Becky in the snow last year.
Becky arrived, after a long flight from South Dakota. It was May 2008 and she was 12 weeks old. I let her out of the truck, and she immediately walked up onto the porch, then turned around and growled at the two large adult dogs (Tip and Robbie) who came to greet her. “Don’t come up on my front porch,” she seemed to be saying. I laughed. Good working farm dogs have both grit and intelligence. This dog clearly had both.
The following month ushered in calving season. A first-time mother had given birth to a heifer somewhere in the 10-acre field above the house. An hour later she’d managed to lose track of her calf, and she stood at the top of the hill and bawled, staring down, waiting for us to do something. Cindy saddled her mare and began the search for the missing newborn. For a few minutes, Becky and I stayed in the backyard watching. Then it was just me. She had slipped under the gate and disappeared into the five acres of woods adjoining the pasture. The bawling momma, meanwhile, followed behind Cindy as she crisscrossed the upper fence line a few hundred yards away.
That’s when it happened. Within five minutes of having slipped under the gate, Becky — our four-month-old pup — emerged from the woods, weaving back and forth behind a newborn calf, pushing it forward into the pasture. At the top of the field, the mother quickly caught sight. She gave a great bellow and galumphed down to her calf, immediately nudging her back to the business end to nurse. To this day I get chills when I tell the story. That was the complete farm dog package on display: work ethic, instinct, and a level of intelligence several notches above that of your average human teenager.
A working farm dog is a companion. More important, it is a partner. If you haven’t had the joy of sending a dog out of earshot and having it bring in a flock of sheep or find an injured animal; haven’t watched it move a half-ton recalcitrant steer in a tight chute, occasionally getting kicked but always going back to get the job done; haven’t seen it put just enough pressure on a ewe with a newborn to guide her into a lambing pen without charging — then you are missing out on one of the great satisfactions in life. It’s a true collaboration that becomes second nature. Working alongside a farm dog is a Neolithic partnership, a bridge to millennia past. It bonds you in ways that mere ownership of a pet does not.
Becky had the run of the farm, day and night. During the day she was our right hand; at night she took on raccoons, opossums, skunks, foxes, and coyotes to keep the property varmint- and predator-free. She spent her whole life outside, except for her morning ritual. When I got up, made coffee, then let the other dogs off the back porch, Becky would be by the back door waiting to be let in for her “quiet time.” She would stay inside for 30 minutes and then gladly head back outdoors.
She was uniformly loved by people and feared by other dogs: she never met another of her kin that she didn’t wish to (and sometimes did) rip into. The only thing she was afraid of was thunder. Until, that is, the last couple of years, when her hearing diminished to the point that a rumble no longer affected her.
The life of the working farm dog is a tough one — all of those hard days and hard knocks eventually catch up. But even as her health failed, in spite of being mostly blind and deaf and severely arthritic, even as ultimately she struggled to stand, Becky still did her part: this past week she helped move our flock of 40 ewes and held off the rams while we were feeding.
Becky lapsed into semi-consciousness and we had her euthanized yesterday morning. We buried her in the garden next to her old workmates, Robbie and Tip. This morning I awoke thinking about how to remember her. I headed downstairs and made coffee, then let out our two pet dogs, Max and Buster. Becky, of course, was not waiting at the back door. I will not call her name today to help. She will not sit next to my chair on the porch, within easy reach, occasionally pushing her head under my hand to remind me to pet her. The farm will change, the sheep will now do as they wish, the rams will invade our space, a calf will remain hidden, stray dogs will remain unmolested. She is already missed.