Chapter Nine --- "Cattle Dogs"

Of all the dogs I’ve been associated with, it seems strange that the ones leaving the deepest impression on me, lived in Gallia County.  Perhaps it wasn’t so much the dogs themselves, as the fact that I was working on the farm, and had more contact with them.  Whatever the case, dogs are the most interesting creatures – sometimes taking on almost human characteristics – frequently putting us to shame.  We would do well to imitate a few of their more noble qualities, like unwavering loyalty, unconditional love, forgiving.

Lisa’s dog, Reno, though just a normal dog in most respects, was a regal-appearing canine of American Eskimo descent.  A beautiful white dog, with no noticeable ambition in life except to be a loyal companion.  His full coat gleamed with health, and his tail curled up over his back in a perpetually friendly manner.  There was an intelligent glimmer in his eye as he carefully scrutinized every detail of his surroundings.  He wasn’t one to get involved in trivial things though – this would have been beneath his dignity.  Perhaps he had learned a lesson early in life that left him wiser.  That seems like a reasonable possibility, because he saw his world through one eye.  The other was gone, and the lid sewn shut.  This startled me the first time I saw him, but as time went on I became used to it, and he appeared all the wiser for his handicap – like there was something mysterious and hidden behind that one-eyed mask.  I can’t really contribute anything else noteworthy about Reno - just that he faced life with a total acceptance of his disability, and I suppose that is lesson enough.

Matt’s constant companion, Buster, was my first introduction to the “working” class of dogs.  Oh sure, I’d seen shows on TV where border collies round up sheep, and programs showing the amazing things dogs can do.  But here in front of me was a dog with a job, and I could watch him work in person.

Buster was an Australian Blue Heeler who took life seriously.  Although he wasn’t a terribly affectionate dog – at least to me – he was always at Matt’s side waiting, hoping for his next assignment.  I didn’t know anything about his breed, or what they were specifically used for until Matt explained.

“The Heeler breed was developed in Australia through cross breeding herding dogs with the native dingo dog.  They are bred for one specific purpose – to move cattle.”

I suppose the name “heeler” should have been a dead giveaway, but I hadn’t made the connection until I saw Buster in action.

Blue Heeler.  (Not Buster).

Matt stopped in at the dairy one early afternoon, and picked me up to help work on some young beef cattle .  Buster of course, was at his side, and seemed a little more eager today, perhaps knowing something was in the air.

“Ready to get dirty?” Matt grinned.  “All that rain we’ve been having sure has turned the barnyard into a muddy mess.  It’s almost as bad in the barn, too.”

“That’s okay.  I don’t mind a little mud.”

“You’ll see ol’ Buster in action this afternoon.  He’ll be a life-saver.”

“Good!  I wanted to see him work some day.”

We stopped at the big red barn that was located right next to Raccoon Road.  It sat on a level spot at the bottom of a large, partially wooded, hillside pasture.  The young bulls were out there somewhere, hidden by the hills and trees.  They were used to getting called in for grain, so we poured some feed into the bunk and gave a shout.  Before long, they appeared at the top of the hill and galloped down towards the barn, bucking and cavorting at the thought of a tasty treat.  They dove greedily into the grain, but kept one eye on us at the same time. These fellows weren’t the tamest critters in the world, and they were a little nervous about having us hang around.  While they stood in a circle around the outdoor feeder, we slowly worked our way out around and behind them – along with Buster – whose mouth was open in a wide smile - his eyes glinting with anticipation.

We spaced ourselves out behind the cattle and waited while they finished the grain.

It didn’t take long before they turned around to face us.  Their eyes grew wild as they sensed the trap, and they lowered their heads and stood stiff-legged, ready to turn and run. Now it was Buster’s time.

“Ssssssst”, Matt gave a quiet hiss, and the dog flew at the bulls like a gray streak.  The barn doors were open, and most of them turned and bolted inside, rather than face this charging predator.  A couple rogues decided to make a break for it.  That’s when Buster got around them and changed their minds.  Without a sound, he faced them and darted in for a nip. That was enough, and they turned and trotted towards the barn but stopped short of the door, determined to not go in.  Again, Matt hissed, and Buster leaped forward quick as lightning, grabbing the bull’s heel.  Just as quickly, he released and leaped backward, in plenty of time to get away from the reactive kick that nearly always followed.  It was a beautiful thing to observe.  Here was a dog with the inbred instinct to nip the cow’s heels, and move them along without breaking skin, and without getting himself hurt.  That was enough for the wild bovines, and they trotted into the barn with the rest of the group.  We swung the gate closed behind them and got ready to work.  Without Buster we’d have lost some of them to the hills, and would have been up there all day killing ourselves trying to bring them back down.

We “worked” the “boys” then, by sending them into the chute one at a time for vaccinations and a gender “adjustment.”  Matt was planning to raise them for beef, and it was necessary to turn the bulls into steers so they wouldn’t get mean.  It was a messy job, because the inside of the barn had turned into a huge black mucky puddle.  In the course of the afternoon’s work, we became splattered so thoroughly that it was difficult to discern if we were wearing dark clothes with light spots or light clothes with dark spots.

While we worked, Buster sat patiently waiting for a signal to help, his eyes following every move.  He stayed alert and ready - fully involved with the proceedings – listening for the quiet “sssst.”  No question about it, he lived for the chance to grab a heel and send a cow into the chute.  Now I understood - and you do too - why his breed is called ‘heeler.’

My hat is off to that dog.  Buster is to be applauded, not only for his quiet and studious personality, but especially for his single-mindedness in assisting his master with the cattle.

                                                    *       *       *       *

It was on a warm September evening when our son Mike came bursting into our house, shouting excitedly, “There’s a little black dog outside.”

I love nearly all dogs, but we’d already had trouble with strays, and I didn’t want another one hanging around, so I stepped out to investigate.  There in the driveway sat a very small dog, about twenty feet from the house.  His glossy, jet-black hair was medium in length, and his short upright ears drooped a little on the tips.  Intelligent brown eyes stared longingly towards us, as his tail wagged hopefully.

I didn’t know what to do, so I tried to frighten him away.

“You can’t stay here!” I spoke sternly, and advanced menacingly toward him. “Go home!”

He stood and moved away a couple steps, and as I came closer, he lay down and rolled over – belly up.  Now what was I going to do?  By all appearances, he was a well-adjusted healthy little dog, and surely some little boy or girl was - at this very minute - wondering what had become of their beloved pet.

“All right, you little beggar, what are you doing here?”  I bent down and rubbed his belly a little.  I just couldn’t help myself.  I suppose it was a mistake to give him attention, but it was obvious he knew my shouts were all bluff.  We looked him over and played with him a little as the sun slowly slid down behind the western hills.  Soon it was dark, and time for us to hit the sack, so I told the little fellow to go home, and we all went inside.

“Can we keep him, Dad?”  The kids wanted to know.

“No, we don’t need another dog, and besides, he belongs to someone.  Look how healthy he is – and friendly.  Someone is taking good care of him.  Now go wash up for bed kids, he’ll probably be gone by morning.”

Long before daybreak, I stepped onto the back porch and into my barn boots.  Morning, as always, had come too soon.  I stumbled bleary-eyed around the front of the house, and out of the corner of my eye noticed a dark spot on the front porch.  I stepped over for a look, and there laid the little black dog, curled up on the welcome mat.  His tail rapidly slapped the porch as he peered innocently up at me with a winsome face.

“What are you doing here!?  I told you to go home – now git!”  I picked him up and set him out in the grass, giving his behind a little shove. “Go home!”

I didn’t want him hanging around when the kids got up.  They’d want to keep him for sure, and that was not an option.

I guess I shouldn’t have worried about the kids, because as I walked towards the barn, the little dog tagged along beside me.  In the milk-house, Lisa was busy hooking up the line.

“Mornin’ Lisa, you know anyone with a little black dog?”

“No, I don’t think so. Why?”

“One showed up at our house last evening, and spent the night.  He followed me over here.”

She looked out the door, and there he sat, waiting and smiling.

“No, I’ve never seen him.  What are you gonna to do with him?”

“I don’t know, but he can’t stay.  I guess we’ll try to find his owner.”

We completed the milking and cleanup for the morning, and I stepped out of the milk-house door.  Thank goodness the dog was gone.   He had to be hungry by now, so he probably went back to his family, and was now happily munching on a nice big bowl of Gravy-Train.

I crossed the pasture, and rounded the house, and there he was, waiting for me on the back porch.

“No! You can’t live here!” I shouted.  “Now go home!”   I wanted this dog to understand one thing:  He could not stay here!  He stepped out into the grass a little way, turned around and sat down, with a hurt expression in his eyes.   I shrugged my shoulders, and told him he was going to get awfully hungry, and went into the house for my breakfast.

All that day while the kids were in school, he hung around, and by evening we could take it no longer.

“Come here little fellar, have some supper.”  We put a dish of food out for him and he ate ravenously.  When he finished, the kids played with him again until the sun went down.

“Dad, please!  Why can’t we keep him?”

“He belongs to someone else.”

The next morning he was gone.  I walked all the way around the house to be sure.  Ah, that was a relief!

Several days later, I stepped out of the house to leave for the morning milking, and there he was again, curled up on the step.

“Oh no! Not you again!”

Once more, he stayed for a day or two, and then disappeared.  This happened several times, and we grew comfortable with his visits – even missed him while he was away - but felt certain he had a home somewhere.

Then, he decided to move in permanently.  It was okay with us, because by now we were growing very fond of our little black friend.  We tried in vain to locate his owners, by driving around asking if anyone was missing him or recognized him.  No one did.

It still didn’t feel quite right to confine him, because truthfully, we continued to believe he belonged to someone else.  So we fixed a place for him to sleep on the porch – figuring if he did have another home somewhere, he was free to go.  In the meantime, we decided if he was going to stay, he should have a name.  He was black as the ace of spades, as the saying goes, so I thought,  ‘Hmmmmm. . . . . . . . . we’ll call him Ace.’

One of the few pictures we have of Ace.

Right from the start, Ace tagged along wherever I went.   I knew there was no chance that he’d ever make a cattle dog, because of his diminutive size and gregarious personality.  But on the other hand, what harm would it do to try training him?  So each day when I carried grain to the heifers, I sat him in the open gateway and told him to “watch the heifers.”  When they moved toward him, I shouted encouragement. “Get ‘em Ace! Get ‘em,” and ran with him toward the curious animals.  It was as if he knew exactly what I had in mind.  In no time at all he was a real working dog - sitting obediently in the open gateway – keeping the hungry heifers at bay.  Every time I said “Get ‘em!” his tiny black body pounded the turf in quick little steps, racing and barking fearlessly towards the advancing cattle.  And the cattle, unsure about this noisy little creature, retreated in haste, giving me room to go about feeding them while the gate hung wide open.

By the following summer, Ace had become my constant companion, riding with me in the truck, and sitting between my knees on the three-wheeler that I had acquired to assist me in my daily work.  Ace was an old hand with the heifers by now, and always watched them with great interest as we rode up or down the driveway beside the pasture.

His obedience was greater than my judgement one day as we sped rapidly up the lane on the three-wheeler.  Not far from the fence, the heifers were calmly grazing.  As always, Ace perched handsomely on the gas tank between my knees, and as we came even with the cattle, I spoke impulsively, “Get ‘em Ace!”  I wasn’t prepared for his reaction.

He instantly sounded his loudest and most commanding bark – which, considering his size, wasn’t terribly frightening - and launched himself from the tank in the direction of the heifers.  Unfortunately, our forward momentum was not part of his calculation, and he hit the ground - rolling and tumbling.  I watched it happening in shocked horror, and jammed on the brakes, leaping from the three-wheeler before it came to a stop.  Running to him with dread, I knelt down beside my obedient little buddy, and – feeling like a cruel master - spilled out my sincerest apologies.  He had already gotten back to his feet and stood there wondering what had happened.  He shook his head a couple times, and seemed no worse for the wear as he hopped effortlessly back onto the gas tank and glanced around at me with an embarrassed smile.  Then together we rode slowly and carefully up to the house.

Ace was an important part of the family now, and as a half-pint cattle dog, a very welcome helper.  No question about it, I loved the little guy.  It still amazed me at how forgiving he was.  Thinking back to the days when he first started coming around – how he had been able to overlook my increasingly harsh attempts to send him away. There was no doubt in my mind about wanting him now.  I had to concede though, that it was he who adopted us -- not the other way around.

It was a warm Saturday morning in August when Jim stopped by the barn to see how things were going.  This was his normal practice on the weekends, and I always enjoyed his visits.  There probably wasn’t a nicer guy in all of Gallia County.  Generous and kind, fully accepting my limited farm experience, he was always one to happily dive into the work along side me, and without making me feel ignorant, share his wealth of knowledge.

This time he had his beagle along, and as they got out of the truck, Ace trotted over to greet his buddy.  As always, they sniffed each other’s noses, then rear-ends.  I didn’t think anything about this little ritual, but Jim noticed it too, and posed the question.

“Do you know why dogs always smell each other’s behind like that?”

“No, I’ve never really thought about it.  I guess that’s just the way they identify each other.”

A hint of a smile crept onto the corners Jim’s mouth,  “Well Dave, actually there’s a reason for it.”

“Oh yeah?  What’s that?”  I asked innocently - always up for learning something new, and I made it a point to listen carefully when Jim spoke.  Here was a man old enough to be my father, who had already taught me a lot about farming, and had done it in such a respectful way.

Jim’s deeply tanned and creased face grew serious as he delved way back into his memory for the scientific explanation to this common canine phenomenon.  Then he spoke.

“A long, long time ago there was an international dog convention.  All the dogs of the world were required to be in attendance.  Just inside the door of the convention center was a large pegboard - sort of like a hat-rack.  Now all the dogs - being polite upstanding citizens - hung there butts on the rack and continued into the convention hall.  Right in the middle of all the festivities, a fire broke out in the building.  The dogs had to run for their lives, and couldn’t take the time to find their own butts.  They just grabbed one on their way out and kept on running.  Ever since that time, they’ve been trying to find their own.  Now you know.”