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.