This dog
This dog
was born on a filthy pile of straw in a drafty stone barn on a cold winter's
night when his shepherd had his sire on the hill digging strays out of
snowdrifts.
This dog was raised on gruel and oatmeal and milk skimmings and sometimes on
only what it could find for itself - on those nights when the shepherd's family
went hungry as well.
This dog thrived, and grew strong and sharp, and light of foot, and knew the
farmyard as its place - even though this dog knew it was special.
This dog learned to stay warm in piles of straw, learned not to freelance the
farmer's wife's chickens (under penalty of broom) and watched the older dogs go
to the hill as it grew taller and stronger and sharper.
This dog learned that sheep weren't toys - and that to savage one earned a quick
correction with a crook - and learned that sheep were more special than he was,
even though he was pretty special.
This dog learned what it meant to be a shepherd's dog - and cared nearly as much
for his sheep as he did for his shepherd. And more than he cared for those other
types of "foolishness" - including petting and lovelies and treats.
This dog went to the hill with his shepherd every day - and took toll of flock
and looked for lost ones and weak ones and the ornery ones who just wouldn't
come home - and he brought them all home - in dry dusty heat, in cold, dark
rain, in deep winter snow when his paws would freeze and his toes would coat
with ice balls.
This dog had a special place as he grew older, and his bones began to ache - by
the woodstove in the parlor - and he slept more as the days passed.
This dog grew old, but his ears never failed to prick when his shepherd grabbed
his crook and hat and scarf - even when his legs failed him and he couldn't
rise.
This dog's heart never quit, it just got a little too tired, and he laid down to
rest from a lifetime of love's labours - and he never got up again.
But this dog still lives, if we will let him - in every scruffy tricolored ugly
little mutt moving cattle or sheep or pigs - in the heat of the west, the cold
of the midwest, or the salt air of the southeast.
And this dog's heart still beats - faster - every time he sees sheep - looking
over the shoulder of his grandson and whispering in his ear, "Careful, son,
that ewe on the left is a wily one" - but only if we will let it beat.
by
Bill Gary
February
2003
ã Bill Gary 2003
"Beth"
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