Farm Dogs

Her name was Nellie.  She was a Border Collie.  But not just any Border Collie.  She was the best sheep dog in the state.  Maybe in all the states.  She knew the names of every sheep in paddock. Holler out a name and Nellie would go get that one sheep.  Shearers came through in the 1940s and offered $1500 for her.  If you’ve ever had a good working dog you know that grandpa smiled and declined the offer.

And that‘s the thing with farm dogs. Good ones. Their worth is immeasurable.

This good girl turned 6 today. She’s still outside in the cold drizzle while I sit here in the warm house. She didn’t want to come inside quite yet. She’s not done for the day. What’s she doing? Who knows. She could be checking on the neighbors. Or searching for the calico kittens that momma moved yesterday. Or she could be sniffing around my car, looking for leftover raccoon nuggets after the unfortunate events of last night at 70 mph.

She’s no Nellie. But she’s become a good farm dog. Once a city dog, with anxiety and submission issues that caused her to piddle in fear of her own shadow, she’s become fearless. Here, in a place with no fences and little traffic, lots of fresh air and fields, she’s home.  

So, happy birthday, Bella Luna, aka Puppy, part Border Collie rescue mutt. Thank you for guarding me while I feed cattle, thank you for waiting for me to come home, thank you for love and kisses and hours of fetch. 

Tomorrow we’ll start learning the names of all the cows. Or maybe we’ll just start with watching gates. You’re a good girl.

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Leaving Church:

There’s a picture.  Of me sitting on the well platform. Baby chicks surrounding my baby toes.  Maybe I was 4 years old.  Or 3. I don’t remember sitting on the well platform but I remember the chicks.  I remember the softness of their feathers.  Their little chirps.  Their orientation toward the any scrap of food. And I remember the dirt between my toes.  The dry coolness of it.  I learned over the years where every sandbur patch was. How to avoid them and eventually walk through them.  Developing callouses was the trick.  Coupled with walking lightly, I could go anyway. And I did.  Through the yard, past the garden, to the silage pile and beyond where the edge of the cornfield met the fence line.  All the way up the hill to the alfalfa field. Stopping at the well on the way, resting on the platform. Filling myself with ice cold water from far below that dirt on which I walked, barefoot.

The need for walking through sandbur patches prepared me for life in the church. The callouses protected me from the sharpest jabs and pokes over 20 years of navigating the church’s back forty. But I grew weary of being hard. I wanted that water on my lips and that dirt between my toes.  I wanted the softness of those chicks, again.

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