It’s how you say it, not what you say
Dogs listen more to your tone than to your words. It was in the low thirties and Caleb and I had been clearing a couple hundred yards of trees and brush with the chainsaw. Hard work on a steep slope, made more fatiguing by the cold. We had been at it for several hours while Becky and Katie, our two English Shepherds stayed close by my side.
Further down that hill slope, through a screen of woods was Caleb’s house. They have a collection of what I refer to as “Yappers,” dogs of no determinable breed but all weighing fewer than twenty pounds. A Napoleon complex acted out on a canine stage, these yappers provided a background of steady barking and growling to the crisp winter morning. The house they were protecting was a good fifty yards away from where we worked. But it was clear they saw us as a threat.
My dogs ignored them other than to give the occasional irritated glance. As we neared completion of the project, Katie (daughter of Becky) ran down the slope towards the fence line. Fearing a rumble and its aftermath I barked a sharp guttural, “KATIE!” To your average kid it would be interpreted that your dad was pissed and you better stop what you are doing. And Katie did stop. Becky on the other hand heard the tone and translated it into “GET-EM!” She exploded into action and covered the fifty yards before the “yappers” could bark an “Oh, shit.”
She rolled through and over them in a fight I could only glimpse through the screen of woods. Caleb and I are both yelling for her to return. Caleb’s stepdad is out on the porch yelling. And it occurs to me, finally, that to Becky it probably sounds like encouragement. With us as stand-ins for Roman citizens at the Coliseum, screaming for more blood, Becky was determined to entertain. She came back up the slope looking a bit smug from the fight. I yelled at her for good measure and we finished our work.
Old Meanness
Tip, our aged stockdog, was oblivious to the fight. Stone deaf and arthritic she misses all the excitement. But she still has a growl that chills the blood of certain men in the neighborhood. Is it wrong to chuckle at the memory of her pinning Caleb’s brother-in-law on the roof of his truck? I heard a plaintive call one day and went out to find Jay on the truck roof. Tip was using her growl and her stockdog eye to keep the interloper penned until she could consult with me.
A few months ago Cindy and I walked over the hill to visit with our neighbor at his barn. Tip insists on accompanying me anywhere on the farm. But with her arthritis it takes her three times as long to make the journey. We had been talking with Lowell for about fifteen minutes when Tip finally arrived. Lowell, who likes Tip and isn’t buffaloed by her growl, said affectionately, “well, here comes Old Meanness.”
We like that moniker.
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Reading this weekend: Dirt: the erosion of civilizations by David R. Montgomery. It is a fascinating history of the geologic record and role that the loss of soil has played in the decline of civilizations, a message we would do well to take seriously.
