Udder End Farm

Every goat farm needs a good stock dog, doesn’t it? A guard dog to protect the flock, like a stolid fluffy Pyrenees, or a businesslike Anatolian, or maybe a hard working Aussie or Border Collie to help you move them around. How can any stockman manage without a good stock dog? Never having owned a good stock dog, I can still answer that question for you. It’s a simple matter of managing the particular talents of whatever dog you happen to have.

At present my working dog pack consists of a gorgeous British Labrador, an utterly impossible young Brittany spaniel, two fluff brained Shih Tzus of opposing temperaments, and an ancient, crabby Lhasa Apso. I depend heavily on this fine eclectic mix of canines, though maybe not for what you would think of as traditional stock dog chores.

Collectively, they function as a well oiled team for several unpleasant tasks I’d rather not deal with myself: things like harrowing horse manure, and ballasting the bed of my truck, or disposing of much of the organic debris that appears around the place, and directing the local feline physical fitness program. My dogs certainly earned their weight in kibbles when they served on the welcoming committee for that census taker that appeared at our door a few years back. But these are common assignments for any country dog. Let me tell you about each of my dogs’ unique gifts.

Wandering Aengus is our Labrador. He’s really quite charming and intelligent, but more important- he is steady. British bred labs have been genetically engineered to sit at the edge of a field, watch thousands of birds fall from the sky without twitching so much as whisker, mark every bird, and then, only when they are invited to, go retrieve them all. Aengus is the embodiment of unflappable calm and obedience. I employ him as temporary fencing. He’s very, very black, and goats don’t want to go anywhere near him. I can pose him sitting, standing or lying around anyplace and he will not move until I invite him to. Then, I ask him to pop up suddenly and send a group of goats in a particular direction. As a herding animal Aengus is less than useless, because he marks a single goat and tries to retrieve it, and can’t seem to grasp the concept of keeping a group together; but he does make a wonderful gate.

Next, there’s that French dog, Gigi (do the French eat a lot of goat?). Gigi is what I made her. Actually, she is what I failed to make her. There is a lot of muddy water under the bridge in my history with pointing/flushing dogs, and now is not the place to psychoanalyze it: Psycho being the keyword in Gigi’s case. In her favor, if you can call it that, Gigi is the closest thing we have to a real working stock dog, because her specific vocation in life is not finding birds; her vocation is chasing livestock. Goats, horses, sheep, other dogs- she doesn’t really care what she’s chasing as long as everybody’s running the same direction. The challenge is getting her to chase them in the right direction. If I were to attempt to appreciate Gigi at all it would be for chasing the deer out of my haystack, but she’s not consistent about it. When she chases them across the road, she starts chasing the neighbor’s cows and the deer just come back to their favorite hangout. Sadly, this dog will probably succumb to lead poisoning long before she develops her skills as a ranch hand, but she sure will have a lot of fun until then.

#1 Poop-Tzu, Lady Lulu BellaLuna, is a very sweet girl who serves two functions around the farm- sea urchin, and surrogate mother. In spite of three or four haircuts each year, Lulu grows hair at a phenomenal rate. She really likes to roll in all sorts of things, which stick to her like Velcro, and give her the air of a cheerful hedgehog. Unless you really need a portable compost pile, hairy little hedgehogs or sea urchins are no practical help on a goat ranch: But Lulu, unable to have babies of her own, is solid gold when it comes to young things in need. She likes babies. She likes to wash babies. She likes to snuggle babies. She likes to attend to every need of babies of all species. I’d prefer she limit her ministrations with young poultry, as she has a tendency to sog them to death in the washing process, but Lulu is our walking, wiggling, tail-wagging orphanage (just ask Fifi). Furthermore, mama goats which will automatically attack any other four-legged creature on the place will allow Lulu into the presence of their babies. Lulu’s presence affects other creatures like Our Puppy of Guadalupe, bringing a cosmic peace wherever she snuffles.

#2 Poop-Tzu, Terrible Duchess of Grrrrr, doesn’t have to serve any purpose on this place, because she already figured out what she is. She is one of those disgusting little yappy pillow-dogs with polished toenails and hair bows who simply exist for a living. O.K., that’s unfair; she’s adept at rounding up and bulldogging chickens, tilling flower beds, and announcing the arrival of moths, bumblebees and hummingbirds. But we found out how to use Duchess in spite of herself. On this little goat farm, she’s known as The Distraction. Elegant in her jeweled collar, perfectly coiffed and heavily perfumed, Duchess can be discreetly dropped into the middle of a group of goats and render them temporarily paralyzed with amazement. Goats can be snagged, tags read and recorded, health concerns examined, or grain bags emptied into troughs, all while Duchess works her little hypnosis stage act. The only catch is that it’s a temporary and fleeting act, and I almost do feel sorry for her when the spell breaks, and two hundred goats run over the top of this eight-and-a-half pound Barbie-Dog on their way to the feed trough. Also she eats bugs, which is probably a useful function on a farm, or anywhere- until she eats the wrong bug.

Finally, Peebles is our grumpy old gal. She hates everyone and everything, and sleeps most of the time. She’s all covered in warts. I call her a Lhasa, but there’s no doubt Peebles is chock full of some kind of Terrier, in light of her true passion. Her passion is rats. Peebs will awaken from a sound sleep in the middle of the night, claw down the front door, and run a ¼ mile down to the boat shed to search and destroy the pack rat she mystically detected there. And a fine job she does of it, too! One of my favorite memories is when a visiting preacher brought his young family to see the baby goats. Peebs was suddenly taken with a rat fit; barking, growling, and madly excavating the woodpile. Under the wide-eyed stares of a brood of small, innocent children, the doomed pack rat shot from under the pile and made a mad dash across the yard. Before it could escape into the garage, Peebles pounced, chomped, and began shaking her victim furiously, while audibly crunching up and down its’ spine. Old Peebs really loves to crunch ‘em. My eldest daughter, whom Peebles claims as her very own girl, deftly swept up the frothing little dog, and gracefully crushed the head of the still twitching rodent with her boot as she apologized for the small distraction. Whether or not those poor PK’s ever recover from the trauma, I hope they come to appreciate the importance of a dedicated rat dog on a farm.

Maybe you don’t think you have the proper dog for your goat operation. Maybe your spouse won’t let you get another dog. Maybe your dog won’t let you get another dog. Let’s just set our minds to rest. If you can’t work with the dog you want, love the dog you work.