Dancing Dogs (12 page)

Z
IP WAS EXCITED
. T
HE FARMER HAD JUST COME OUT OF THE
farmhouse. First thing every morning, before the mist was burnt off by the summer sun, he emerged from the house and called out, “Hey, Zip, let’s get working.” He quickly ducked into the barn and returned again with feed for the goats and chickens. Then it was time to move the sheep from the barn to the outer pasture, where they would graze until the sun got too strong.

Zip ran back and forth in front of the sheep, which were all struggling to their feet, baaing loudly. Zip loved work more than anything except, perhaps, sunning herself or getting her head and ears scratched. The sheep were her responsibility, she watched over them day and night. It gave her life focus and connected her to the ancient ritual of working with a human being, and serving him.

Some of these characteristics were in her bones, but she had learned much more from Fly, the farmer’s border collie,
who had grown up with Zip on the farm, and who had herded the sheep with great energy and skill until she lay down with them in the pasture one summer night and died in her sleep.

Zip, who was not a border collie, was lonely. She missed her companion, but she had watched Fly and studied her, so she knew what to do. Fly and Zip had been inseparable, working the sheep day and night, protecting them together. Fly had been generous, working happily with Zip, passing on her experience, showing her how to understand and move sheep, and Zip had taken to the work as naturally as Fly had. Zip was not quite as agile or quick as Fly, but she was determined and had great poise and authority, and the sheep did what she wanted them to do.

Zip loved the way the sheep reacted, their heads going up when she and Fly had appeared in the mornings, how they’d bunched together anxiously, how they’d come to associate Fly and Zip with grass and moved eagerly along with them.

One or two would always break away for something greener, and Fly, so quick, would head them off, turn them, nip them on the nose if necessary. Zip saw how easily the sheep could panic—when a coyote appeared, or another animal moved in the brush, or lightning struck a tree in the forest, or a plane roared overhead—and she and Fly would sense this, get ahead of them, turn them, keep them together, calm them.

Zip saw how the sheep’s heads would go down when they found good grass, and then go up when they were full and it was time to return to the shade, to water and the safety of the barns and fences. The lambs loved to play, refusing to be herded, and they made their mothers crazy with worry and
responsibility. It was hard to keep them together with the flock and away from dangers and predators.

Zip learned to be careful around the rams, who could get belligerent and territorial, and would often butt her if she wasn’t paying attention.

In the middle of the night, especially on hot nights when the farmer let her stay in the pasture outside the barn, Zip would stand in front of the herd, watching for the coyotes that often came creeping around. At the sight of them, she would get to her feet and move forward to confront them, making as much noise as she could, staying between them and the herd. She sensed they were cowards and opportunists, and when she came forward to confront them, they fled.

The farm sat in a flat lush valley surrounded by soft green hills. There was a big white farmhouse, and a pasture for milk cows, and a milking barn. Zip was not allowed near the cows. They were dangerous, as they would kick her. The sheep were in a larger pasture to the south, with their own gates, fences, and barns. They lived outside almost all of the time, except when it was raining heavily or very cold. Twice a year, the farmer lambed. Two or three times a year, trucks came and took some of the sheep away—Zip never knew where, and the farmer always locked her up in one of the barns when this happened. When she came out, she would look for them, but they would be gone. They never came back.

The sheep were different from dogs, or even from cows. They were simple. They ate, chewed their cuds, slept. They never anticipated what might happen to them, or remembered what had already happened. They never quite understood that Zip was there to take care of them, so she often had to reestablish her authority. They had little memory and
often made the same mistake twice. Falling into holes, getting snagged on fences, tripping on rocks, running into fence posts. They needed watching.

The farmer was a tall, weathered-looking man. He wore the same thing just about every day—lace-up waterproof boots, Carhartt overalls, a plaid flannel shirt, a hooded sweatshirt with a woolen cap. He was a gentle, confident man. He never panicked, or got upset, which Zip appreciated. Over time, the two of them had built a strong and comfortable relationship. The farmer always spoke to her clearly and softly. He’d grown up on the farm, as had his father and grandfather, and he knew every inch of it. And he understood animals—livestock as well as dogs. He knew how to talk to them, knew what made them nervous and what calmed them. His farm was a well-run place, and a sense of that permeated the barns and pastures and was absorbed in the animals who, like the farmer, generally went about their business and did what they were expected to do.

Zip loved working with the farmer, loved his smell, his gentleness, and most of all, the work that he brought her. When he commanded, “Away to me!” or “Get the sheep!” her heart felt like it would come right out of her chest, and she took off as quickly as she could run, trying to get around the herd so that they would stay together, and she could follow them up to the pasture and stand guard.

Sometimes, Zip could sense, the farmer got frustrated. Zip was not as fast as Fly had been, not as instinctive. Sometimes the sheep got ahead of her, or didn’t turn, or ran off to the far rise of the pasture. The farmer would shake his head, mutter a bit, and go up and get them with Zip. He never yelled at her, though she could sense his disappointment.

But Zip knew she was, without a doubt, the smartest
thing on the farm with four legs. She knew the sheep far better than any farmer could. She could smell things the farmer couldn’t even imagine existed. She saw their eyes when they were frightened, saw their heads go up when they were hungry, heard the sound of pain when their hooves were cracked, could read the messages when they called out to one another, or to their lambs. She knew the smell of the ewes when they were pregnant, understood when they were about to give birth.

She also heard the farmer’s footsteps hit the floor in the morning, the running water in the shower. She could read his mind before he even conceived his own thoughts.

Z
IP
’
S LIFE
had not always been this good. It had taken her a while to trust this farmer. She had been born on a nearby farm, with a different kind of farmer, who was angry and frightening. He threw rocks and used a stick; and Zip was, to this day, fearful of sticks even to the point of biting anyone who came near her with one.

Fly had come to that farm as a puppy, and grown up right alongside Zip. Zip and Fly had quickly grown attached to each other. Life was rough there and each provided the only companionship for the other. Food was not always regularly available, and the farmer was brusque, angry, and could sometimes turn impatiently violent.

But then Zip’s life changed. The farm was sold. A truck came, and a rope was tied to her neck, and she was dragged and pushed into the truck and taken to another farm. She didn’t know then that Fly was going too.

The new farmer was so different. He was gentle and spoke to her by her name. He fed her twice a day, brushed
her, talked to her, scratched her ears and, once in a while, even kissed her on the nose. He brought her treats, all kinds of cookies and feed. It was a different kind of life, but it still centered around work. Every morning, Zip and Fly marched the sheep out to pasture, and stayed with them all day, and every evening they brought them back, sleeping near them all night.

From the first, Zip wanted to sleep in the house, to follow the farmer there. She knew there were good things to eat there; she could smell them. And she wanted to come in especially when it was cold or raining, but the farmer always turned and held up his hand as he latched the pasture gate. “Only people in the house,” he said.

And by now, years later, Zip knew all of the farmer’s commands by heart: “Come bye”; “Away to me”; “That’ll do, Zip”; or “Let’s bring ’em in.” She knew when it was time to take the sheep out, and she knew when it was time to bring them in, to move them into a different pasture, or keep them in the barn.

At night, when the sheep were well-fed and sleepy, the farmer would give her a biscuit, scratch her head and back, and thank her for her hard work that day.

But one day, a border collie a lot like Fly appeared on the farm. At first, Zip was excited. But this was a different dog, and unlike Fly, the dog seemed to pay no attention to Zip. He was focused entirely—almost obsessively—on the sheep and on the farmer.

He was a black and white dog, sleek and fast and low to the ground. Not at all like Zip, who was large and had heavier bones and big ears. The new dog watched the farmer closely, and reacted so swiftly to the farmer’s commands. The sheep reacted powerfully to the new dog, bunching together, staring
at him, locking eyes in the same way that Zip had seen Fly do but that she had never quite been able to figure out herself.

The farmer paid a lot of attention to the new dog, taking him out into the farmyard, working with him, getting him to lie down, sit, and stay, things he had never really taught Zip to do.

Zip was confused. She still took the sheep out in the mornings and brought them back. But after that, the farmer left her behind. He put her in the barn and worked only with the new dog.

Zip was more and more disturbed. She became anxious, sometimes refusing to leave the sheep and not allowing herself to be brushed. She wouldn’t take treats or permit the farmer to come close anymore.

One day, he came and talked to her.

“Hey, girl,” he said, “I know this is upsetting to you, and I see that you’re unhappy. But I need this dog here. He’s a sheepdog, a working dog. He can do things you can’t do, although you’re a good girl. I’m expanding the flock, opening a new pasture. There’ll be more lambs. It’s just too much for you. There will always be a place for you. You’ll get used to it. It’s for the good of the farm.”

Zip didn’t understand anything the farmer had said, although she did pick up the reassurance and affection in his tone. He was telling her things were okay, trying to calm her. But she knew she was being replaced. She had lost her job.

Suddenly, the rhythms and routines of her life were all jumbled. She couldn’t relax, and could barely sleep. Things were just not right. The new dog was always with the farmer, seeing the things Zip had only heard and never quite understood.

Then one day, the new dog—who was called Red—followed the farmer out past the farmhouse and into the pasture, trailing slowly behind him.

Zip raced back and forth in alarm, but the farmer didn’t react to her, he just continued speaking to Red. All kinds of images flashed through Zip’s mind—sheep running and panicking, coyotes skulking around. She felt more protective of the sheep, and of her own work caring for them, than she ever had.

When the farmer opened the gate, Red rushed right by Zip, as if she were invisible, and headed toward the sheep. At first, Zip was paralyzed and confused. Then her instincts kicked in. Zip would protect the sheep.

She charged in front of Red, lowered her head, and bit him in the shoulder. He yelped, and she bored into him, making as much noise as she could. Red seemed shocked. He was stunned, in pain, and he ran back out the pasture gate, toward the farmer.

Zip was proud of herself, and so relieved that he was gone. She expected praise, as she had always received when she protected the sheep. But the farmer was angry. He threw a stick at her—something he had never done—and yelled at her in an angry voice. “No, Zip! What’s wrong with you? Bad! Bad!”

Things went from bad to worse for Zip. The farmer and Red returned to the pasture the next day, and Zip again charged toward the gate. The farmer yelled again, and he put a rope on Zip and pulled her into the barn. He was angry, shouting. “What’s come over you, girl? You can’t be out here if you’re going to be this way.”

He locked her in one of the rooms in the barn.

Zip was crushed. She understood that she had failed, but
she had no sense of how. She had done what she’d always done. But still she was being shunted aside for this other dog.

She stayed in the barn for days, anxious and angry, as she heard the dog and the farmer come and go. She cried out again and again, but to no avail.

The farmer brought her food there, but he would not let her out. And she refused to eat, or to be consoled. She rushed toward the door, tried to nose it open, barrel through it, but she couldn’t get out.

Zip missed her work terribly, and was deeply worried about the sheep. She became lethargic, refusing her food, even treats, backing off whenever the farmer came near her. How could she be shut up in a barn while the sheep were outside in the pasture, in danger?

She knew the farmer and Red were going out to the sheep two or three times a day, but she could not understand the shouts and commands and movements she could feel and hear. The sheep were not panicking, running, or being attacked. They were moving out to pasture, and they were coming back. Some of them called out to her, and she responded.

But Zip heard no cries of pain or alarm, smelled no blood.

The farmer kept coming in to see her. He was worried. She sensed that. She closed her eyes and dreamed of Fly, of their herding days together. This dog was different. She knew from the way the farmer acted, from the way Red acted, that she and Red would not be working together.

After several days, a familiar pickup pulled into the farm. It belonged to a man the farmer called “Doc Osterhaudt,” the man who stuck needles in her and looked into her eyes. She always tried to hide when she heard his truck.
Usually, the farmer locked her up before the truck came so she couldn’t run off.