“Hi, everyone. We’ve got a bit of herding to do. Storm and Echo are going to move sheep from this pasture all the way over to there.”
The camera pans across the short winter pasture of a misty Irish moor, with delineations of hedgerows and stone walls and tiny cottages in the distance. With just a few inflections of voice from their shepherd — “walk on, steady” — the two dogs take off in a joyful fury, rounding up the herd and moving them where they need to go.
From our little home here in Ohio, we sit in front of our TV screen and watch this marvel. Sean the Sheepman’s videos are some of my favorites to watch for pure and simple pleasure. I love to imagine being there and being a live witness to such an incredible, yet so ordinary a task carried out by his two beloved dogs. They follow their shepherd’s voice, and they do so with gusto, reveling in the singular job they get to do as farm dogs — and the word that comes to my mind when I see all of this is valuable.
Farm dogs. If you have ever known a good one, you’ll remember him. What is it about dogs that captures the human heart? Dogs and horses, I think, are the most timelessly well-loved and valued creatures. They are the animals who have meant the most to us humans for the longest time, the ones who bring the most joy and the most sadness when they leave.1 I think this is probably because dogs and horses have been our comrades in arms — our field hands — our undershepherds — our companions.
(If you were to ask me to name the most valuable animal all-around — which, of course, would seem to be impossible — I would probably say cows. Cows give to humans in the form of consumables like meat, milk, and energy. They offer companionship and labor, too, but in a more subservient way. They work more for us than with us — my opinion.)
One of the beautiful things about a farm is that it gives purpose to every living being who becomes part of it, even down to the tiniest microbes living in the depths of the compost pile. Even the worms living in the garden, leaving their empty castings to aerate the soil, are operating under our God-ordained dominion, serving to benefit the gardener, if the gardener so chooses to acknowledge them.
On a farm, a dog is more than just a pet to be tamed, groomed, fed, and enjoyed on weekends. Everyone works on a farm. Farm dogs work, too. They patrol, they protect, and they herd. A well-trained, loyal farm dog is more valuable than any piece of machinery. This is because in addition to the work they contribute, as valuable as it is, they are steady and loving companions, too. When you’ve had a good one, you will remember him.
I can remember mornings in my tiny camper, waking up and splashing cold water on my face. While my coffee steeps, I notice somebody has arrived on my doorstep. It’s Roxy, the farm pup. This is her routine. She shows up full of wiggles and wags, fit to burst with her excitement for the day. She has come to tell me to get excited, too. We get to work today, after all — her favorite thing. Even better if you have a pal to work with, and pals is what we are.
Roxy was a miniature Australian Shepherd. She came to the farm shortly before I did, and we became close as biscuits and jam. Roxy went mostly wherever I went, riding shotgun in the Ranger to the pastures and trotting behind my wagon as I carried milk to stock the coolers. She was my pal, but I was not her master.
“She’s still deciding who her master is,” said my boss, after she filled Roxy’s feed dish on the milkhouse floor. Roxy would wiggle and whine, looking from one of us to the other in a nervous frenzy. We laughed, waiting for her to finally calm down and eat. So eager was she to please, she didn’t dare go ahead with anything until she knew who she was supposed to defer to. Liz, my boss, was Roxy’s master, and she soon enough got that straightened out in her head. But I got to be her good pal, and she became my favorite friend on that farm.
As you may have already guessed, though, Roxy’s story ends tragically. One night, as a neighbor was driving by on his tractor, Roxy ran out into the road to chase the wheels, and there met her untimely end. It was the evening of my husband’s and my first date. He was dropping me off at the farm when we learned what had happened. Roxy was already buried, and the children had made her a gravestone, complete with drawings of her and of the tractor that caused her demise. (Farm children can be startlingly macabre.)
The evening had been so wonderful, and I was so happy because I liked this man — this dark, kind stranger — so very much, but now my heart was wrought in two. I tried to wait until he was gone before I let myself cry. In a strange way, the timing was perfect. The farm children — tough as nails, every one — moved on quickly, and so did I.
Because you have to realize, if you let yourself get attached: farm dogs come, and they go. They are loved, but then they are replaced. And just like everything else in nature, the cycles continue on.
Before Roxy, there was Willow. (And Willow, thankfully, lives on.) The Snyders brought Willow home in early April, the same time I had decided to live by the campfire. She was from an Amish farm, and was an indiscriminate mix of several farm dog breeds. Even as a pup, like Roxy, she was willing to please at all costs. Her sweet temperament matured into a confidence assertive enough to guard chickens against predators, while at the same time docile enough to tolerate children climbing all over her at all times. If you have children around, your farm dog needs to love and respect them, too.
On the Snyder’s farm, as with other farms along my travels, I was the sojourner within the gates — not an integral part of its workings, but more of an observer of its lessons. This was mostly the consequence of knowing I would soon move on. But Willow, for her part, was here to stay. It’s one of the most admirable things about dogs that they can be so wholly devoted to the purposes chosen for them by someone else, then accept their lot in life with such an unassuming grace.
During those chilly nights by the campfire, very often I would look up to see a little black roly-poly puppy trotting over to me. Nudging her nose into the sleeping bag, she would silently beg me to let her inside — so I would. Nestled together, we’d fall asleep to the sounds of the fire crackling. At the time I could think of nothing more precious in the world. (Granted, she didn’t always smell the best — but then, as a dairy hand, neither did I.)
Willow remembers me yet when I visit. I wonder if she remembers those nights spent snuggled in the sleeping bag?
My family has had Australian Shepherds since before I arrived on scene, and maybe that’s why I think they’re objectively the best. Australian Shepherds are loyal, territorial, energetic, and good workers. Not every dog we’ve had has been perfect, of course. But to me, they are wonderfully understandable. You can look into their eyes, see what lives there, and know it is genuinely felt. Sometimes you even share the feeling.
We bought Henley when I was 18. He cost $125. It was a cloudy day in autumn, far down a dirt road in Pennsylvania. When I picked him out, he was the only one of the litter who looked markedly different — brown coloring instead of gray, and noticeably smaller than the rest. I plucked him from the squirming jumble of puppies, and the decision was made. “This one,” I said.
The Amish farmer grinned. “He does look different, doesn’t he?” Afterward my mom and I said jokingly that Henley was probably from an entirely different litter, and they just threw him in with this one for convenience. Either way, he was meant to be ours.
Henley has been a traveler since his early days. When he was small, he went along with us to friend gatherings. He rode alongside in the truck to pick up produce from other farms, and he became a regular guest at Grandma and Grandpa’s house.
The collie in him gives him a remarkable perception, and the cattle dog in him makes nipping at moving lawnmower wheels irresistible. But the thing about Henley that is different from all the other dogs my family has had is that somehow, he has weaseled his way into living in the house. He is smaller — maybe that’s part of it. But I have a notion it has more to do with the pleasure of his company.
Before I left home, Henley was the best little friend a girl could ask for. After I (heartlessly) deserted him for college, he shifted all his worshipful energies over to my mother, who now makes the sun shine in his sky.
Sometimes I wonder if Henley’s potential has gone unrealized, since his breeding would say he was born for working stock. Living on a vegetable farm, his skills went more toward companionship. He isn’t fond of people, especially not small children. He could be trained to work livestock, but now in the late afternoon of his life, he likely won’t be. This makes no difference at all. Just like Sean the Sheepman’s collie dogs are gratified by their service to their master, this quirky little dog is most gratified by his devotion to his people. He is not like a truck or a tractor, which have no love and friendship to give.
“We will always have dogs,” my husband and I tell each other.
He is like a magnet for living things, endearing them all to himself so quickly I have begun to take it for granted.
Our present homestead would not support a dog. But someday, if the Lord wills, our farm dogs will have many chickens and ruminants to guard, and so be satisfied all their days. I would like to have Heelers. Yes, I know how spirited they can be. But it thrills my bones to think of having a working dog, an under-shepherd, a comrade in arms. Mainly, though, I want to have a little pal to trot beside me on my way to the milkhouse in the morning. I want to see his pleasure when my husband gives a hearty, good boy, or her excitement when she hears the word walk. A dog’s eyes, deep and luminous, can speak volumes. And there are volumes that could be written of all the good farm dogs who have made our lives just that much better.
“Why did you do all this for me?” he asked. “I don’t deserve it. I’ve never done anything for you.”
“You have been my friend,” replied Charlotte. “That in itself is a tremendous thing.”
E.B. White, Charlotte’s Web
An article on farm dogs by Ida Livingston in the most recent issue of Small Farmer’s Journal was the inspiration for this piece. In her article, she goes into much detail about the pros of various livestock breeds and different aspects of care and training. A wonderfully informative piece.
Perhaps this is why dog movies and horse movies make us cry so much.
I was not expecting that quote from "Charlotte's Web" to hit me so hard today. We said goodbye to our eleven-year-old German Shepherd just over a year ago, and that loss has been so unexpectedly deeper than goodbyes to other dogs have been. She was with us through some hard times in life, and that sums her up: she was a friend.
I have found myself thinking a lot in recent years that farm/ranch dogs have the genuinely happiest lives, compared to the most pampered of pets. For working breeds, it seems unkind or even cruel to limit them to idle lives where they know little beyond an apartment or a tiny backyard, or spend most of their days in a pen or crate while their owner is at work. Even though we had a sizeable yard and gave our German Shepherd the most active lifestyle we were able to, I'd sometimes think how she would have loved to have more room to roam and run, or a job that exercised her incredible intelligence and energy. I know it's something I would consider seriously if ever choosing another dog, whether my lifestyle would allow the breeds/temperament to live the kind of life an animal is meant to live.