Yesterday our sheepdog, Sammy, aged 11 years and 6 months, was put to sleep. In his honour I'm reposting a piece I wrote about him when he was in the full vigour of his youth.
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Sammy the Philosopher
Sammy is a red and white, longhaired sheepdog. Surprisingly
for a dog, he is also a hero, a philosopher and a teacher.
He is ostensibly a purebred Border Collie, though he can’t
claim all the lengths of a pedigree. I know (though he doesn’t) that he only
exists as an accident, due to a half day hiatus between his mother Molly
arriving at the Collie Rescue Centre farm and his father Bob being taken to the
vet’s for neutering. The moment Molly arrived on the farm, they got together
and a litter of five was the result.
Both Molly and Bob were non-workers, which was why they were
at Collie Rescue in the first place. They had been sent to find new homes where
no sheep demanded responsible attention. Both found, happily, in due course and
Bob is now doing agility tests and taking owners for walks, while Molly is
generally being a rural but non-farming angel.
We intended Sammy to be the farm’s guard dog. Shep our
previous sheepdog had died, after a long and effective existence.
I am not sure
that I really picked Sammy out of the litter. In the goat pens where his family
lived at the time, there were two red girls and himself, and I am fairly
certain it was one of the girls who came forward and introduced herself to me.
But we’d had girls for twelve years along with all that “taking to the vet”
stuff when they were molested by the local Romeos. We wanted a boy again, so
Sammy it had to be.
He loved the car ride home, sitting on my husband’s knee and
behaving with perfect decorum while I drove. Periodically he licked Graham’s
face and ears with great enthusiasm. For weeks before he arrived the various
animals of the farm had been admonished by my husband that they would have to
behave “when my puppy dog comes.” He is still emphatically Graham’s dog, except
when he misbehaves, when he becomes mine.
Back home on our yard Sammy attached himself to our ankles
and waddled anxiously after us wherever we went. Unfortunately, because his
destined role as guard dog meant he would have to spend his nights outside the house,
he had to become accustomed to sleeping on his own; so we made up a bed, with
straw and boxes, in the stable normally occupied by Mr T the Fell pony. We gave
him water, and a meal mixed with ewe’s-milk-replacer powder just like at Collie
Rescue; and we went about our business. Sammy howled and cried. And then
stopped. Suddenly there he was, out on the yard again, investigating the midden
and delightedly waddling after us once more. We blocked the gap in the door
with a straw bale.
When we went indoors for the evening and left him in the
stable, Sammy howled and cried again. We felt like child-murderers, even though
he was a big well grown pup of ten weeks old and we were pretty certain he
wasn’t going to fade away overnight. It was still a relief to go in early the
next morning and find him bouncing with delight at seeing us again.
His first coat was rich brown with the classic sheepdog
white collar, chest, muzzle, tail tip and socks. The short dense puppy coat
turned into a long dense adult coat, fine and silky and remarkable for keeping
itself clean in the dirtiest of weather; his long feathery socks are hardly
ever anything other than pure white.
He wasn’t quite brave enough at first to clamber down the
steps to the back door, so we have a lot of early photographs of him sitting
wistfully on the top step, gazing down into the kitchen. We also pounced on him
in passing and carried him indoors quite a lot. This was supposed to be so he
could socialise with us and learn our commands. In reality it was just such fun
having a pup around the place that we were quite unable to resist the
temptation to play with him.
He learned very quickly that “Fetch” was a good game, and
within a week of his arrival he was reliably bringing back all the toys that
the family offered to throw for him. Lacking any hens to practise herding, and
sternly told off for being too keen on sheep, he took to herding the family. He
still does. He knows, now, that when people go out they will come back again,
but nevertheless he sighs deeply when presented with the jingle of car keys,
accepts very reluctantly that his group is divided, and goes to lie down
somewhere and wait for our return to make the pack complete once more. This is
all very well, but when we come home his insistence on trouser-browsing to find
out the news from abroad can get a little wearing, especially on a wet winter
day when he’d be better off snuggled down in the cart shed with the blackbirds
and we’d be better off indoors with a hot coffee.
In his second summer, the brown shades in his coat bleached
to foxy reds and blond highlights. In winter its density enables him to sleep
out in the open, which he evidently prefers to sleeping in a building or a dog
bed, though he retreats there to shelter from the rain. Whether due to the
influence of ewe’s-milk-replacer powder, or just being a naturally vigorous
young creature, Sammy has outgrown both his Mum and Dad and become what our
farming friends call “a strong dog” with seemingly boundless energy.
Both his ears, at first, flopped over. In time, one stood up
like a huntaway’s, but the other never managed to match it. This clownish
lopsided appearance has set the character of most of Sammy’s escapades. When he
began to grow his adult teeth, the chewing started. Sammy has adopted many
strange toys in his life so far and one of his favourites is a worn-out rubber
horse feed skip that had endured some fifteen or twenty years of being
snuffled, chewed, picked up and stamped on by various ponies. Having eventually
developed a split down one side, it was replaced, whereupon Sammy took it over
as his chewing toy. Unfortunately this also developed in him a firm
conviction that rubber was a good thing to chew. It led to us losing “the
electrics” once from the car towbar, twice from the horsebox towbar, once from
the tipper wagon, and twice from the trailer lighting board; from the horsebox
brake lines, only once, thank God, after which I think he must have reasoned
that brake fluid tasted really nasty and perhaps rubber was not such a good
thing after all. Still, by persistence he has gradually removed both handles
and all the sloping sides from the feed skip, and it is now a twelve-inch
pancake that he will fetch, and throw at you, and demand that you throw, for
him to fetch endlessly and throw at you again.
However, it was and is Sammy’s deeply held belief that the
world is a sad place. Winter is the worst time; it preys on his philosophical
mind. If nothing is happening outside, he sits sighing in the rain at the top of
the kitchen steps. Stopping occasionally to shiver and whine, he observes us
all dimly through the frosted glass of the kitchen door and is thrown into
transports of delight when we reach for our boots and bend to put them on.
Occasionally, when he thinks we have all gone out, I have heard him wind up
from a whine to a howl, as he used to when a puppy. Solitude is his bane;
attention his only goal. He cannot believe that he and you exist in the same
dimension unless he has a minimum of one foot on you, or around your leg, and
to ask him to exercise self control in this is equivalent to asking him not to
breathe. Yet, if you advance on him for the ultimate in attention, a good
grooming, he turns into a hedgehog, rolling on his back and paddling his long white-socked
paws at you to keep you at a distance. Brushing with the pin-brush (the only
implement that can get through his six-inch pelt) is an activity that, he tells
us, was invented by the Devil. In Spring, the fine fawn-coloured piles that I
rake out of his moulting winter coat could fill several cushions.
He is a most handsome animal now, silkily feathered and in
the prime of his strength; a vital young dog, sleek of muscle, deep through the
heart, with tremendous speed and agility. He has a jaunty bounce to his stride
as he trots round the yard flashing his white socks. Yet despite his vigour and
power he is still deeply worried that his pack will vanish if he does not keep
it under tense surveillance, and Graham’s frequent remarks to him that he is “a
hero” have a distinctly ironic flavour. True, if he were arrogant and haughty,
the term would fit his appearance well, but his tendency to stick out the tip
of his tongue and cock those lopsided ears would give him away. In fact, he is
determined to put a brave face on his knowledge of the infinite sadness of the
world. He is convinced that no human being can have, or has ever had, enough
Fun, and inevitably that turns our Philosopher into Chief Clown. Because he is
(of course) the only dog who knows the sad facts of life, it is his Heroic
Mission to add Fun to everybody’s existence who comes within sniffing distance.
For example: most people who have dogs, throw balls or
sticks for them. It must be a rare family that has, as we have, a dog who
throws balls or sticks for us. When
you go to feed in a morning, Sammy is there with a toy of some sort; he cares
nothing for his breakfast and will allow the blackbirds to steal most of it
while he attends to giving you the first of the day’s doses of Fun. He stands
up against the feed chest, plonking his big white-feathered feet on the lid
until you give him a morning cuddle; then when you lift the lid and reach in
for food he will be there, dropping the toy inside, licking your face with his
huge tongue, then looking keenly into the depths among the sacks and scoops,
waiting for you to retrieve the toy for him. Take it out and tell him to go
away? it just doesn’t work – he’ll be
right there dropping that toy in again. When on occasion you just don’t have
time to retrieve such a slimy item, his disappointment is palpable. Put down
the lid and walk away leaving the toy within, and he’ll sit down and stare at
the chest in disbelief, as though a law of Nature had been suspended. Come in
from work and cross the yard from the car, bearing a box full of groceries, and
Sammy will be at, around or in front of your feet, uttering muffled greetings
through his Santa Claus playball; and as you start down the kitchen steps he
will throw the ball merrily to coincide with your descent. He can’t believe
your curses are not friendly, and he doesn’t accept your refusal to throw it
back; he will sit there looking intelligently down the steps at it until you
give in and throw it back up to him. You see, he KNOWS you need to do it. He only
has to wait till your Fun level drops to the point at which it needs a top-up.
The game ends when you throw the ball far enough that by the time he’s
retrieved it, you have mastered your hysterics and shut yourself indoors.
You may think that this comedy is all due to us being a load
of softies: that the whole family is daft to humour a fool of a dog, and spoil
him rotten. Not so. Let a stranger appear on the yard and Sammy will be there,
proving his worth in his originally intended role of guard dog. There is not a
shred of aggression in this. He is genuinely interested in the unusual and will
take considerable pains to investigate it, and therein lies the uncertainty for
newcomers. I have seen three big delivery-men sit doubtfully in their wagon
cab, staring out at the red-blond dog who waved his tail at them and stared
right back. His perfect white teeth were bared in a cheerful grin and his
sheepdog-keen amber eyes gleamed with what I knew to be a desire to share Fun.
They just didn’t dare to put it to the test.
He is in charge of the yard. He’s probably the only dog in
the world who does it by teaching the poor sad humans how to play. Bringing
with him the immensely long rope on which he is tethered while we’re away, he
will bounce and sniff and dance around the stranger. Uttering muffled wuffs
through a mouthful of whatever toy he finds within reach, he almost always
trips up the intruder in the friendliest fashion. The Jehovah’s Witnesses call
him and his rope “The Reaper”. If I’m indoors, it isn’t Sammy’s bark that warns
me of visitors; no, they announce themselves, with cries of, “Gerroff, dog!
Giddoot, man!”
Sammy has no need to bark at strangers. He trains them
instead to do what he requires. He is an excellent teacher, too; roofers,
plumbers, children and postmen are usually trained in less than half a day to
throw whatever toy he presents to them. Electricians and builders, so far, have
been slower to respond. Busier? Or less intelligent?
Sammy’s out there now, panting in the summer sunshine,
watching Graham move building materials around the yard; two red haired, fit
animals filling the place with an atmosphere of health and vigour. Let him into
the kitchen and he immediately occupies Graham’s bentwood chair, sitting up
very straight and quivering with pride at being allowed to fill the Pack
Leader’s place. Take him round the fields and he is a streak of lithe muscle,
golden-red against the green grass, his white socks flying; he can gallop and
leap and turn with dizzying speed and yet drop into statuesque stillness when
told “Down” in the face of sheep. Give him company, let him be in on the act,
and he is happy.
His one remaining ambition is to master the third dimension:
the air. The red dog’s deepest wish is to be a Red Arrow, to rival the swooping
swallows. April to September is spent in total concentration, attempting to
match the grace and speed of the birds who dive-bomb him in defence of their
family’s air space. It doesn’t matter that in this he singularly fails, and
makes a complete fool of himself, because during those summer months our loveable
philosopher, teacher and clown is honestly too busy to remember that the Life
of Man is Sorrow.
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Sue Millard's books almost all have a rural or equestrian background and can be found on her web site,
http://www.jackdawebooks.co.uk
Her poetry pamphlet
"Ash Tree" was published in August 2013 by Prole Books.
