Rob Drummond - The Barn Door

Winter started in October that year. Snow began to fall on the 24th and kept coming through mid-April. The field had turned to seed so grazing was finished. The ground was dry and brown and the clean white snow was almost refreshing. This was the fall that marked the end of my first full year as a sheep farmer. My flock was small, maybe 20 or 30 head, but they were all healthy and if everything went as planned, I would have my first lambs in February. It was a little scary, but exciting. The sheep were safely in the barnyard on hay and grain, protected by my Great Pyrenees, Scout. Scout joined the farm as an 8 week old fuzz ball, but had matured quickly and was becoming a reliable guard dog. I never lost a night’s sleep worrying about the sheep when he was on duty. He was cautious but kind to strangers and he was always hopeful that maybe some day one of the border collies would play with him. He was a happy dog and we were ready to take on the winter.

By the end of December the snow was proof of the devil. It was hard to keep the barnyard clear and the snow banks were getting higher than the lift of the tractor bucket. The cleared areas were like skating rinks, and on more than one occasion I was pulling myself up off the ground, only to see the UPS driver watching the nightly spectacle from the warmth of his truck. We didn’t exchange words, but I’d like to think that he was watching to make sure I was still conscious.

The border collies were bored, and the only way to keep them happy was to let them take turns doing chores. They just had to push the sheep into the barn and hold them there while I filled the grain troughs on the opposite side of the barn door. Ice had seized up the rollers and the 12’ monster was stuck in a half open position. I let it go because the last thing I wanted to do was try to force it and end up rehanging it in sub-zero temperatures.

Most nights the chores were routine and the dogs knew what they had to do. They were all pretty competent, although a little disappointed at the repetition and simplicity of their work. Scout would wander through the barn checking his flock, and he was mostly respectful of the work the other dogs did. The only one exception was my dog Andy. For some reason Scout mistook Andy for a bitch in heat, and Andy spent much of his time wiggling and squiggling away from his 97 lb. suitor.  Andy was a good natured dog and calm in all situations that didn’t involve sheep. When sheep were in his radar, every muscle in Andy’s body was tense and you could see the steam come out of his ears. There were demons in Andy’s head telling him to “move the sheep, move the sheep quickly”.

Andy was always a crap shoot at a dog trial. Always the dog that was either going to take the blue ribbon, or send your blood pressure off the charts. When he was listening he was brilliant, when he wasn’t it was a train wreck. During a train wreck, fellow handlers would hear ANDY!,ANDY!, ANDY!, shouted in a progressively louder, deeper tones, and then they would hear the judges last words: “ Thank you. I’ve seen enough!”

On this one particularly cold, nasty evening, it was Andy’s turn to do the chores. The UPS truck had come and gone without incident. Andy had gathered the sheep into the barn and stood holding them while I began to pour the grain into the troughs. I’m not sure how it started, maybe Scout had decided to serenade him, or maybe it was those demons in his head, but what I saw was the back side of Andy racing around behind the sheep. With a loud crash, the first few sheep hit the barn door on their way out and knocked it off the runner. My instinct was to put my arms out and hold it up, but in an instant I was flat on my back, under the door with the rest of the flock charging across me. A quick assessment told me I was still alive and conscious, but I could hear the flock heading out into the small pasture beyond the barnyard, no doubt with Andy hot on their heels. As I began to utter my first hideous words, the sound changed. It was getting closer, and in that instant I realized that Andy was bringing the flock back to the barn. I sucked in enough breath to yell “ANDY LIE DOWN!”  He did, and in a fairly controlled fashion, the flock came back over the door, over me, dropping everything they had in their stomachs through the cracks in the barn door. I was laying on the ice, under the barn door, covered in sheep droppings, but I was alive. Life was good. As I lay there considering the best way to get out of the situation, I heard a loud sniffing sound. It was Scout. He realized I was under the door and was sniffing his way over to me. Then he found me, and like any good guard dog, he decided to mark his territory to keep the predators away. Now I was laying on the ice, under a 300 lb. barn door, covered in sheep droppings, being urinated on by a 97 lb. guard dog.

When I got out from under the barn door Andy was nowhere in sight. That was a good thing. I assumed he cleared the 4’ fence and went back to the house. I straightened out the barnyard, turned out the lights and went to find him. I was still fuming. I went through the kitchen door and said “Where the hell is he”? My wife took one look at me and said “you look nasty and you smell worse. I don’t know what you did to that dog, but the poor thing flew past me and ran into the closet”.

I explained what had just happened outside, but received no sympathy. Apparently, the barn door should have been fixed in the fall, I need to be wearing cleats on the ice and I never should have been using such a hair trigger dog in the barnyard in the middle of winter. “Andy was just doing what Andy always does.”Of course she was right, but it took a while to calm down and Andy spent most of his time in the closet for the next few days. Eventually I forgave him and the lambs started coming and the ground began to thaw and all was forgiven.  He has since retired, but for several years after that I still took Andy out on the trial field, but when the judge would say “I’ve seen enough”, I’d just smile and say to myself “That’s what you think, you ain’t seen nothin”.

Amanda Milliken - Bart and Meg

            My mother was the first to get sheep in our family.  It was hard to believe she was breaking with her suburban traditions and raising fresh lamb. But she did.   A neighbour had a single sheep that flocked with his cows and had not been shorn in two years.  He asked if it could join our flock and while we said yes, we could not catch it at shearing time, so it slipped by. 

            My sister Cathy got a Border Collie from Bill Wyatt of Tennessee.  We all thought it was a singularly clever dog to bring all those horses in, and wished we could get our setters to do that trick.  Once, she stopped up at mothers and watched the sheep and cattle from outside the fence in a meditative way, (which I now know to be showing us some eye.)  I said "Hey, Meg.  Get that sheep." and in five minutes, she put that uncatchable single in the barn.  I rushed to the house and told Mother we had to get one of these dogs and we did.  From a Kemptville horse vet, Cal Kobluk.  Cal's came from a Schaeffer guy from University of Pennsylvania.  Bart was my first Border Collie.  Interestingly, Cal Kobluk called a few weeks ago to get a Border Collie from me.

            He was a smart, engaging pet dog with his black belt in fetch.  We violated every good training principle in training him, but how were we to know what to do?  There was no one around to teach us anything.  No internet.  No books. An annual sheep expo in Toronto advertised a sheepdog training clinic with Glyn Jones (Bodfari).  I went to figure out how to train my dog.  Bear in mind I had no understanding of the outcome of training, so I didn't even know where I was headed.  Bart was the cleverest of the lot at the clinic and Glyn used him all day, to show everyone how to start  a dog.  I went home and did everything he said to do.  Bart's training generated a lot of community interest.  Mother's riding pals came over to watch him progress every week and he came along very well, becoming a useful dog. 

            The next year, I went back to Sheep Focus to do the next level of clinic.  At the registration, the money takers said I should enter the trial.  I asked what you had to do.  When they told me, I said OK.  Bart and I won our first open trial.  I meandered around after that with the dogs, for a year or two.   Cathy's Meg moved to our place.  When I got a bitch called Hazel, a granddaughter of Bart and Meg, I settled on sheepdogging as the sport I would do.  Thirty years later, I would still do it, if I could.

Sue Schoen - Asa

My first Border collie, Asa,  was pretty useless.  I grew up in a livestock-free suburb of New York City.  I knew Border collies were really smart.  I hoped that Asa would fall somewhere between Lassie and Flipper.  Asa and I were a good match.  The good news was that I did not know how dreadful we were and, I had a lot of enthusiasm and perseverance.  I was advised that I wouldn't get anywhere without my own sheep, so I found an abandoned farm near my house.  This was no small feat on Cape Cod.  I fenced in about 10 acres, cleared the land of all manner of toxic debris and commenced training Asa on 5 aged, cast-off ewes which I bought from Jean and Joe Kennedy.  These sheep were as dogged as sheep could be, so Asa actually looked pretty good sometimes.  What I mean is, she would run out around them and they would run straight towards me.  Well, actually that was only if I was standing near the barn.  If I was very far from the barn, they would head for home and Asa would lie there and watch them run by her.  Other than that, she did not lie down much.  Thankfully, my memory is not too clear about Asa's outrunning ability.  I think she sometimes hugged the fence and stopped somewhere along the way to have a cigarette.  I do remember that sometimes she ran straight up the middle - just like bowling.  It did not seem to matter to the sheep - they started running once Asa left my feet.  I seem to remember that she was not excessively proficient in driving - as in anything we did caused the sheep to end up at the barn.  But I am definitely a "glass half full" kind of person.  I found it easy to overlook these small imperfections in her work.  Overall, I was thrilled and proud to have such a brilliant dog.

After a while I was satisfied with our mastery of this particular group of animals.  Fresh sheep. That's what I needed to stretch our skills.  I bought 5 Corriedale ewes from a nice lady who sold livestock fencing.  I drove an hour to get them.  They lived in a stall, they were enormous, and they had kind of a desperate air about them.  I suspect they were bottle lambs. We hoisted them into the back of my pick up. I don't really know what happened next exactly.  I do recall that these sheep arrived shortly after we brought my daughter Emily home from China. In those days Emmie spent a lot of time in the backpack, peering over my shoulder, bright brown eyes watching every foolish move I made.  Maybe, it was jetlag or PTSD from becoming a parent on a trip to China with my husband Gene who almost died of pneumonia while we waited for Emily's paperwork to clear.  But for some reason I decided one night that we would take these fresh sheep for a little walk through the woods.  Give Asa some hill work.  I think it was kind of late in the afternoon.  Like around sunset.   Somehow, the sheep got away from Asa (or maybe she did a little chasing) and they took off  down the path into Beebe Woods.  Three and a half miles of trails. Loads of side trails.  Emily on my back.  Darkness imminent.  I was able to track them for about half a mile.  I felt like Daniel Boone. Then suddenly the poop and stirred up leaves disappeared.  I went home feeling a little panicked.  It was dark.  They were gone.

I called the  Falmouth Police Department.  "I've lost some sheep." I told the sympathetic dispatcher. "OK."  he said" "Nobody's found any sheep tonight, but you never know.  Do they have any identifying characteristics?" I gave him my number.  Half hour later he called back, "Is this Bo Peep?"  Mr. Hoskins of Upland Road had called to report the presence of sheep in his mud room.  Were they mine?  Emily and I were in the truck within seconds and arrived at the Hoskins' residence in a couple of minutes.  He lived off of one of the side paths where I had lost the trail.  Mr. Hartley Hoskins had enticed my five strays into his mud room with rabbit pellets.  They were all in there, huddled together on the rich, red oriental carpet, gazing at the oil paintings on the wall.  It was a lovely room with leather furniture.  There was a beagle asleep on the sofa.  Mr. Hoskins was delighted to host them.  Apprehending them with rabbit pellets had thrilled him no end.   He thought they were charming. His wife would be home from work at any moment and he was sure she'd love to meet them. I checked the rug carefully. No sign of pee or sheep turds.   I wondered what it would cost me to have that rug cleaned.  I felt an urgent need to get my sheep home and settled in their pen for the night.  I backed the truck up to the open screen door, thanking Mr. Hoskins fervently for his hospitality, and stoically offering to take care of any damages.  No problem, he said.  He knew my husband from work.  I felt the noose tighten.   We hoisted them into the back of the truck.  It must have been Mrs. Hoskins who passed me on the driveway as I was pulling out. I waved a friendly greeting and stepped on the gas.

Barbara Ray - The Bridge

In 1980 I was gifted my first border collie pup, Tuxeda, which I dearly loved and hoped would help me manage the nearly 300 commercial ewes I had at the time. Having no knowledge of the breed I was amazed at how fast she learned basic obedience. But soon she started to show interest in the horses and sheep which caused my opinion to change.

In those days there were no training clinics or lessons from professional handlers nearby. In fact there were only a handful of handlers in the country and I knew none of them. It was my impression a good dog would figure out what job was being done and pitch in to help. After all I had watched Rin Tin Tin and Lassie do this every week on TV as a child.

One hot summer day the farm help and I attempted to get the flock to clean new pastures which involved crossing a slatted bridge over the river. The task was difficult. The usual method of shaking a bucket of grain and running like hell to avert the stampede had failed.  Managing the sheep over the bridge meant shoving the crowd every few inches where they could clearly see the flowing water below. They surely imagined death was imminent as their feet might slip between the slats with every stride. Oh I forgot to mention, the bridge had no sides, so pushing too hard might cause some to plunge into the river some 25 feet below. Perhaps pushing a loaded tractor trailer with flat tires up a hill might have been easier. Two of us worked 45 minutes shouting and shoving the sheep on and nearly all the way across the bridge when my eager young dog appeared on the other side of the flock to flatten our efforts. The little devil swam the river and thought she could help. Colorful language echoed off the mountains. Tuxeda proudly caused all the sheep to break past us and land off the bridge on the original side. Holy high blood pressure! Just another day on the farm.

I like to think I have learned something from my really dumb days. That young dog could have most likely been shaped into a fine farm dog had it passed through the hands of a knowledgeable trainer. But I gave her to a disabled gentleman as a companion where she could no longer harass livestock.

Lori Cunningham - Novice Trials

My first trial dog was named Nick.   As I was walking to the post in a novice novice trial, one of Nick’s back feet somehow slipped through the loop of my hiking boot shoelace.   Freaked by his foot being caught, he proceeded to dance wildly around in several circles, cinching his foot tighter and tighter, tying himself to my foot.    Panic mounted and he made a break for it, taking my leg with him.    I went down hard.   My crook went flying somewhere like a javelin.   Nick started screaming like he was on fire, and dragged me around on the ground by one foot like a sled dog as he tried to get free.    After what seemed like forever, I managed to struggle upright enough to untie him from my boot.   I think I crawled to the post.    I don’t remember what happened after that, but I’m pretty sure we didn’t win.