Category Archives: Border collie herding abilities

Bandit Our First Border Collie- Part 5: Intruder

A Dog's Pathway to Retirement, animal behavior, Animals on the ranch, Border collie herding abilities, Border collies, Bulls, canine cooperation, Creative Nonfiction, dog behavior, Dogs Model Human Behavior November 5, 2023 1 Comment

While driving across my ranch one early morning several months following retirement, I discovered my neighbor’s exceptionally large White Park bull standing amidst my small, young heifers. This jarring discovery became my first true ranch emergency and called for greater skill than than this neophyte rancher possessed at the time.

My inexperienced Border collies, Bandit and Mollie, surprisingly resolved this frightening situation for me, and by so doing revealed previously well hidden talents. The incident also provided me with a greater understanding of Bandit’s destructive and irritating behavior while feeling restricted in a city.

Bandit represents what can happen to anyone who is poorly suited for a particular place and then becomes transformed when moved to a more conducive environment.

This is a fitting final story about Bandit for this blog series, as he affected our lives so greatly. His story may inspire humans other than ourselves to seek changes in their lives and environments in which they have failed to bloom.

 

Towering above my black cows stood a giant, ghostly white bull. Its massive white head was accented by black ears, nose, and black-rimmed eyes. The bull was thick, muscular and three times the size of my young, first time heifers.

“Oh damn,” I murmured. “Now what?”

I  glanced around for my black Angus bull that I had recently leased to breed my first time heifers, but found it nowhere in sight. I realized that if this white behemoth were to breed my heifers the offspring would be much too large to deliver, putting the lives of my young heifers at risk. I felt a state of near panic rising up within me. The welfare of my young cows depended on me- the clueless city guy who was brand new to cattle ranching.

 After shoving two intensely interested Border collies deep within the truck, I opened the door and bailed out of my pickup. If freed I feared my two rookie collies might cause a stampede, leaving either the dogs or the cattle as casualties. I soon spotted a mangled section of fence not far from our old and falling down pole barn. Barbed wire dangled uselessly from broken cedar posts that lay scattered on the ground. The gouged and scraped dirt beneath the broken fence identified where the intruding bull had entered my ranch.

Mollie and Buddy want to help

Bulls are territorial animals. My herd bull would have confronted the the intruding bull at the perimeter fence and would have violently defended his domain. I instinctively knew that my small, leased Angus bull  would have had no more chance to repel the larger white bull, than would a destroyer pitted against a battleship.

I picked up a small limb from the ground and scuttled in the direction of the herd as fast as poorly conditioned legs would allow. My hand repeatedly gripped the rough bark of the stick, milking the stick for a plan to expel the intruding bull.

With my attention fixed on the bull, I failed to notice an exposed Live Oak root. I caught my foot on it, lost my balance, lurched forward, and struck the ground hard. My right hip absorbed the initial blow, causing a searing pain to explode down my leg and into my low back. My head next hit, smacking into a cow patty. As I pushed myself up from the ground, the pungent smell of cow dung filled my nostrils. Rage welled up within me. I scraped dung from cheek and glasses, regained my balance, and limped onward; anger supreme over pain. By then I had lost all semblance of common sense.

I shrieked, “I’m getting you, you trespasser! Can’t sneak onto my ranch!”

What I expected to accomplish with my limp along, futile advance was unclear, but lacking a plan to remove the bull, bravado was all I could muster. The bull threatened my small kingdom and challenged my role as protector of these young cows. To be sure, bulls were not the only territorial animals on the Hutton ranch that day.

My herd complete with the offending bull grazed in a pasture nearby the cattle pens. The herd stood a hundred yards removed from my now abandoned pickup, providing a degree of separation from my dogs, but I could still hear their barking coming from within the truck .

When I drew within twenty yards of the bull, the great white bull raised its massive head and slowly turned toward me. Its baleful, unblinking eyes fixed on me; a stare so powerful and so frightening that it stopped my movement. The bull’s coal black eyes seemed to project malevolence. I observed the immense thickness of his neck, thicker than a man’s chest. After taking a deep breath and steeling my resolve, I crabbed forward, all the time visually measuring the distance to the relative safety of the cattle pens in the event that the bull were to charge.

The bull lowered its massive head and slowly scraped his enormous hoof along the ground, throwing dirt up under its massive belly. This aggressive display again momentarily halted my forward progress. I observed how the bull’s dirt-caked nose dripped and how drool streamed from his maw. I could hear the bull’s low-pitched sounds, as if coming from a bass speaker, but so deep it was hard to imagine the sounds emanating from an animal rather than some mythological beast in a subterranean cavern. Evolution designed this warning to frighten away other bulls, predators, and foolish, neophyte ranchers like me.

Mercifully, the bull did not charge, leaving me to share my story. Perhaps surprised at seeing a yelling, flailing, limp along man, carrying but a small stick, he chose instead to fall back. The bull likely did not have fear me as much as viewing me as an inconvenience, like a pestering swarm of  flies.

Over the next twenty minutes, I attempted without success to separate the intruding bull from my herd. Despite repeated efforts, the bull stubbornly remained among my heifers. Despite the coolness of the morning, I soon found myself sweating and felt my shirt sticking to my back. My lungs began to burn, and more than once I was forced to bend over with hands on knees to recover from my efforts. My limited physical activity of a physician had certainly not prepared me for such physical exertion.

Once, I briefly separated the bull from the heifers, only to have him circle around me and quickly rejoin the cows. I felt irritated and and even a little embarrassed by my failure. Bulls, I learned, moved surprisingly fast to be such large animals.

Defeated, exhausted, and still smarting from my fall, I limped back toward my pickup. By then the earlier rosy glow above the eastern hills had developed into a breaking dawn. But the additional light provided me no further illumination as to how to rid the bull from the ranch. I turned toward the bull in a parting gesture- in case any neighbors across the fence happened to be watching- and yelled, “Just you wait, you’ll make the biggest meatloaf in history, make the Guinness Book of Records!”

Despite my bluster, I felt diminished and outsmarted by this roving ruminant. My boots scraped along the ground. I felt embarrassed- with my many years of education, outwitted and outrun by a dumb bovine.

While approaching the pickup, I heard howling from within it. When I raised my eyes, I saw my pickup visibly rocking. Bandit and Mollie’s wailing seemed to demand their release. Mollie had by then jumped over the seat and careened from side to side, banging forcibly into the car doors. She used her body like a small battering ram in her attempt to free herself.

Did someone say cows?

Bandit with his well practiced destructive ways had meanwhile shredded the back seat. Stuffing from the macerated seat had spread throughout the cab and the white seat stuffing made the interior resemble a snowstorm. A tuft of stuffing even crowned Bandit’s head like snow atop a mountain peak. Momentarily I stood dumbfounded, looking at the swaying truck and the dog-inspired mayhem within. I learned yet another painful ranch lesson- never leave the Borders in the pickup with nearby cows.

It became ever so clear the dogs demanded their opportunity at moving the bull. But realistically how could small, inexperienced dogs help against this giant marauder? I thought Bandit and Mollie could be hurt or even killed. The risk was too great to consider. I felt anguish, torn by fear for my dogs yet tormented by my responsibility for the young heifers and lack of a viable plan to evict the bull. Good reasons existed for not releasing the dogs, as they could be kicked, stomped, or butted by the giant bull. Their frenzied desire to participate in their Border collie birthright, however,  struck me as oddly compelling, and I had no better option.

I grasped the door handle but stood frozen by indecision. The dogs could do no worse than my sloppy misadventure, having driven the intruder still farther from the broken fence line.

Peering through the window of the pickup, I asked, “You want to help?”

In response deeply emotive howls erupted from within. Their tails beat a staccato against the seats, their eyes burned with an intensity not previously seen. Their bodies quivered. I pushed the button on the door handle, cracked the truck door ever so slightly, only to have it blown open, as two yelping Border collies erupted from the pickup like two demons escaping Hades.

“Go get the bull! Get him!” I yelled after them, my voice larded with desperation.

The dogs, like low flying cruise missiles, sped off in the direction of the intruding bull.
They raced across the pasture. Mollie, the younger and faster of the two, reached the bull first. As she neared Mollie cut her stride, dropped her head, eyed the bull, and began slowly to circle him. When an opening arose, Mollie darted between the bull and the cows. She crouched down, awaiting Bandit’s arrival. The bull lowered its head and watched Mollie intently.

Bandit’s appearance was not long in coming and consisted of a headlong, yapping, suicidal charge straight at the bull. His kamikaze-like onslaught caused the giant bovine to spin around to face his new attacker. In the last instant, Bandit veered off, barely escaping the bull’s head butt. This diversion of the bull’s attention provided Mollie the opportunity to surge forth and bite at the bull’s hind legs.

The bull appeared surprised and then perturbed by the double onslaught. He twisted his massive body around to determine the source of the bite and momentarily focused his malice on Mollie. He clattered a huge, hoof over the rocky soil. He bellowed a deeply pitched warning. The bull then retaliated with several ferocious kicks that narrowly missed my circling dogs. My spirits sank. Had I been foolish to release my dogs? A dog’s skull would be crushed by landing a single kick from this massive bovine.

To my surprise, my usually docile pets had transformed into snarling, vicious animals. They fixed wolf-like stares on the bull. They snarled, revealing gleaming white canines. My fear for my dogs’ safety became mixed with incredulity at their agility and bravery. Mollie and Bandit repeatedly darted at the bull, dodging his flying hooves. The efforts of the giant bull kicked up a dust cloud that at times obscured my view of the dogs. I felt loathing for this bull. He threatened the well-being of my heifers but now sought to kill my rookie herders. My heart pounded in my chest.

The bull shifted his glare between Bandit and Mollie, his eyes never leaving my determined dogs. Then the bull lifted his head and, surprisingly, took a tentative step backward. The dogs, sensing his hesitancy, stepped up their attacks as if choreographed, demonstrating a fury that left the bull appearing bewildered. While the dogs appeared to be dodging and diving haphazardly, it became apparent their efforts were forcing the bull to retreat.

By then I had arrived close enough to the mêlée to smell the musky aroma of the bull. I stationed myself on the opposite side of the bull from the downed fence. I brandished my stick- a stick that in the presence of the dogs drew increased respect. Together the dogs and I edged the bull slowly across the pasture toward the distant breech.

After several more minutes, we managed to move the bull about a hundred yards away from the herd. It was when circling from opposite directions that the unexpected happened. The dogs with eyes fixed on the bull collided full force after running into each other. This sent both dogs sprawling in the dirt. For an instant, both Borders lay almost motionless on the ground, legs splayed awkwardly.

On seeing this unexpected opportunity, the bull whirled around and reversed his course and headed back toward the heifers. He swept by me, ignoring my windmilling arms, leaving me standing helpless in his lumbering wake. He had thundered by me so close that I smelled his rank odor and could have reached out and touched his broad back. The dogs quickly reacted, regaining their feet. Bandit stretched a painful limb, as if testing it. Soon both dogs were again afoot and raced back into the fight.

Mollie closed to a spot directly behind the bull where she bit and grasped his tail. In the next instant, I saw Mollie, attached Bulldog-style, rocketing behind the galloping bull looking like a miniature black and white caboose attached to a runaway locomotive. When the bull slowed, Bandit charged and sensing an opportunity, bit down on his broad nose, leaving behind a bloody gash. Bandit’s attack temporarily distracted the bull from the tenacious tail-grasping Mollie.

The bull, now bleeding from his nose, appeared flummoxed. He stepped away from Bandit and then proceeded to buck like a rodeo bull. By so doing the bull’s tail whip-like flung Mollie high into the air. She fell to the ground some twenty feet away, her back awkwardly pressed against a water trough.

My heart sank. Was she hurt? Would she be all right?

As if to answer, Mollie sprang up, shook herself, and raced back across the dusty paddock toward the bull. The collies outran the bull and placed themselves between the bull and herd. At the dogs’ urging the bull again turned back and with collies in close pursuit moved toward the broken fence. He eventually began to run directly for the broken fence line. The dogs, arcing from side to side trailed the trundling, ghost-like bull, herding him always onward.

Where did the bull go?

The bull thundered by the pickup, circled around the corrugated aluminum barn, and crossed the caliche ranch road with his giant hooves causing crunching sounds. The bull then in full gallop with an occasional desultory kick at the pursuing dogs headed for the broken fence and to safety from the pursuing dogs. Despite my best efforts, I fell behind the faster moving bull and dogs. But I was able to view the bull as he jumped through the yawning breach and into the pasture of the neighboring ranch.

I arrived at the breach in the fence where I found Bandit and Mollie pacing like two guard sentries. Both gazed in the direction of the disappearing marauder. I collapsed to my knees, sucking in huge quantities of air. I threw my arms around their furry necks, hugged them fiercely, and buried my face in their pungent, silky coats. Bandit and Mollie had accomplished what only minutes before had seemed utterly impossible.

Bandit, happy at last at the ranch where he never again chewed up furniture

From deep within these collies had come an instinct to separate the foreign bull from the herd and to drive him to the broken fence line. Moments before the dogs had acted ferociously, but they had transformed again into my pets. Their eyes still shone and tongues dangled haphazardly. Bandit and Mollie seemed to comprehend the magnitude of their accomplishment and appeared alive in a way I had never before witnessed.

Still too winded to speak, I embraced my incredible dogs. I scratched their ears. I hugged their necks I feet the softness of their fur against my cheeks. Raspy tongues licked my face and ears. Pride swelled within me. I felt exultant, as my burden had suddenly and miraculously been lifted. Bandit and Mollie, my two courageous Border collies, had provided a present, as dear in their giving as in my receiving.

Eventually my breathing became more normal and I was able to speak. I cupped their warm, damp muzzles in my hands. The dogs stared back at me, their eyes gleaming. They appeared expectant. With my first words, I uttered the time honored, but ever so parsimonious Border collie congratulation.

”That’ll do Bandit.”
“That’ll do Mollie.”

If you have not had the chance to read my latest book, Hitler’s Maladies and Their Impact on World War II: A Behavioral Neurologist’s View (Texas Tech University Press), I invite you to do so. The book explores an important aspect of the Hitler story and World War II that has not been well studied. Many of Hitler’s catastrophic errors including the premature invasion of the Soviet Union in June 1941, the slowness of German forces to counterattack at the Battle of Normandy in 1944, and the highly risky Battle of the Bulge in late 1944 into 1945, can be better understood, knowing the sizeable impact that Hitler’s physical and mental conditions had on these vital battles.

Also, consider picking up a copy of my earlier book, Carrying The Black Bag: A Neurologist’s Bedside Tales (Texas Tech University Press). Please join me on my personal journey as a physician and meet my patients whose reservoirs of courage, perseverance, and struggles to achieve balance for their disrupted lives provide the foundation for this book. But step closely, as often they speak with low and muffled voices, but voices that nonetheless ring loudly with humanity, love, and most of all, courage.

Buddy- The Slacker

Animals on the ranch, Border collie herding abilities, Bulls, dog behavior, Dogs and Humans- A Special Relationship, Life On The Ranch March 30, 2018 Comments: 2

Authors Note: In my last blog piece (A Sense Of Place), I referenced an old story. Slacker, that on reflection I might not have ever posted. My apologies, if I am repeating. The piece is a bit long especially the lead in. but I encourage you to stick with it. A very young Buddy surprised both Trudy and me with the greatest feat of herding I have personally ever witnessed. This is where in “gangsta” terms, he “made his bones.”

Buddy’s potential for becoming a phenomenal herding dog suddenly becomes evident. Now that Buddy has become an old dog and a risk adverse dog and with his best herding days far behind him, recollection of his early herding prowess fills me with pride. I hope you enjoy this reflection.- JTH

A young Buddy posing

Wire mesh panels hung askew from the thick steel cable. What had breached this water gap was immediately evident to me, as our bull had proved to be a breakout artist and an all-too-frequent explorer of Live Oak Valley. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed, reluctantly. “Guess what? Bull’s missing.”

“Oh shit, not again?” my wife shouted into the phone.

I flinched. Then I heard a long sigh followed by a pause before Trudy responded, “Be there in a few.”

Fifteen minutes later Trudy and I hiked the dank creek bottom at our Texas ranch. It smelled of decaying vegetation and heady juniper. I also had a sense of my own building desperation. Trudy’s glare described her lack of enthusiasm for another bull chase. She hesitated near the destroyed blowout fence, shook her head and pivoted to face me.

“Can’t believe the damned bull’s out again.” Her eyes were slit-like, her arms crossed, and her lips held tightly together. “What’s it Francisco calls him?” By reminding me, she had already inflicted a verbal wound.

“Hamburguesa,” I whispered, careful to avoid locking gazes.

“Ah yes, Hamburguesa,” she boomed. “And why, pray tell, why did he call him that?”

I gave a mental shrug. “Well, Francisco grumped that the next time he met the bull, he wanted him between two buns at McDonald’s.”

Trudy’s hand shot up, jabbing the air emphatically, “Yeah, sounds good to me too, make mine a double bull burger and hold the cheese! After all, I’m watching my calories, you know.”

She gave a brief, tension mitigating smile. I nodded and bent low beneath the creek-spanning steel cable. When a flash flood occurs—a fairly regular occurrence in the Texas Hill Country, the incredible force of the raging water tears the wire panels away from their metal fence posts. This allows the panels to swing back and under the cable so that limbs, trees, and other flood-related detritus can flow under the panels rather than rip out the entire fence line. As useful as these water gaps are, they are  the weakest point in the fence line and where lusty bulls typically break out.

With careful steps Trudy and I trudged along the creek bank as my gaze glanced into the stream, unable to resist the urge. Growing up in Texas, I’d heard many stories about poisonous snakes. Standard fare at Boy Scout campfires, almost as common as consuming s’mores, had been stories of wriggling water moccasins boiling up from the depths of a creek and pulling down an unfortunate person to a slithering, agonizing death. While no real proof existed for this often-repeated tale of woe, we Scouts were convinced such horrible occurrences must have happened.

Trudy’s pace hesitated, distracting me from my obsessive serpentine thoughts. She turned toward me. “Why is it, COW-BOY, after countless breakouts, you haven’t sold that roaming ruminant and bought a bull with instincts more akin to a homesick prairie dog?”
Ouch, I recognized a practiced soliloquy when I heard one. She must be seething.

Charolois bull in a less distracted state


I felt Trudy’s frustration as fully as did she. In the past we’d scoured the hills and valleys of neighboring ranches, searching for our missing bull. We’d navigated treacherous arroyos, advanced through nearly impenetrable stands of juniper, and skittered down rocky embankments on our pained backsides, all of which had inevitably left us sore, scraped, frustrated, and barely speaking.

I had not missed her enunciation of “COW-BOY” and her sharpness of tone. While stinging, I was relieved my lawyer/wife had used it, rather than one of her scatological, so-called “legal terms of art.”

“Well Trudy, he was expensive, out of a champion line. And he throws great calves.” This is your final foray, big guy. It’s a one-way trip for you to the auction barn.

She paused to speak but before she could argue further, her foot slipped off a wet rock and she splashed into the shallow creek bottom. I heard her emit a grunt and saw her face develop a scowl worthy of Ivan the Terrible during a bad toothache.

“Yikes, this water’s arctic!“

“You okay?”

“You ask me, this freakin’ bull’s got the lineage of a bulldozer crossed with a race horse!” Frustration basted her voice, as she scrambled out of the icy, spring-fed creek.
This isn’t going to be fun.

Desperate for Trudy’s help, I felt mollifying her was a must, as teamwork would determine our already limited chances for success. “Well, we may need to sell the big guy. His episodes are getting more frequent and he’s learned to outsmart us.”

My good friend and neighbor, Tom, his three young grandchildren, Trudy, Francisco, and I had chased the bull on multiple occasions. Tom’s grandchildren, careening about the neighboring ranches in Tom’s four-wheel ranch utility vehicle, had relished the pursuits to a much greater extent than had we. Tom’s grandchildren once had even pleaded, “Grandpa, next time we’re at the ranch can we pleeeease chase the bull again?”

But in this instance “Colonel Tom,” as we called him, and his young charges were unavailable and Francisco was away from the ranch for the weekend. The task of rounding up our wayward bull fell solely to Trudy and me. We were feeling clearly over-matched. But we had little choice but immediately to take action, as the bull had escaped in the direction of a ranch known for its prize-winning Angus. A white calf amid a herd of Black Angus stood out like a beacon, as with great embarrassment I had once before experienced.

While all marriages have disagreements, often over money, sex, or how best to raise children, our marriage had matured to the banal stage where these bull chases represented the principal challenge to our marital bliss. Okay bull, this time it’s gonna be you or me.

I had left Buddy, our nine-month old Border collie back inside the pickup with the windows partially down for ventilation. Before heading down the creek, my parting glimpse of the young dog was of him perched in the back seat with his left ear standing up and his right ear flopped over. Buddy had never been able to elevate his right ear, a maturational quirk I assumed, but one that imparted a comical and eternally youthful appearance.

Buddy when a little older and after bringing his ear under control

Trudy and I continued down the creek bank. Here we are busting our butts, chasing the bull while our lazy dog snatches a snooze in the pickup. What good is a working dog that just sleeps in the pickup? What a worthless slacker he is! Maybe I should get rid of him at the same time I get rid of the bull?

Trudy and I rock-hopped our way down the shaded creek bottom where slivers of sunlight created silvery streaks in the rolling creek water. We ducked beneath bowing branches of live oaks, dodged flickering cottonwoods, and pushed through pungent juniper whose needles clawed at our exposed skin.

Trudy’s hair became disheveled with twigs tangled within her neck length, curly russet locks. The burbling creek and rustling leaves of the cottonwood trees seemed to hint at what an impossible challenge lay ahead for us.

A quarter of a mile into the adjacent ranch, in an area overgrown with clinging brush and waist high native grasses, we discovered the neighbor’s cattle. This occasion also revealed the location of our bull. Cool Spirit, our peripatetic bull, stood in the middle of a scraggly herd of mixed breed cattle, languidly licking the neck of an old, skinny cow whose bones bulged out under her hide like a hastily built stork’s nest. The old saw came to mind how women in the bar get better looking after midnight, and I wondered if a similar sentiment might also hold true for horny bulls.

Of all the forms of love, lust seems the easiest to dispense with as it simply defies logic. Hillary Clinton once described her husband, Bill- America’s best-known philanderer, as too often thinking solely with his little head. This implies the sexual urge is a strong, an even overpowering one at times. After all our bull had charged through seven-stranded barbed wire fences, accepting untold cuts to be with an intoxicating, pheromone-secreting cow. Bill Clinton also had paid his public penance as a result of his libidinous escapes.

Just then something jarred my thoughts back to reality.
“You see that big bull over there?” Trudy said.

I shifted my gaze. “Good Lord,” I croaked, my voice cracking like a teenager. Apprehension shot through me like a jolt of electricity. By then the red bull before me had lowered its head and was advancing in the direction of our Charolais bull. Our bull had already spotted him, and had shifted his attention from the homely target of his desire toward the threat of the approaching bull. Our bull in turn lowered his white, curly topped head. The two bulls glared, snorted, and scraped hooves at each other from a distance of less than thirty yards.

Each bull weighed well over a ton. I felt my worry rocketing higher. Oh my god, we sure ‘nuf don’t need a bullfight.

Unfortunately our approach seemed to act like a starter’s pistol. Just as Trudy and I crept forward, both bulls became determined to establish their dominion over the scraggly herd. They began pawing in earnest at the ground with their huge cloven hooves, throwing sprays of brown dirt under their massive, bulging bellies.

Their aggressive displays, fearful as they were to us, deterred neither bull and soon gave way to full, all out combat. The bulls, like two race cars off the starting line, ran at each other, crashing head on. Locked head to head with  their muscles rippling, they strained to drive the other into a compromised position. The bulls continually emitted loud and fearsome sounds like preternatural beasts from Hades. Their ruckus kicked up a thin cloud of dust that carried on it their rank aroma.

Locked in combat their heated battle raged back and forth across the shallow creek bed. The bulls’ massive blows caused the very ground under my feet to shudder. Their enormous bodies knocked over small trees, as if broomsticks, and they splashed through the rocky creek bottom with a dull clattering of their hooves.

Appalled by this brawl, Trudy and I scrambled to find safety behind a large Live Oak tree. We cautiously peered around its trunk and observed the ongoing fight. I felt powerless to intervene, having by then lost any hope of driving our bull back to our ranch.

I felt thoroughly dejected. The escalating circumstances had outstripped my limited capacity for retrieving our bull. Just on reaching this emotional low point, a flicker of movement caught my attention. I swiveled my head and caught sight of a black and white form flash by.

Recognition set in a second later, as both Trudy and I gasped in unison. Young Buddy, ignoring our shouted, desperate entreaties, raced headlong into the midst of the horrific bullfight.

“God, he’s going to be killed,” yelled Trudy, her cry barely rising above the din of the mêlée. Trudy turned and slumped down next to the tree, no doubt fearful for what was likely to follow- the killing of our half grown dog.

The bulls, focusing fully on their fight, paid no heed to the yapping dog. With the bulls locked in a violent head-to-head embrace, Buddy circled behind our Charolais. Relinquishing further attempts to intimidate with his high-pitched barking, Buddy instead gave the Charolais’ tail a vicious chomp. Startled by the attack and from an unanticipated direction, our white bull momentarily broke off the fight and took a hesitant step backward.

Our neophyte herder, sensing an opportunity, then circled and sped between the narrowly separated bulls. He charged maniacally at the red Shorthorn bull with his teeth bared. With a bite, as quick as a mongoose, Buddy gashed the red bull’s broad, dark nose. Blood flowed.

By biting him, Buddy had startled him and backed him off. Feigning a direct charge, Buddy was able to turn the Shorthorn slightly away from the Charolais. Then to my amazement, our young Border collie began to arc back and forth behind the Shorthorn moving him up a nearby hill.  At the same time, Buddy was able to gather the remainder of the herd and drive the lot of them out of the creek bed and up the hill.

I whispered to Trudy, “Oh my god! Would never have ever believed it, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”

“Is that vicious animal the same sweet puppy that licks my face first thing in the morning?”

When seemingly satisfied by the degree of separation between the two warring bulls, Buddy turned and loped back down the hill. He then made a kamikaze-like assault on our somewhat bewildered appearing Charolais, breaking it off at the last instant. This forced the bull to retreat several steps. Then after a series of charges, nips, and barks Buddy succeeded in turning him away from the retreating Shorthorn bull and ran the white leviathan along the winding creek bottom in the direction of our ranch.

“Come on, let’s trail him,” I urged, pulling Trudy from her sitting position to her feet.

Trudy and I scrambled out of our protected site and followed at a safe distance. We saw Buddy expertly drive the Charolais along the creek and into a copse of trees. When lost to sight, the ripping sound of breaking limbs along with Buddy’s urgent barks identified their location. Soon the bull emerged from the trees, hurried on by our overachieving, young canine. Buddy stayed after him providing constant herding pressure, hastening his always forward movement and in the direction of our ranch. The pair, bull and herder, soon passed through the broken fence line and back into our pasture.

I yelled to Trudy who trotted along creek bank, “How can a barely forty pound dog, too young to train, manage to break up a bullfight?” She shrugged her shoulders and turned her palms upward. I wondered where within Buddy’s DNA resided the knack for such shepherding? To this day, I stand in awe of the nascent abilities of Border collies.

Trudy approached me, her head down as if penitent. On nearing me she raised her head and flashed a warm smile and a coy head tilt. I noticed she now moved with greater fluidity and in a more relaxed, willow-like manner.

We did not know it then, but never again when the bull would break out of our ranch, would we encounter difficulty returning him- thanks to Buddy. On spotting our oncoming Border collie, our wayward bull would immediately reverse course and beeline it back toward our ranch— such was the respect the Charolais had for Buddy.

With newfound spring in my step, I headed for my pickup parked near the water gap. Nearby I spotted Buddy sitting on his haunches, intently staring in the direction of our grazing bull.

“Just look, that dog’s grinning like a fat man at a smorgasbord,” said Trudy.

Buddy bore an unmistakable snout-wrinkling doggie smile. She reached for my hand and gave it a warm, gentle squeeze. We stood hand-in-hand for several minutes, gazing upon our cattle and admiring our collie.

I would soon make the necessary repairs to the blowout fence, but first I wanted to savor the success of Buddy’s achievement along soaking up my wife’s affection. With my idle hand I leaned down and stroked Buddy’s soft, furry head. He was panting, his tongue bobbing up and down like a pink yo-yo. His amber eyes sparkled with excitement.

Over the next several minutes I sensed his adrenaline rush ebb away. As I stroked his silky fur, he laid back his ears, turned his head, and evidenced a satisfied gaze.

The bond between man and dog is like no other between animal and man. The empathy and understanding of a dog can slow the anxious human heart. The love of a dog remains steadfast, providing affectionate licks to the hand that may lack food to offer. That day I felt the loving bond between man and dog like I had never felt it before.

“Now that looks like one happy dog,” said Trudy. She moved closer, and we hugged.
“I’m sorry for being so cross earlier. You know I love you.”

Author with Buddy who was born to herd

“Forget it, perfectly understandable. You know, this dog of ours might just work out.”

Trudy’s face split in an endearing smile and I heard her emit a giggle, as warm as a toasted bun.

Buddy had not only herded massive animals that day, but also my lop-eared canine had herded my wife’s disposition from sour to mellow. I couldn’t decide which feat was the more impressive.

I did realize that love, like good wine and I Love Lucy reruns, only improves with time.
That memorable day left me with two thoughts that still resonate. The first is that love presents itself in unique ways be it intoxicating lust, the security of mature love, or the incredible and unique bond between man and dog. Love of many kinds empowers the soul and warms the heart.

The second consideration is that help can arrive, when least expected, and charge in on four paws and have a wet nose.

Wolves Beat Dogs in Teamwork Test

Border collie herding abilities, Border collies, dog behavior, dogs, Dogs and Humans- A Special Relationship, Life On The Ranch November 14, 2017 Leave a comment

A video in the NY Times from Wednesday, November 8, 2017 got me thinking. The video produced by James Gorman made the provocative statement that wolves may be smarter than dogs. Could this be true?  More precisely the video claims wolves are smarter than dogs at learning the rope pull test. This task is where two animals of the same species have to work cooperatively to achieve success.

The rope pull test is commonly used test to determine cooperativeness among two animals and to compare among various species. The test consists of a tray around six feet long or so that has two tasty treats in plain sight but unavailable behind a screen. The two animals must simultaneously pull on a rope, at the ends of the slide, thus pulling out the sliding tray amd making the two treats available for consumption. As it turns out wolves learn this task quickly and work cooperatively. Dogs not so much. Other species able to perform the task include elephants, parrots, monkeys, and rooks (black birds). Dogs truly struggle with this task but can eventually learn it.

The explanation provided for dogs’ slowness to learn is that they are not used to working cooperatively with other dogs. Yes, dogs work with humans exceptionally well, such as with bomb sniffing, herding sheep, riding surfboards and skateboards, protecting homes, and sniffing out corpses in forensic investigations. But these are activities dogs do with humans, not in cooperation with other dogs.

Bella on the left and Little Jack on the right

 

Wolves, on the other hand, don’t work with humans but work with members of their pack for survival. If you think about it, this all makes pretty good sense, . Adaptability is after all important for survival. Dogs must adapt to their human companions and make them happy while wolves must adapt to their  pack and become successful hunters.

But this video in the NY Times got me wondering. Are my dogs capable of working together? If so, what can they do cooperatively with each other? I have shared over the years in this blog many examples of my dogs working with me to herd cattle. But this is a task they do in combination with me who is directing them to some extent (at least that is my illusion as de facto leader).

It didn’t take me long to find an example of my dogs cooperating with another dog. Not long after viewing the video I saw Bella, my female Border collie, and Little Jack, our “Texas brown dog” take off on a spontaneous hunting mission. You see, Jack is determined to save the world from what he must see as the scourge of armadillos and squirrels. Just moments before he had spotted an armadillo. After quite a chase, the dogs caught the armadillo. Jack tried to kill it on his own but the armadillo was too strong and pulled out of his bite. Jack held onto the tail of the armadillo and proceeded to ski behind the powerful animal, dragging Jack toward its burrow.

Bella then swooped in went after its head, trying to kill it. Together they managed a successful hunt that neither one of them alone could have pulled off. This hunting duo has killed at least four or five armadillos recently, making them highly effective hunters so long as they work cooperatively. Incidentally they act incredibly proud of themselves, showing extreme excitement and rapid panting after returning from a prolonged absence in which it becomes obvious had been a hunt.

This strikes me quite clearly as cooperation in my dogs. But is it not the only example. I’ve taken to going for a walk for my health most afternoons around 4:00. Not too surprisingly at around this time when usually working at my computer, two dogs will show up at my desk. It can be any two of them.  In tandem they will nose, scratch, whine, and otherwise manipulate me out of my chair. I am then herded unceremoniously toward the door and made available for their afternoon walk.

I have a theory as to why two come at me at a time.  When previously just one dog took on this task, I assumed he/she just needed to go outside to pee and I would promptly put the dog outdoors. They quickly learned a single dog strategy was ineffective.

Well there are two examples of my dogs working cooperatively with one another. There are others I will share in a later blog piece. Please dear readers share your examples. I plan a follow up piece and may be able to share your experiences with other blog readers. Let me hear from you!

Buddy- The Slacker: Part III

Animals on the ranch, Border collie herding abilities, Border collies, dogs, On Love, Raising Cattle, Ranch animals, ranching July 22, 2016 Leave a comment

This final part of Buddy the Slacker concludes when our nine month old Border collie, Buddy, races to our rescue.  Trudy and I can do nothing but stand perplexed as our bull has engaged in a ferocious battle with another bull. I hope you enjoy this concluding episode of this true story and look forward to your comments as to how to improve the piece.

 

Buddy is on the right

Buddy on the right

Appalled, Trudy and I scrambled for safety behind a large live oak tree. Once there we cautiously peered around its trunk and observed the ongoing bull fight. I felt powerless to intervene, having lost all hope of driving our bull homeward.
I felt dejected. These trying circumstances had outstripped my capacity for retrieving our bull and now I worried that our bull would end up gored by the opposing Shorthorn bull. Just on reaching my emotional low point, a flicker of movement caught my eye. I swiveled my head and caught sight of a black and white form flashing by me. Recognition soon set in. Trudy and I gasped. Young Buddy, ignoring shouted entreaties, raced headlong toward the bullfight.
“God, he’s going to be killed,” yelled Trudy, her cry rising above the din of the mêlée. Trudy slumped down next to the tree; fearful to even watch, believing our half grown dog was about to be killed.
The bulls, focusing on their fight, paid little heed to the young, yapping dog. With the bulls locked in a head-to-head clutch, Buddy circled behind our Charolais bull. Relinquishing his attempts to intimidate with his high-pitched barking, Buddy instead gave our bull’s tail a vicious chomp. Startled by the attack and from an unanticipated direction, our white bull momentarily broke off the fight and took a step backward and looked behind him.
Our neophyte herder, sensing his opportunity, then circled around and sped between the then narrowly separated bulls. He charged maniacally at the red Shorthorn bull with his teeth bared. With a bite, as quick as a mongoose, Buddy gashed the red bull’s broad, dark nose. By bloodying him, Buddy had startled him and backed him off. Feigning a direct charge,Buddy then was able to turn him slightly away from where the Charolais stood. To my amazement, our young Border collie then began to arc back and forth behind the Shorthorn and, at the same time, gather the remainder of the cattle herd and drive the whole lot of them out of the creek bed and up a nearby hill.
I whispered to Trudy, ” Can you believe what we’re seeing?”
“Is that vicious dog the same sweet puppy that licks my face in the morning?”
When apparently satisfied by the degree of separation between the two bulls, Buddy looped back down the hill. He then made a kamikaze-like assault on our Charolais, breaking it off at the last instant. This feint forced our bull to retreat several steps. Then after a series of charges, nips, and barks Buddy succeeded in turning the bull away from the Shorthorn and then ran the pale leviathan along the winding creek bottom in the direction of our ranch.
“Come on, let’s trail him,” I urged, pulling Trudy up from her sitting position.
Trudy and I scrambled from our protected site and observed what was going on from a safe distance. We saw Buddy expertly drive the Charolais along the creek bank and into a copse of trees. While lost to sight, the ripping sound of breaking limbs along with Buddy’s urgent barking marked their exact location. Soon the panicked bull emerged from the trees hurried on by our overachieving canine.

Buddy provided constant pressure, hastening the bull always forward in the direction of our ranch. The pair, bull and neophyte herder, soon passed through the broken blow out fence and back into our home pasture.
I yelled to Trudy who trotted alongside the opposite creek bank, “How can a barely forty pound dog, too young to train, manage to break up a bullfight?” She shrugged her shoulders and turned palms heavenward. I wondered where within Buddy’s DNA resided such amazing abilities?

To this day, I stand in awe of the talents of Border collies.
Trudy turned toward me and waded into, and through the shallow creek. She climbed the bank and approached me, her head down. On nearing me she raised her head and flashed me a warm smile. I noticed she now moved with greater fluidity and in a more relaxed manner.
We did not know then, but never again when the bull broke out from our ranch, would we encounter difficulty returning him- thanks to Buddy. On spotting our Border collie, our wayward bull would immediately reverse course and beeline it back home— such was the respect the Charolais had gained for Buddy.
With newfound spring in my step, I headed for my pickup parked under a pecan tree near the water gap. Nearby I spotted Buddy sitting on his haunches, staring in the direction of our grazing bull.
“Just look, that dog’s grinning like a fat man at a smorgasbord,” said Trudy. Buddy bore an unmistakable snout-wrinkling doggie smile. She reached for my hand and gave it a loving, gentle squeeze. We stood hand-in-hand for several minutes, gazing upon our cattle and at the same time, admiring our collie. Soon I would need to make repairs to the blowout fence, but first I wished to savor the success of Buddy’s achievement and enjoy my wife’s change in mood.
With my idle hand I leaned down and stroked Buddy’s soft, furry head. He was panting, his pink tongue bobbing up and down like a yo-yo. His amber eyes still sparkled with excitement. Over several minutes I sensed his adrenaline rush begin to ebb. As I stroked his silky fur, he laid back his ears, turned his head, and fixed on me an expectant gaze.
The bond between man and dog is like no other between man  and animal. The empathy and understanding of a dog is known to slow the anxious human heart. The love of a dog remains steadfast, providing affectionate licks to the hand that may lack food to offer. That day I felt the loving bond between man and dog like never before, and I felt appreciation for a very special animal like never before.
“Now that looks like one happy dog,” said Trudy. She moved closer, and we hugged.
“I’m sorry for being so cross earlier. You know I love you.”
“Forget it, perfectly understandable. You know, this dog of ours might just work out.” Trudy’s face split in an endearing smile and I heard her emit a giggle, as warm as a toasted bun.
Buddy had not only herded massive animals that day, but also my lop-eared canine had herded my wife’s disposition from sour to mellow. I couldn’t decide which feat was the more impressive.

I realized that love, like good wine and I Love Lucy reruns, only improves with the passage of years. I felt the love especially strong that day for both my wife and for my dog.
That memorable day left me with two thoughts that still resonate to present day. The first is that love presents itself in unique ways be it intoxicating lust, the security of mature love, or the incredible and unique bond between man and dog. Love of many kinds empowers the soul and warms the heart. The second consideration is that help may arrive, when least expected. It may even charge in on four paws and have a wet nose.

THE END

Buddy- The Slacker: Part II

Border collie herding abilities, Border collies, Creative Writing, dogs, Ranch animals, ranching July 21, 2016 Leave a comment

In Part I of this story, I discover a destroyed fence at a water gap and immediately suspect our wayward bull. I then mobilize my long suffering wife, Trudy, to help me round up our missing bull. Meanwhile our Border collie puppy remains behind in the back seat of my pickup, sleeping. The story continues:

 

My good friend and neighbor, Tom Norris along with his three young grandchildren, Trudy, Francisco, and I had chased our bull multiple times across a good chunk of our rural county. Tom’s grandchildren, careening about in his four-wheel ranch utility vehicle, had greatly enjoyed the pursuits. Tom’s grandchildren had later pleaded with him, “Grandpa, next time we’re at the ranch can we pleeeease chase the bull again?”
But in this instance “Colonel Tom,” as we were fond of calling him, and his young charges were unavailable and Francisco was off work for the weekend. The task of rounding up our wayward bull fell solely to Trudy and me.

And we had no choice but to take action, as the bull had escaped in the direction of a ranch known for its prize-winning, pure bred Angus. A white calf amid a herd of Black Angus stands out like a beacon, as with great embarrassment I had experienced once before and for which I had felt the need to apologize to my neighbor.
These bull chases had become a fretting issue for Trudy. While all marriages have disagreements, often over money, frequency of sex, or how best to raise children, our marriage had matured to the banal stage where  bull chases represented the principal challenge to our marital bliss. Okay bull, this time it’s gonna be you or me.

Charolois Bull

Charolois Bull

Earlier I had left Buddy, our nine-month old Border collie, in the pickup with the windows down for ventilation. Before heading down the creek, my parting glimpse of the young dog was of him perched in the back seat with his left ear standing up and his right ear flopped over. Buddy had never been able to elevate his right ear, an immature trait I assumed, but one that imparted to him a comical appearance.

Buddy at a somewhat older age in the bed of the pickup

Buddy at a somewhat older age in the bed of the pickup

Trudy and I continued to trundle along the creek bed. Here we are busting our butts, chasing our bull while our lazy dog snatches a snooze in the pickup. What good is a working dog that just sleeps in the pickup? What a worthless slacker! Maybe I should get rid of him at the same time that I get rid of the bull?
Trudy and I rock-hopped our way down the shaded creek bottom where slivers of sunlight created silvery streaks in the rolling creek water. We ducked beneath bowing branches of live oaks, dodged flickering cottonwoods, and pushed through pungent juniper whose needles clawed at our skin. Trudy’s arms were scraped and her hair became disheveled with twigs attaching to her curly russet locks. The burbling creek and rustling leaves of the cottonwoods hinted at challenges that still lay ahead.
A quarter of a mile into the adjacent ranch, in an area overgrown with clinging brush and waist high native grass, we discovered the neighbor’s herd of cattle. We also discovered the location of our bull, Cool Spirit. Our peripatetic bull stood tall in the middle of a scraggly herd of mixed breed cattle, languidly licking an old, skinny cow whose bones bulged from her hide like a hastily built stork’s nest.

The old saw came to mind about how after midnight the women in the bar must get better looking, and I wondered if such a sentiment might also be true for horny bulls.
Of all the forms of love, lust seems the easiest to truly understand as lust simply trumps all logic.

Hillary Clinton once described her husband, Bill- America’s best-known philanderer, as too often thinking solely with his little head. And this was by all accounts a very intelligent man. This is not to imply the sexual urge is not a strong one. In the case of our bull, he had charged through seven-stranded barbed wire fences, accepting untold cuts to be with an apparently intoxicating, pheromone-secreting cow. Bill Clinton had also paid his public penance as a result of his irresistible dalliances.
Just then something jarred my thoughts back to reality.
“You see that big bull over there?” Trudy said, a note of urgency in her voice.
“Good Lord,” I yelled on spotting it. Apprehension shot through me like an electric current. By then the red bull with its head lowered was advancing in the direction of our Charolais. Our bull had already spotted him, and had shifted his attention from the homely target of his desire to the menacing shorthorn bull. In turn our bull lowered his white, curly topped head. The two bulls glared and snorted at each other from a distance of under thirty yards. Each weighed well over a ton apiece. My worry rocketed still higher. Oh my god, we sure ‘nuf don’t need a bullfight.
Unfortunately our approach acted like a Toreador’s red cape. Just as Trudy and I edged closer, both bulls suddenly became determined to establish their dominion over the herd. They began pawing at the ground with their huge cloven hooves, throwing sprays of brown dirt under massive, bulging bellies.
Their aggressive displays, fearful as they were to us, dissuaded neither in the slightest. Their shows soon gave way to all out combat.

The bulls, like two hot rods playing chicken ran straight toward each other but then failed to dodge. They crashed head on into each other. With their muscles rippling, the huge animals strained to drive the other into a compromised position. They continually emitted loud and fearsome sounds like preternatural beasts from Hades. Their fight by then had kicked up a thin brown cloud of dust that carried with it their rank aromas.
Their heated battle raged back and forth from bank to bank across the shallow creek bed. The bulls’ massive blows caused the very ground under my feet to shudder. Their combined bodies weighing close to 5000 pounds knocked over small trees, as if they were mere broomsticks. They clattered through the rocky creek bottoms. It was a frightening spectacle to observe.

TO BE CONTINUED

Buddy- The Slacker: Part I

Animals on the ranch, Border collie herding abilities, Border collies, Creative Writing, dogs, Raising Cattle, ranching July 18, 2016 Comments: 3

Today I begin a three part series about Buddy, my male Border collie. I have written about him before. My story this time follows the story about Bella who acted as my reminder and is again in the vein of how our pets benefit our lives.  I think the story meanders a bit and would work better as a book chapter than as a blog post. The length alone requires it be presented serially. I would love your thoughts on this piece and how you’ve learned or benefited from your pets. I hope you enjoy my story about Buddy. Was he really a slacker?

Yours truly with Buddy as a puppy

Yours truly with Buddy as a puppy

Wire mesh panels dangled askew from a heavy steel cable. I immediately understood what had destroyed the water gap, as our bull had previously proved an excellent breakout artist and a frequent explorer of Live Oak Valley. I reluctantly grabbed for my cell phone and dialed my wife at our ranch house.
“Guess what, honey? Bull is… missing again.” I heard my voice crack, as I forced these words out, words that I knew would be unwelcome.
“Oh shit, not again?” she shouted irritably into the receiver.
I flinched under the assault. Then I heard a long exhalation followed by a pause before she said, “Be there in a few minutes.” I heard her phone click off.
Within fifteen minutes Trudy and I were again hiking the rocky creek bottom at our Fredericksburg, Texas ranch. It smelled of decaying vegetation, heady juniper, and a hint of desperation. The glare in her eye told me she was displeased at being mobilized for yet another bull chase. Trudy hesitated at the damaged blowout fence, shook her head, and pivoted toward me, her eyes flashing.
“Can’t believe the damned bull’s out again.” Her arms crossed, her lips tight. “What’s Francisco call him?” She knew full well what our ranch hand called him, but by reminding me, she’d already made her point.
“Hamburguesa,” I breathed the words in a barely audible voice, careful to avoid her gaze.
“Ah yes, hamburguesa,” she boomed. “And why, pray tell, did he call him that?”
I gave a mental shrug. Since I desperately needed her assistance and was feeling trapped, I answered civilly. “Well, Francisco grumped that next time he met our bull, he wanted him between two buns at McDonald’s.”
Trudy’s hand shot up like that of a great orator and jabbed the air emphatically as she had probably done many times in court, “Yeah, sounds good to me too and make mine a double bull burger and hold the cheese! I’m watching my calories, you know.” With this she gave an exaggerated wiggle of her hips and sucked in her stomach.

Trudy with Hay bale

Trudy with Hay bale

I bent low beneath the creek-spanning steel cable and marched resolutely into the adjacent ranch. I had a bad feeling about the venture that lay ahead.
Trudy and I trudged along the creek bank, as I furtively glanced about in search of water moccasins. I felt inwardly embarrassed by my compulsive searching for the dreaded serpents but felt unable to resist my urgings.
Growing up in Texas, I’d heard stories about poisonous snakes. As standard a fare at Boy Scout campfires as s’mores was how nests of wriggling water moccasins could boil up unexpectedly from the depths of a creek and pull a hapless person down to an agonizing death. While no real proof existed for this often-repeated tale, those of us in our Boy Scout troop remained convinced such horrible things must have truly happened.
Trudy’s pace hesitated, distracting me from my cogitations. She turned toward me. “Why is it, COW-BOY, she said with particular emphasis, “after countless breakouts, you haven’t already sold that roaming ruminant and bought a bull with instincts more akin to a homesick prairie dog?”
Ouch, I know a practiced soliloquy when I hear one. She must be seething.
To be sure I felt Trudy’s frustration as fully as she did. In the past we had scoured the hills and valleys of neighboring ranches, searching for our missing bull. We’d navigated treacherous arroyos, clomped through nearly impenetrable stands of juniper, and skittered down rocky embankments on our pained backsides. All of left us sore, scraped, frustrated, and with Trudy barely speaking.
I had also not missed her emphasis on “COW-BOY” with the unmistakable sharpness in her tone. While stinging, I was at least relieved my lawyer/wife had used it, rather than one of her more scatological, so-called “legal terms of art.”
“Well Trudy, he was expensive, out of a champion line. And he throws great calves.” This is your final foray, big guy. Once I lay hands on you it’s the one-way trip to the auction barn for you.
Trudy opened her mouth likely to harangue me further but before she could speak, her foot slipped off a wet rock and she splashed down into the shallow creek. I heard her emit a grunt and saw her face develop a scowl worthy of Ivan the Terrible on a bad day.
I couldn’t help but smirk at her watery dilemma.
“Yikes, this water’s arctic!“
“You okay?”
She scrambled out of the chilly, spring-fed creek.
This isn’t going to be fun. Needing Trudy’s help, she needed mollifying. “Well, we may sell the big guy. His escapes are happening more frequently and he’s learned how to evade us.”

 

TO BE CONTINUED