter; meanwhile I kept going on the bike. We both had a very abrupt jerk on our ends, and I almost flipped off the bike. The second was when Gyp swerved over to the right side, when he was too close to the front wheel. I just about popped a wheelie on that one and almost flipped backwards from trying too hard to swerve out of the way. The last was when he suddenly sped up and I was caught unprepared. But, I stayed on that bike nevertheless! And Gyp learned from each episode!

  I finally made Gyp stop running after almost 3/4's of a mile. He wasn't even breathing heavily, but I didn't want to over do it. We still had to run all the way back home, for goodness sake! By this time we were off the gravel back roads and onto civilized asphalt. I was ready to go back to the back roads though. The mud puddles awaited! On a whim, I've decided to train Gyp to nautical terms instead of the traditional mushing terms. So instead of hollering "haw!" to tell Gyp to turn left as we headed back for home, I shouted "Port!". Hehehe. C'mon, how could I resist? You only live once, so you might as well be amusing, right? My level of awesomeness entails riding on a dog-driven scooter down a landlocked Missouri road, shouting things like "Anchors away!" and "Hard to starboard!". The neighbor's already think I'm a nut; I'm just helping to confirm it. 

  We practically flew home; still aiming to hit every mud puddle, and still trying to go faster than the other. I had just enough time to give the one-finger wave to a neighbor as we zoomed past (his facial expression was priceless), and half wondered if I shouldn't have stopped and explained myself. Oh well. Gyp and I made it home faster than we set out, and he was STILL a hyper ball of energy when I let him off the leash and took him back to the dog pen. Meanwhile, I was plumb tuckered out, and desperately wanted water!

  At this point, I didn't really know what I looked like... I could see the mud covering my jeans and hands, but that was about all. It wasn't until I got home and was confronted by the wide-eyed stares of the others that I thought to go look in a mirror. Wow. Not too shabby for the first try! I looked like I had been in a mud fight!

  Mission accomplished. The dog was exercised, and I was deliciously dirty. 

  I think I just might do it again tomorrow. 

Workers Gotta' Work

   Last Thursday through Saturday were pretty good days, all things considered. If you looked at the entirety of each day, they were pretty darn good days. Awesome weather (sunny and hitting the 50's!), good company, full work days... You know how it goes. But there was one thing that was really throwing a monkey wrench in things and making me miserable. One thing. Want to know what it was?

   Gyp. My dog.

   We hit one of those dark points in life, and we're only juuuuuuuust starting to come out of it. It's been rough.

   To explain a bit more, I've been seeing before my very eyes what happens when you get a high-drive working dog and you deny him any work. You have a mess on your hands. An animal that is one inch away from snapping and going haywire. 

   When I bought Gyp last year, I had a very pointed reason for getting him; I needed a stock dog that was high-drive and brave enough to help me with cows and hogs. A tireless worker who could tramp about all day with me and not be afraid to be working with very large animals that weigh a minimum of 600 lbs and a maximum of 1,500 lbs. 

  Gyp was a super mellow pup... He showed an incredible amount of natural talent in herding, but gosh was he laid back! I can't even count the number of times I wondered if he would really have the steel to be the worker I needed him to be. But what can you do? Gyp and I just went along with life. And then I brought my mellow canine to Missouri. All seemed great... For the first two months. 

   Then the beast erupted. I spent three years searching for an *extremely* particular bloodline of English Shepherd before I bought Gyp. I'd done my homework and knew what bloodlines had the best herding instinct. To be dead honest, I was looking for a dog that would be as similar to a Border Collie as possible, without it actually being a Border Collie. And I found those bloodlines... I got myself a pup that I knew would one day be a dog that could work from sun-up to sun-down and still want to keep going. English Shepherds are a great breed; they really are. But you get what you pay for. Most of these dogs remain mellow and relaxed all their days, but when you specifically seek out a dog that will be a working machine... You get it. 

   I brought Gyp to Missouri, thinking that he'd get to spend his days following me around and helping out. That we'd just keep trucking along like we did in Oregon and we'd be inseparable pals. Plunk down to reality: My host family has a Boxer/Lab cross that hates him, so he stays up with the extended family's two Rough Collies. Sure, he's got a roomy place to run, and he's got two playmates to romp with; but he's denied a job. I take him up there early in the morning, before milking time, and then get him late at night when it's time for bed. I really don't see him at all during the day. But I hear him bark... And bark... And bark. He used to be a very quiet dog. Not any more though. Phooey. He goes bananas being locked up and not being able to socialize with people. So he does the most logical thing he can think of: Bark. 

   By the time I let him out at night, he's a wound-up, hyper little troll; he used to be a well behaved boy during the walks to and from the dog pen but now he ignores all but the harshest voice command as he chases after unsuspecting barn cats and guinea birds (which is a huge no-no around here). He and I eventually get down to the main house, and I used to let him run around in the dark for a few hours each night since I knew he never wandered from sight. Now? He runs off. Like, really runs off. Poof! That dog's gone. I can't blame him too horribly much since I know he's just trying to get energy out, and he's dealing with tracking instincts. But it's still not okay. Not only am I ready for bed, but who knows what trouble he'd get into. Not to mention the fact that his working drive is coming on so strong these days that all he wants to do is herd the cattle that are around here.

  So to keep him from running off, I've done the most logical thing I could think up. I denied him those 2-3 hours of running time and brought him inside immediately, where he stays in my bedroom (dogs really aren't allowed inside the house, but he's allowed in the bedroom at night). Imagine trying to sleep, but all you can hear is what sounds like a hyperventilating dog. He's breathing so hard and fast from pent-up energy that he doesn't know what else to do with himself! After grumbling at him two or three times in a half-asleep state, he finally shifts to the only other thing he knows to do. Pace. Okay, now we're not sleeping to the lullaby of an increased respiration rate of a spastic canine, but instead to clicking claws on hardwood floor. Take your pick. The clicking claws may not seem as bad, but after about four hours of it... You start thinking up really dark thoughts towards the maker of offending noises. 

  The pinnacle of all this is when you realize that your life is changing, and this could very well be your last year of farming. That energetic working dog could be facing a life in town for the next few years... And that is where I'm finding myself right now. I bought a herding dog, and now one year later I'm finding that I don't need one... My time of cows and hogs is possibly coming to an end. I'm okay with this, but my dog is not. 

 All of Saturday and half of Sunday was spent agonizing what to do about this problem. I love that dog, but this current situation isn't fair for him and he's too good of a dog to ruin. I'm only three months into this internship and he's slipping into becoming a rebellious wreck that no one wants around. I thought about it, prayed about it, sought counsel... By that point, I was okay with giving him away to a good home that would give him the work he needed. He means enough to me that I was willing to set aside my selfish wants and see to it that he had an outlet for his energy. But deep down, I still knew I'd be bawling if/when someone came and took him away. 

  Gyp needs a job. ANY job. He just needs to know he has a daily purpose, and has a way to use all that energy in a positive form. I thought about starting up running again, since spring is coming, but I can't keep up with that dog! Shucks, back when he was a pup he could go about 5 - 6 miles before he started to get tired. He can go a heck of a lot farther these days, and I'm no marathon runner.

 Sunday morning dawned and in the midst of church (I promise I really was paying attention. This idea just kinda' came out of nowhere), I had a sudden inspiration. Urban mushing. Duh. Why didn't I think of this sooner!?!? I looked into this a few months ago, but had totally forgotten about it! It was a total light bulb moment. Eureka!! 

  Not familiar with "urban mushing"? Here's what it is:

  Yeah, it's dog sledding on wheels. You use a specially designed scooter, and special racing harnesses, and once your dog is trained, then you're off and running (pun intended)! LOL. Urban mushing is pretty popular in some circles and you'll see all sorts of dogs doing this... Hounds, retrievers, pitbulls, border collies, poodles, spaniels, and of course huskies. This is an awesome sport to do if you've got a dog with too much energy, and you're not a runner. The back country roads that surround this small Missouri farm would be perfect for Gyp and I to cruise on, and hey, if we do end up in town, then we'll have all the roads we could dream of racing on. It's a win-win if you ask me. Gyp will finally have a job and an energy outlet, and I will have the coolest looking rig to ride on.

  The harness for this stuff is only $25, so hopefully that'll get ordered in the next couple of days and the two of us can start ground training and working on voice/whistle commands. It may be that in some later time in life it will become more apparent that Gyp needs a working home, and I will once again have to face the possibility of finding a new owner... But I'm not going down without a fight. I'll exhaust all other options first.

 And so... The bow-hunting, tractor-driving, truck-loving, airsoft-playing, crazy, country girl is now going to take on urban mushing.

Just when you thought I couldn't get any weirder. 

Good Boy, Gyp

  Below is a picture of Gyp that I snapped while I was in Mississippi. I love this picture because it shows just how much my pup has changed. Folks, he ain't a pup anymore! He's a grown dog! His ears are permanently in those positions too; the left ear is always cocked upright, while the right ear is folded down. It makes me smile every time I see it. He's still a little guy, weighing only 35 lbs., and he's just about done growing. I expect he'll be 45 lbs. maximum... He and I have finally settled into a good routine here, in which I put him in the dog run with the neighboring family's dogs (two collies, one mutt) before milking, and then he stays there until nightfall; then I walk up in the darkety dark and go get him. Unless it's insanely cold outside, he runs amok every which way in the dark for a few hours before I let him inside, and the spoiled boy has gotten into the habit of sleeping on top of my bed. I've decided I don't mind sharing my twin sized bed with the galoot, seeing as he's toasty warm and it's like having a heater at my back/feet with him around. Although, he has this awful habit of rolling in his sleep, and twice now he's rolled right off the bed. If I laugh when I hear the crash and yelp, I ain't saying. *cough, cough*

  We haven't done any herding work here yet, and probably won't until spring time. I don't know my way around MO enough yet to want to brave slick roads, so Gyp and I are just going to wait things out until spring arrives. There's time... There's time. We both have years ahead to get this herding thing down.

  I am so glad I was able to bring my dog with me to this internship. The people here are flat out awesome, but there's just something about having a loyal dog that makes me feel complete. That, and I sure love going to sleep listening to the heartbeat of another creature...

  If you're ever looking for a good dog, I highly recommend these English Shepherds. :) They can't be beat.

She Chose Well

 I found this old image during a web search and was thrilled to see it! You know who that is in the picture? It's Beatrix Potter. And that dog next to her? It's an English Shepherd/Scotch Collie!

  I will be the first to admit that I'm a fan of Beatrix Potter. She was an amazing woman who did way more than write children's books; she was a naturalist, botanist, and farmer who raised the rare Herdwick sheep. She was independent, resourceful, and knew how to go after what she wanted. She's one of my heroes in life. ;) And seeing a picture of her with her farm dog has only increased my appreciation for this author. An English Shepherd!! Back in the late 1800's and early 1900's the Scotch Collie and ES tended to be grouped as one breed; neither one was completely established (whereas they are now. The Scotch Collies are bee-yew-tee-ful! They're like flat-coated, smaller sized, Rough Collies; the original "Lassie"), so it's possible that some Beatrix Potter historian/nerd/fan may argue with me saying that this would be more of a Collie rather than a Shepherd. But I'm sticking with the guess of it as a Shepherd. I know that canine face well enough to think that that isn't a Collie. 

   Either way though, That Beatrix Potter chose well when it came to a canine companion. Very well indeed...

English Shepherds. They've Got It All.

I haven't been idle tonight. I had one random thought about wanting to adjust one of the images I have of Gyp, and it totally slid into something altogether different when I sat down to do that one thing.

Ta da. :) 

He Notices Everything

What I Put Up With

 Doing any sort of photography work around here gets interesting when one has a nosy dog who wants to be in on the fun. And when you're photographing anything remotely edible, you can bet on Gyp pulling all his very best tricks to get a bite of whatever you're snapping pictures of. Observe:

The first phase is his "adoring dog" look. It's the look intended to melt your heart and make you feel bad that you're not sharing the food that appears to be not getting eaten. He will sit and stare in total silence for as long as it takes before you look up and notice him. Staring. At you. "I love you Master. Please share."

If the first phase has no effect (which, it did not today.) then he moves to phase #2. He will "very subtly" stand over the object you are trying to photograph and stare at it. He likes to make sure that you know what it is that he wants. This move very effectively blots out your natural lighting and casts a shadow on your object. It's subtle, folks.

Then comes Phase #3. To which he will pace a few circles, complete with soft whimpers, before flopping down dramatically and resting his head on some part of your body. If you're standing, then your foot will be the target; if you're sitting, then be prepared for a head in your lap. This phase is accompanied by the look of total dejection and betrayal. He thought I loved him... That I cared for him. All he asks for in return for his loyalty is permission to scarf down my entire project. Is that so much to ask for? I told him he needs to work on drooping his ears a bit more for this look.

Phase #4. The look of total boredom. Usually accompanied by a big sigh, as though he can't believe anyone would even WANT to take pictures of food when you could just -- eat it. This unwavering look completely unnerves you and you can't focus on your work at all because you've got THIS staring at you!

  I did finally break down and give him a crumb of the food I was photographing. To which he wagged his tail in happiness and then started the entire process over with Phase #1. *smacks forehead*

See what I put up with!?!?

Lost Dog

  Gyp is really good about coming to a quick, two-tone whistle. Most evenings I'll leave him to his own amusements throughout the house (Yes! He's an inside dog now!), but whistle every now and again just to bring him over and make sure he's not getting into mischief.

  Tonight I was watching a movie with the family and absent-mindedly whistled for Gyp, just to see what he was up to. He didn't come. Enthralled with my high-action, suspense movie (starring Matt Damon! Eeek!), I didn't give this fact too much thought. Figured the pup must be asleep somewhere... Fifteen minutes later, I whistled for him again. Louder this time, wanting to hear his clicking paws on the hardwood floor. Only Copper, our Golden Retriever, came. So up I got, right in the middle of the movie's climax, and went searching for my dog. I checked the laundry room, the kitchen, the dining room... No Gyp. I quietly poked my head into my bedroom that I share with my four other sisters but didn't see him anywhere on the floor and I knew he couldn't be in his kennel seeing as the door was open and Gyp's not normally the type to randomly go into his kennel when not told.

   Okaaaay. Maybe someone let him outside? That's logical. Mom just got home a little while ago, Gyp could have easily slipped outside. He usually sits on the doormat until someone lets him in, but he wasn't there.

  I whistled into the dark night, but heard no answer. Saw no dog. I whistled louder; the shrill tone echoed through our hills. Still nothing. Gyp's tracking instincts have been seemingly in overdrive lately; lots of critters are coming down from the mountains and that little dog follows his nose willy nilly. For the past three days I've caught him wandering on the road, on the neighbor's property, and once headed who knows where. If Gyp got bored while waiting to be let in, what if he wandered off across the road? The cougars have come down from the quarry and he would be an easy snack for one.

  I ditched all ideas of the movie. (Sorry Matt Damon, I'll have to catch you next time. You look really cool in army camo though.) It was time to hunt for a dog.

  I think a lot of you know this already, but I'll say it again for those who might be knew: I'm afraid of the dark. Well, to be more specific, I'm afraid of what's in the dark. From ghoulies and ghosties, and long legged beasties, and Things That Go Bump In The Night, Good Lord deliver us! (that's some old Swedish prayer or something... No idea where I heard it. But it stuck, and goes through my head whenever I'm alone in the dark) Being out in the dark, alone, without my dog was -- unnerving. Ever since Gyp came, he's been my buddy outside and as he's grown older he's turned into my body guard. Out in the silent, cold dark, I felt exposed and conspicuous. Like something could see me, but not I them. My back was unguarded and I felt like I was prey instead of predator. Think I'm overreacting? Ask the folks in my area about the local cougar problem. These cats are bold this year since the deer population is abnormally diminished.

  I grabbed my dad's strong flashlight (Sorry Dad. I put it back though!) and swept the strobe of light across the landscape; looking for reflective eyes belonging to a small, fox-like dog. I saw nothing. By this time, I was trying not to panic. My dog was gone. This is my buddy, folks. My shadow, my guard, my DOG. And he was gone. I searched the pasture, the barn, the shop, the backyard. I walked across roads, whistling and calling; trying to keep a level of calm in my voice.

  He wasn't answering my whistles. All I could hear were leaves scuffling across the sidewalk, sounding uncannily like dog claws clicking across. The only living creature making noise outside was a pack of coyotes on a nearby hill.

  Now was the time to panic. He wasn't anywhere!! Great. It's dark, I'm exhausted, not feeling good, and I can't find Gyp. All I could think about was that he left me and wouldn't come back. My shadow LEFT ME. It was time for Plan B; whatever that was. I stomped inside, breaking the household rule of "no boots in the house" and searched for mom. Had she seen Gyp anywhere? Did she let him out? When was the last time she saw him? She and my sister Emily both looked at my quizzically and then one of them said, "Um, Caity, he's in his kennel. I just saw him. The door's open and he's just laying there."

  I think my reaction at that is best described as "dumbstruck". He's in his kennel? And the door's open? My dog doesn't just "go to his kennel"!! I flung my boots off and jogged to the bedroom, thinking mixed thoughts of, "I'm gonna' kill him. No, I'm gonna' swear at him for freaking me out like that. No, I'm gonna' make him sleep with me tonight. No, I'm gonna' hug him 'til he pops!"  I plead guilty to late night emotional-ness. Give me a break folks; it had been a long day and I thought I had lost my dog.

  I peeked inside the large sized kennel and there he was: curled up like a fox, with his beautiful, bushy tail curled over his nose. I lost it. I ordered him out of the kennel and scooped that confused dog up into a bear hug. Bless his heart, he was good enough to simply sit still and gently thump his tail on the floor while I cried, scolded, and rocked him. "Gyp! You just about gave me a heart attack!! Shame on you for freaking me out like that, you gorgeous, perfect boy!!" I eventually let him go and he hung out with me for awhile longer, shadowing me through the house before he went back to his kennel on his own accord. I guess he's decided that it's a good place to be now.

  I closed his kennel door and said goodnight. And now I'm here, writing this all down when I should probably be sleeping too. Gyp's my shadow; he's rarely far from me and we're getting to the point where a mere look or head nod is communication enough for the two of us. A girl's gotta' have a good dog. And this girl done found herself one...

He's A Good Boy

I found Gyp's puppy pictures while skimming through my files on the computer... I had forgotten just how tiny and fluffy he was when he first came!!!

Gyp at 9 weeks:

Gyp at 7 months:

Shucks, one moment he was a pudgy fluff ball, and the next thing I know he's a beautiful dog who's herding animals. He's a good boy. :)

I Sound Like A Toad

  Today I am incredibly grateful for a dog who responds to whistles as well as voice commands.

 An unexpected cold has sprung itself on me, and now I've lost my voice (the tiny bit that's left sounds like something belonging to a toad). 

 Thank heavens I had the brains to train that dog to a whistle... 

 But I still really want my voice back.

Q&A Monday!

 We squeaked by this week with a last-minute question! Hey, better late than never, right? Smile and nod folks, smile and nod.

  So, ze' question of ze' week? A reader is wondering what books/videos/websites I'm using to teach myself and my crazy pup to herd animals. Well, *I'M* not the one running around herding animals, but you get what I mean.

  My first reaction to the question was, "I wish I knew!" Then I remembered that I do have a few things... For the most part I'm only dealing with the bare bones basics of training Gyp. He's got a good bit of natural talent, so that helps too. But right now he and I are just killing time; I don't want to train my first herding dog, I want a professional to do it, so that I don't mess Gyp up. At first I thought Gyp and I would head to weekly lessons here in Oregon, but now we're waiting to settle in Missouri and then I'll find a trainer over there who will take on a farm girl and her English Shepherd.

  The main book that I've been using (and is forever next to my bedside for reading sprees) is Vergil S. Holland's book titled 'Herding Dogs: Progressive Training'. I found this at a thrift store 6 years ago and got it because I was curious to know how on earth people trained dogs to herd livestock. Today I'm using to train my own! It's a great read; easy to understand, and it breaks the process down into small, doable lessons. I've skimmed through a couple other training books but didn't care for those. This one sticks around.

  I've also been watching some Youtubes, and I have to say that these made a HUGE impact. I always figured I would teach Gyp the basics of "sit, stay, down, come, etc." and then leave things like "Away to me" and "come by" to the trainer. The videos made it so easy though! So I started teaching Gyp the commands! Granted, he's still a youngster and is apt to forget his commands every now and again, but at least there's effort.

  The Youtubes in question are taught by Ted Hope; an Englishman who excels with Border Collies, and training them. The videos are a little hard to understand (he has quite the accent, and footage quality is sometimes uneven), but they're worth the effort of watching.
 Part 1 can be found here.
 Part 2 is here.
 Part 3 is here.
 And Part 4 is here!

  It's also just been a bit of watching Gyp and putting commands to the desired action. For example, my book says that teaching the command "Go Back" (meaning, the dog turns around and does a straight line AWAY from the stock. No dog wants to do that!) is the hardest thing to teach. I accidentally taught it to Gyp without trying, when he was 4 months old. During the height of summer, I would always have to stomp down the tall grass before setting up the next day's portable fencing for the sheep. It took awhile and Gyp would get bored and would try to follow me via the path I had stomped. I never allowed him to follow because he was notorious for getting tangled in the netted fencing. So I would always say, "Gyp, go back!" and the only thing for him to do was to turn tail and run back down that straight, stomped path. After about a week of that, I could tell him "go back" anywhere and he'd make that straight line away from me. He and I still do this twice every day. Before he gets his food I have him "go back" and "come" multiple times at varying distances to keep him on his toes.

  He also responds to the word "wait", which was another accidental teaching... He likes to run ahead of me, and when I was done moving the sheep I was always afraid he'd run into the road and get hit by a car (we had to cross a road to get to the neighbor's property, where the sheep were). I'd watch him until he got close to the road and then I'd shout "Wait! Stay!" which got his attention enough to pause his galloping until I caught up. It eventually morphed to the point where I could say "wait" and he'd hesitate on anything and listen for another command. Nowadays he usually stands in place until I catch up to him, or if he can't see me then he'll turn around and come back. I like it that he hesitates though; I can slow him down, remind him to be cautious, or just make him wait on me.

  And as a random tip that someone once shared with me... I used to always have a hard time remembering which direction was 'Away' and which was 'Come By'; then a shepherd told me that he remembers it by thinking about how "time goes by" in a clockwise circle; just like a dog "Coming by" on sheep. Clockwise.

Hope this helps. ;) Gyp and I are still learning this ourselves!

I Stand Amazed

This Youtube had me floored. The border collie pup is only 9 weeks old, and is working on pure instinct. Not a single command is given (and I'm guessing it hasn't been taught to such a youngster yet), and everything is silent. But that little dog already knows what he's doing and it's poetry to watch him work those sheep.

Gyp, you and I have a long way to go, buddy... 

Effervescence

Effervescence: To show liveliness, enthusiasm, vivacity, and/or exhilaration.

In short, effervescence = my dog when he's working stock.

Rainy Weather and Empty Pastures

We went 3 1/2 months with no rain, and boy howdy did it get dry around here. The ground cracked open in ugly ribbons. The dust made clouds when you walked the pathways in the pasture. The grass was brown and stiff; seemingly lifeless. And then we hit mid-September, and the skies opened up at long last. We've had a lot of rain these past few days, and I'm loving it. Today we got a flash downpour that reminded me of monsoon season down in New Mexico (don't really miss that... LOL.), and while it was tempting to dash outside during it (I'll never grow up on that score; I love being in the rain!), I instead stayed in. 

These days of rain have caused an amazing difference in the pasture grass already; it's greening up at a stunning rate, and everything is starting to look lovely again! I went outside after the downpour and snagged a few random shots... Just to celebrate the wetness of it all. Hehe. It was even cool enough for me to don my Carhartt coat, which was an extreme pleasure! ^_^

Apples from our trees! They're finally ripe and ready for picking!

I loved the reflection on the wood!

Raindrops on a clover... I thought it was awesome that the drops were so perfectly globular. 

And as of this morning, the livestock count around here is down to only a handful of goats. Ruby, my heifer calf, left today; leaving the pasture starkly empty. I'll be taking down the electric fencing this week, and then that will be it. The land will officially be fallow ground.

 It's quiet around here (well, except for Summer's screaming, but she's leaving in two weeks, so then things really WILL be quiet!), and rather lonely... Gyp and I used to go into the pasture each day to work on our herding skills (such as they are). Summer and Ruby were both dog broke, and each one offered a different style of herding challenges... Summer would circle me closely like a shark, which gave me the opportunity to work on Gyp's directions (circling us clockwise and counter clockwise). Ruby often times didn't like to be caught, but instead preferred to kick up her heels in play and run all over the pasture; so Gyp learned to "head" stock (instead of circling, they face the stock and try to stare them into being still). Let me tell ya', this dog may enjoy circling sheep and goats, but he LOVES heading bovines. There's a wild, silly, intensity that he throws into his heading; zooming around Ruby in a wide arc, trying to lock onto her gaze, and getting right into her face if she got stubborn. He would even take nips at her heels at times, one quick, gentle bite right below the dewclaw and then he'd slam himself to the ground so as to miss the inevitable kick that came afterwards. 

Ruby would let Gyp do his thing until she got tired of the game. Then she'd stand beautifully still while I walked up and worked with her. She really didn't care two hoots about that canine, once she was ready to be done. Gyp would sit at my side while I worked with Ruby; his tongue lolling, and a huge grin splitting his face. Oh that dog is happy around cows... 

But now everything is quiet. The heifer is gone, and Summer is leaving in two weeks.

Soon it'll just be me and the dog. Out walking through, silent, empty pastures...

I'm A Fighter

"Fall down seven times, get up eight."

"If you want something bad enough, then you have to be willing to fight for it."

I'm a fighter. I don't mean that as in I pick fights among people and cause trouble. I mean it as in I'm a stubborn person who will  do what she sets out to do, and isn't afraid to defy odds.

I got to pondering over this subject today while randomly thinking about how much I like the fighting breeds in the animal world; primarily poultry and dogs. From Pumpkin Hulseys to Pit Bulls. Sweater stags to Staffordshire Bull terriers. I love, love, love these fierce breeds that so many people shy away from. When people learn of my rather odd fascination for fighting animals, they ask if I like them for the illegal sport of pitting animal against animal in a brutal contest to the death. No. I don't like that stuff. And I'm not for it.

I like these headstrong breeds for their character. I like their grit, determination, courage, and fierce loyalty. I like that. They've got a fighting spirit that I highly admire and try to maintain in my life. Fall down seven times, get up eight. That old proverb never mentions falling down that eighth time, but it implies a dogged spirit that will get up again no matter what. It is a warning to those who dare to mess with us. We cannot be stopped.

I struggle with fear. With feeling insecure, worthless, useless, and invisible. These are all lies I tell myself; I know that they are lies. But they are hard to shake nevertheless; they hang in the back of my mind like cobwebs just out of my reach. Silently taunting me day and night. They are my perpetual ghosts that I must either listen to, or fight off. I have a tendency to listen to them until I remember that old proverb... Get up eight times. So get up I do, and fight my battles. Fight not only my mental ones, but the ones that I meet with daily. The problems, struggles, and topsy turvy happenings. Things worth having often have to be fought for. They will require blood, sweat and tears. Do I - do we - have the tenacity and perseverance to keep up the good fight?  

Besides loving those fighting breeds of animals, I also love learning physical fighting methods. Self defense, skills with knives, archery, firepower... I enjoy it all, and would love to someday learn karate or kung fu. Some might think me brutal, but I like it because knowing these things helps replace my fear with confidence. I am prepared for the worst, am trained to be aware of my surroundings, and while I hope and pray that I never find myself in a bad situation, I do not fear the possibility as much as I used to. I sometimes wonder what sort of message I cast to random people on the streets with my body language... Do I give the impression of a fearful person or a confident one? Do I seem approachable, or would a person rather go to someone else with their question? I want to be confident, yet approachable. One person made an offhand comment to me the other day that between my body language and the pocket knife that is forever present on my self, I give the impression of being a confident person who is ready to conquer the world. I gave the person a quizzical look at that comment; I often feel like my fear must show through my mask... I do not feel like a person ready to conquer the world most of the time, but I am slowly learning to let that fear sink into oblivion where it belongs. I want to be a confident, strong character. A fighter.

More than just being able to fight for myself though, I want to be able to be able to defend those who I care for. And you know what? Defending my friends and family can require more than physical demands. It may mean standing up them when they are being treated unjustly. It normally doesn't bother me when someone tries to downgrade or belittle me; I can usually handle that fairly well. What riles me is when someone dares to insult, accuse, or otherwise hurt my family or friends. Hurt me. Make me your victim. Take me instead. But don't you dare hurt my family or friends. Otherwise you will unleash a fury neither you or I will be completely prepared for. My sense of justice rebels at the thought of an innocent person getting needlessly hurt. I don't have many good qualities to proclaim for myself, but loyalty is one that I will put on that very short list...

Sometimes you want something, but logic - and possibly people - says it's not possible for you. Do you take on the attitude of a defeatist and give up at that? Or do you rise to the challenge and prepare for a stout battle? Sometimes you gotta' fight for what you want. And I'm not saying fight against the people who say 'no'. I'm saying you're probably going to have to fight against the odds, against yourself. Get ready for the blood, the sweat, the tears. The pain, the wait, the anguish. Folks have said it's impossible because it's a hard road. So be prepared to fight. If you truly want something, you may have give it all you've got. Whether it's a farm, a college education, or what-have-you. Life it a perpetual test of our perseverance and determination. And just know that some folks will most likely try to trod on you, on your dream, on your goal. Listen to those people and see if their words hold any truth. If they do, then look into making changes. If not, then disregard. Get up that eight time.

 I love the fighting breeds of animals because they are a tangible example of what it means to keep going even when all seems lost. They will keep going, keep fighting, keep daring, even when the odds are grossly against them. They're a reminder to me to keep up that courage and grit. To keep trying, stay loyal, and stand up for yourself. Not a bad lesson to learn from a chicken and a dog...

It Was His

Gyp is maturing into a beautiful, loyal, helpful farm dog, and is exactly what I've always wished for in a canine companion. He's not even six months old just yet (one week shy!), but he's already a working partner that I hate being without. A few weeks ago, all of the animals got out (except the cow; bless her heart!) and were wandering willy nilly on the neighbor's property (98 acres total). It was one of those moments where you don't know what to do except laugh, because getting them all back to one spot seemed impossible. So laugh I did, and then I called my dog. Gyp's training in herding is very little since he's so young yet, but he knows the basics. I can send him around the stock by saying "Come By" (clockwise), or "Away" (counter-clockwise), and then he and I sort of just jerry-rig things after that with commands of Come, Lie Down, Go Back, Leave it, Get it, and Wait. That, and I put a lot of trust in that puppy to figure things out on his own. Normally I wouldn't have put such a young dog to work like this... Everyone has always told me that you should wait until a dog is 6-10 months before you introduce them to stock, but I've had no choice with Gyp. I NEEDED him, so we're both just forging ahead. 

Wrangling that small herd of miscreant ruminants was probably one of the first jobs that has managed to wear my pup out. I'm not kidding you, he was exhausted. It took the pair of us three hours to get everyone rounded up. Gyp had the time of his life getting to herd the goats (he seems to like them better, since the sheep have a tendency to scatter), and even in his tuckered out state he was in, he still had a huge, blissful smile on his fox-like face. I was beyond exhausted by the time I was done; so tired that I could barely stand, and I was almost past being coherent (running for 30-45 minutes I can do. Sprinting for three hours, I cannot.). But we did it... That little English Shepherd and I did it. 

Last week I had another problem. An easier problem, to be sure, but I wasn't sure how Gyp would handle it. I had two broody hens that had both hatched out clutches of eggs on the exact same day; so I had fluffy little chicks running around all over the place. One morning I found that five of them had gotten separated from one of the hens and they were a good distance away from where they needed to be. I had absolutely no idea what Gyp would do with a bunch of fluffy, cheeping, bite-sized chicks. I wouldn't have been surprised if he went nuts and tried to eat the little things. But I sure wasn't having any luck getting them anywhere on my own; they kept scattering. Ever tried herding little week-old chicks??? Not exactly what I would call a walk in the park. So I did the most logical thing at the time: I called my dog.

Not surprisingly, Gyp was excited by the little fluff balls. Tail wagging, ears perked, and tongue lolling, he thought for sure this was a new toy for him. Worried about the safety of my chicks, and of Gyp learning how to kill poultry, I gruffly told him to "leave it and come by". Wonder of wonders, that little dog obeyed. He drove those five little chicks all the way through the pasture, through the barn, and then up to where the hen was; weaving left and right with each "come by" and "away" I gave him. 

This dog amazes me.

And today was the day where it really hit home as to what a good dog he is.

I've got barn swallows nesting in my barn. Yeah, surprise, surprise... Barn swallows in a barn. Duh. Okay, to continue... It's not uncommon at all for a chick or two to fall out of the nest and be raised on the ground. It happens every year. Three days ago I found a teeny, tiny newly hatched chick on the gravel floor; it was barely bigger than a quarter, and only had a few feathers here and there on its small body. It didn't take long for Gyp to find it and I wondered what he would do. Sure, he handled the chicks well, but those could at least run away. This thing just sat, wiggled its wings and made noise. Can we say "squeaky toy"!?!? I stood back, and watched... Gyp was almost vibrating with excitement and intrigue towards the little bird. He walked tight circles around it, sniffed it, whined in uncertainty, and then finally sat down. And stared at the little bird. The whole time I did barn chores (which isn't too long these days... But still a good thirty minutes) Gyp just sat there. Two feet away, and watched the strange creature that he had found. 

And that became his routine. Instead of following me around for chores, he instead sat and watched "his" bird. Never touching it, never getting closer than two feet, he simply guarded it; keeping the broody hens away from it. It was HIS bird.

This morning started out the same. I went to feed the calf, and Gyp went to find his bird. But then I noticed that he couldn't find his charge as I saw him walking around the barn in an agitated manner. After a few minutes we found it: Dead. It looked like one of the broody hens found it after all and decided that it looked tasty. Gyp sat down in front of his little dead bird and the dejected look on his face fairly screamed the words, "Fail... Epic fail..." If a dog ever looked sad, this dog sure did right then. He'd failed his mission, and his little bird was no more. Sorry pup; better luck next time.

But it was right there and then that I realized just how grateful I was for this shepherd pup. It's not every five month old pup who you can trust completely to herd ruminants for three hours and guard day-old swallows. How I ended up with a pup this special, I really don't know... But I'm glad that he's mine. Every day I'm glad for him. 

I do wish that his bird has survived though... Bless his canine heart, that bird was HIS. Maybe he'll get another chance someday...

Enjoy Life

Having a puppy around is a great reminder to enjoy the little things in life. ;)

 Even if it's just rolling around in the grass.

With and Without A Dog

Maybe this is just me, or maybe it's the same for everyone, but lately I've been thinking a lot about how I view livestock with a dog, and without a dog. And I wonder which I like better.

To explain a bit more: For years I've raised animals without a stock dog to help me (and currently still raise animals this way, since Gyp can't really "help" for at least a year), and my method has always been the same: Earn the animals trust, make them realize that you're not a threat, that they usually get good things when they cooperate (i.e. food, a rub on their favorite spot), and learn the perks and quirks of each individual animal (except chickens. Hehe.). Moving the goats required knowing who was the herd queen so that I could start the group off my leading her away; but I also have to know which ones will need verbal encouragement, which ones I'll have to go back for, and which ones require some eye contact to get my point across. It's a very, very personal, close relationship that is absolutely mandatory if you want things to go as smoothly as possible.

Now let's swing over to using a dog. I find that with a dog around, I suddenly view my animals differently. They become a unit; one mass that gets treated and worked in the exact same manner. I no longer have to know personalities of each one; don't need to know that Trigun likes to go before Jupiter. It's now the dog's job to get everyone where they're supposed to be in a calm and efficient manner, and I no longer have to worry about sweet-talking any of the hoofstock into behaving. 

Without a dog, I view my herd like this: 11 goats, 15 sheep, 2 cows. The goat's names are Tamarack, Jupiter, Trigun, Summer, Lyric, Catherine, Rosemary, Shilling, and Sombrita, Ezekiel and then there's Sombrita's doeling (who doesn't have a name just yet). The cows are Ellie and Ruby Tuesday (I did not intentionally tack on that "Tuesday" part... It just - happened. *grin*) The sheep are Darcy, Brown Sheep, and then all the rest are numbered, save for the senior ewe who I randomly started calling Big Mama. Rosemary's the herd queen in the goat world, and tends to keep her distance from humans; Summer is last year's bottle brat who won't leave you alone. If you want Jupiter to move, tap her twice, right behind the shoulder blade and tell her to "head out". Sombrita will do anything for food. Shilling's shy and needs a lot of verbal as well as physical encouragement. Catherine's stubborn, but a fast learner.

With a dog, I now view my herd like this: 28 animals. All look healthy. The black and white spotted goat needs to be a bit more dog broke... Need to work on that this week. The dog and I moved them to a new paddock this morning and one goat tried to escape; got it back where it belongs though.

See the difference? We suddenly went from names and temperaments to impersonal terms of "it", "they", and "them", and viewing them as one single group.

Without a dog, I am completely dependent on using my own physical strength, my wits (what little I have.), and using the bridge of trust between me and my stock to get things accomplished. I find I have to keep my numbers small with this method, since I can't possibly give enough attention to each animal in a large setup to keep things running smoothly. It's exhausting.

With a dog, I now rely on him/her to help me get things done. If a cow/heifer decides it doesn't want me to lead it, then all I have to do is call the dog around and if necessary, have him give the cow a quick nip (usually the presence of a canine is enough to get a cow moving). Without the dog, I would have been attempting to lure the cow along with grain, which works only half the time. I can have larger numbers now, with a four-legged working partner around. Since I don't have to be paying so much attention to individuals, I can easily ramp up numbers to what the dog and I can physically handle. Yes, I've lost that personal feeling around the place, but I think that's okay... I want a working farm; not a petting zoo. In the end, I would rather have numbered animals, than named ones. It's easier for me, and these days I'm loving it that I can talk about the sheep by simply referring to their numbers (Out of the 13 new ones here, I get to keep #33 and #45!) rather than stressing about thinking up a name for them. It's already stressing me out that Sombrita's doeling doesn't have a name yet, and I have to think of something. My only exception would be the milk cow/s. Those ladies are allowed to have names of their own. :)

When all is said and done, I think I like my view on livestock when there is a dog around. I feel like it's much easier for me to focus on just one relationship with my dog, than trying to juggle a whole bunch with the hoofstock.

Which type of farm do you prefer? One with the personal relationships with all the animals? Or one that's more distanced and uses numbers instead of names?