It had already been a busy morning. I’d gone outside
with Blue and a plastic bag, resigned to following behind
him and collecting a specimen for the vet. (Dogs have
physicals, too.) But we’d hardly cleared the screen door
when things got exciting.
Blue spotted four deer beyond the fence in our east
field and, too good to be true, a flock of wild turkeys in the
south field. He streaked away from me, woofing mightily,
and ran the length of the east field’s fence. That sent the
panicked deer streaking south and right into the turkeys,
who took off in their own clattering flurry to land in trees
outside the field. The deer raced on in arcing leaps down
the field, cleared the fence, and disappeared into the
woods.
What a show! And Blue enjoyed it too, especially as I
shouted ``Good dog!’’ repeatedly. He pranced a bit, paused,
turned thrice in a small circle, squatted, and provided the
perfect denouement. All that running did it, I guess. I
couldn’t have asked for more. I mean, anything else.
When he was done, Blue did his usual pawing, followed
by rocketing around the field in a victory lap, ears and
tongue flapping. He ended at my side, panting, with an
expression that clearly said, ``What a good dog am I!’’
As he certainly is. Witness his steadily more disciplined
approach toward the sheep, whom the loves. I’ve
told you how he used to enter the sheep’s paddock with
me, merge into the flock’s midst, and accompany them to
their food trough. But now, on his own, he’s realized that,
at that moment, he can’t pretend he’s a sheep; he’s a
working dog.
He enters the paddock with me and then stands by my
side as the baaing sheep, anticipating breakfast, come
thundering in from wherever they were grazing. An old
git shouldn’t block the way of six sheep at eighty pounds
each, and so I stand to the side and wave them toward
their inner yard and the trough, shouting, ``In!’’ Most go,
though a couple of dimwits always want to follow me to
the feed barrel instead of going to the trough. (Canny old
coot, I keep clear of those milling bodies by standing by
the barrel and throwing the feed over the fence and into
the trough, picking just the moment when all the bodies
and heads are out of the way.)
But even after hundreds of feedings, as I say, a couple
of dimwits still try to follow me to the barrel. And here’s
where the new, improved Blue moves into action. He trots
around behind the miscreants and woofs them to and
through the gateway to the inner paddock. And there,
wondrous to say, he stops and stands, with no attempt to
follow them and pretend he’s a sheep at the trough. What
a dog!
After Blue and I returned to the house, I carrying his
gift for the vet at arm’s length, I turned to the breakfast
dishes and Blue settled himself under the kitchen table.
Anne, upstairs dressing for a meeting, had left the ``Today’’
show on in the living room, and the principals were
yammering cheerily about upcoming guests.
One of guests must have been a baseball star, for as
they chattered, an engineer cut in with the opening bars
of ``Who Let the Dogs Out?’’ That’s an irresistible song,
and so, scrubbing egg yolk enamel off a plate, I sang the
repeat of the title line. ``WHO LET THE DOGS OUT?’’ I
bellowed lustily— and nearly dropped the plate when,
from under the table, my line was followed by ``Woof, woof!
Woof, woof!’’ And right on the beat, mind you!
What to make of a dog that can do that?
Blue has a few weeks off from his usual therapy-dog
visits to Bassett patients because of the run-up to the general
election. No, it’s not Blue that’s running this time,
though his celebrity might make him an apt candidate in
the future. After all, he can melt hearts with his soulful
eyes, especially because of the black streaks under them
that look so much like mascara smudged by tears.
It’s almost embarrassing to see Blue capitalizing on
those looks when we go to the Fly Creek General Store for
coffee. I tie him at the geezer bench outside, and he climbs
on the bench to watch my every move inside the big plate
glass window. My traditional seat is just beyond that
glass, and there he sits studying my every move, especially
if I bring something to my mouth.
As I return his gaze, I see many incomers pause to
scratch his head, and I see their mouths move as they say,
``Hello, Blue!’’ Then they come in and bawl me out for
leaving that lovely, sad dog outside and alone. If I don’t
watch carefully, some soft touch will buy a sausage muffin
and sneak it out to him.
But I can’t fault him for his ways with the public. In
many ways, his performance on the geezer bench parallels
what he does at Bassett. There he pads up to a wheelchair,
puts his head on someone’s knee, and gazes up with
those soulful eyes. Patients laugh with delight, and sometimes
even cry, perhaps as Blue evokes memories of dogs
long past.
Good for him, I say! And, in his vernacular, ``Woof,
woof!’’
Read Jim Atwell’s new book, From Fly Creek--Celebrating
Life in Leatherstocking Country along with Anne Geddes-
Atwell’s charming illustrations. Books are for sale at
your local book seller. Anne’s prints from the book can be
purchased by contacting her by phone or e-mail.
