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The Poem Chronicles
1/17/2008 12:40pm
Avenpart Xendaa/"Poem" Part 1
baa Volume 3 Number 6 March 24, 2007
I've never seen a photo or a video of her; tomorrow she lands at Kennedy. This is more than a blind date. No matter what she looks like, or how she behaves, I've committed myself; and be it her or be it me, it will be until death do us part.
Sight unseen I bought a 16 week old kelpie pup and flew her in from Australia. She comes from the Avenpart Kelpie Stud in Deniloquin, New South Wales run by Ken and Mary Mc Crabb. Avenpart is one of the most respected breeders of herding dogs in the world. Leaving Melbourne the pup flew non-stop to San Francisco, cleared customs there, and spent the night in a “pet hotel” before catching her flight to New York last Thursday. Her registered name is Avenpart Xendaa. She was sired by Avenpart Pekoe (Avenpart Zondo x Milburn Lucy) and whelped on the 21st of November, 2006 by Avenpart Tink (Halsteds Rex x Cotway Dell).
Xendaa is the 3rd bitch I’ve had with Avenpart blood; the first two, “Miss” and her daughter “Shade” were marvelous dogs: they loved to work sheep and were respecting and respectable companions around the house; in the truck, I took them everywhere I could. To continue with Avenpart breeding was a sensible choice to make, even if I couldn’t pick the pup myself. But I was worried. Two weeks ago, in email to Avenpart, I described to Mary the kind of pup I was looking for: a black and tan bitch with good eye, a calm working style and a wide cast. But I had a second, private meaning for “good eye,” other than the *stare that moves sheep*, one I couldn’t tell Mary. I wanted the past to come back, I want to see Miss and Shade when I look into her eyes.
Xendaa is the 3rd bitch I’ve had with Avenpart blood; the first two, “Miss” and her daughter “Shade” were marvelous dogs: they loved to work sheep and were respecting and respectable companions around the house; in the truck, I took them everywhere I could. To continue with Avenpart breeding was a sensible choice to make, even if I couldn’t pick the pup myself. But I was worried. Two weeks ago, in email to Avenpart, I described to Mary the kind of pup I was looking for: a black and tan bitch with good eye, a calm working style and a wide cast. But I had a second, private meaning for “good eye,” other than the *stare that moves sheep*, one I couldn’t tell Mary. I wanted the past to come back, I want to see Miss and Shade when I look into her eyes.
Avenpart Xendaa/"Poem" Part 2
baa Volume 3 Number 7 March 31, 2007
With a roar the metal door on the United Cargo loading dock rolled up; out came a whirring, yellow forklift with a small wooden crate on it. The operator set it down; and, yelling over a deafening jet taking off, he asked if I needed help loading it into my truck. To him it was just another crate, to me it was my dog. Nothing much grows at airports, they are loud ugly places, given to ugly thoughts—this is how coffins must arrive from Iraq—I shook my head and waved the operator off.
Beware of a charming dog. She would need a loving touch, but I couldn’t fawn over this pup. Later, she would need the dog love of a leader, not the gush of a love patsy to walk all over. Dogs are cunning, they appeal to our need to-love with their eyes; but with dogs nothing is certain, they capitalize on the language barrier that inhibits our verbal and rational understanding of them, usually getting the benefit of our doubts: “You must want more food Fido,” we say, appeasing our confusion and inadequacy; even when Fido is not hungry, he gets fed. The discipline that a dog needs is simply the self discipline of the owner. Dogs are like reading poetry that you don’t understand, like poems of John Asbury, you have to go with them—where faith becomes courage—and a dog, like a good poem, will show you something about language and about the world that is new.
Cautiously, I opened the crate door an inch, then another, until I could get my hand in to grab her collar. God, I didn’t want the pup to get away from me at Kennedy airport; I imagined myself chasing her down a runway with a 747 coming in behind us being pursued by a car full of Keystone Cops. I attached the leash I’d brought along, let her go and out the pup pranced seemingly in six directions at once. Seeing her at last made me smile; she was so small she made New York bigger.
I walked her out to the only natural thing there, a patch of dead grass near the roadway littered with crushed soda cans. I bent down and stroked this fragile, frightened thing, “Welcome little, you’re an American now.” Yes, I was happy; but dogs can bring sadness over me. Is it the responsibility I was undertaking for both of us? I don’t know. For her, this began a life-long commitment; and for me, might it be life-long too. Oh well, there was much for us to learn, for her to trust me, and for me to be patient with her. “Let’s get out of here little, let’s go home.” The pup began to quiver when I placed her on the front seat beside Dominique, who had helped me this Winter with the sheep. Dominique loves dogs, and dogs love her, I’d brought her along to comfort the pup on the ride back to Goshen. Contentedly, she held the pup close; yes all is well, love is fine, maybe I’m wrong; Patsy had her baby.
I took the Cross Bronx Expressway to the George Washington Bridge blowing my horn at the cars with plates from New Jersey.
Beware of a charming dog. She would need a loving touch, but I couldn’t fawn over this pup. Later, she would need the dog love of a leader, not the gush of a love patsy to walk all over. Dogs are cunning, they appeal to our need to-love with their eyes; but with dogs nothing is certain, they capitalize on the language barrier that inhibits our verbal and rational understanding of them, usually getting the benefit of our doubts: “You must want more food Fido,” we say, appeasing our confusion and inadequacy; even when Fido is not hungry, he gets fed. The discipline that a dog needs is simply the self discipline of the owner. Dogs are like reading poetry that you don’t understand, like poems of John Asbury, you have to go with them—where faith becomes courage—and a dog, like a good poem, will show you something about language and about the world that is new.
Cautiously, I opened the crate door an inch, then another, until I could get my hand in to grab her collar. God, I didn’t want the pup to get away from me at Kennedy airport; I imagined myself chasing her down a runway with a 747 coming in behind us being pursued by a car full of Keystone Cops. I attached the leash I’d brought along, let her go and out the pup pranced seemingly in six directions at once. Seeing her at last made me smile; she was so small she made New York bigger.
I walked her out to the only natural thing there, a patch of dead grass near the roadway littered with crushed soda cans. I bent down and stroked this fragile, frightened thing, “Welcome little, you’re an American now.” Yes, I was happy; but dogs can bring sadness over me. Is it the responsibility I was undertaking for both of us? I don’t know. For her, this began a life-long commitment; and for me, might it be life-long too. Oh well, there was much for us to learn, for her to trust me, and for me to be patient with her. “Let’s get out of here little, let’s go home.” The pup began to quiver when I placed her on the front seat beside Dominique, who had helped me this Winter with the sheep. Dominique loves dogs, and dogs love her, I’d brought her along to comfort the pup on the ride back to Goshen. Contentedly, she held the pup close; yes all is well, love is fine, maybe I’m wrong; Patsy had her baby.
I took the Cross Bronx Expressway to the George Washington Bridge blowing my horn at the cars with plates from New Jersey.
Avenpart Xendaa/"Poem" Part 3
baa Volume 3 Number 8 April 1, 2007
The first night with the pup, the house felt empty, like guests had left, yet no one had been over. Mostly, I enjoy being alone; I guess I was feeling the loneliness the pup felt. The trip from the farm, where she was born, to Melbourne and on to New York took almost three days, and two of those days were spent in a crate in the dimly lit hold of a vibrating jet plane or waiting in a cargo hanger under greenish mercury or orangey sodium lights. Then she was wheeled into the outside air, and in the gray light of a sinking afternoon, her crate door opened; she felt my hand, she alighted and saw snow for the first time.
The morning before her arrival, I had established quarters for her in the house: with a hog panel, I closed off part of the linoleum-floored kitchen and placed a wire crate in the corner with a dog pillow inside. She had a sliding glass door that gave on to a deck that had several steps down to a snow covered yard that I had fenced for her. She had her space—I put out dry food, which she ignored; I pan fried a lamb chop, which she devoured—she had her manservant. When she finished eating, I picked her up, took her out to the deck and down into the yard to let her go. Zigzagging, she sniffed all around; in time she found her space and squat. “Good dog.” I coaxed her up the stairs, across the deck and into the kitchen; she went into her crate, circled round and plopped down on her green striped pillow. I placed a red metal stool near her and sat—we eyed each other—the distance was immense, without a commons of language, separated by species and by age, our journey together would take years.
She had quivered in the front seat of the truck all the way home from the airport. She missed the comfort and warmth of her littermates at Avenpart. It was my job to make this new place her home and to build her trust in me by letting her be a dog, and play the silly puppy too. Pups must know they have validity in the world, that they are equal in their being to us. And, along with that existential understanding, when they know they belong to something larger than themselves, when they know they belong to a pack—a pack of her and me—they become abiding and civil; but until then pups are pure mischief.
I know where we should go, but the problem is, I’m not sure I know how we should get there. In the 11 years since Shade was a pup, I’d forgotten the patience a puppy required. When I’d rolled a ball to her on the white rug, she watched it go by, and before my eyes, she squat and peed—I thought I’d trained her—clenching my teeth, I poorly feigned calmness and corrected her again. Yesterday when Karen asked me how the pup was, I said, “Some days I love her, and other days I want to love her.”
The morning before her arrival, I had established quarters for her in the house: with a hog panel, I closed off part of the linoleum-floored kitchen and placed a wire crate in the corner with a dog pillow inside. She had a sliding glass door that gave on to a deck that had several steps down to a snow covered yard that I had fenced for her. She had her space—I put out dry food, which she ignored; I pan fried a lamb chop, which she devoured—she had her manservant. When she finished eating, I picked her up, took her out to the deck and down into the yard to let her go. Zigzagging, she sniffed all around; in time she found her space and squat. “Good dog.” I coaxed her up the stairs, across the deck and into the kitchen; she went into her crate, circled round and plopped down on her green striped pillow. I placed a red metal stool near her and sat—we eyed each other—the distance was immense, without a commons of language, separated by species and by age, our journey together would take years.
She had quivered in the front seat of the truck all the way home from the airport. She missed the comfort and warmth of her littermates at Avenpart. It was my job to make this new place her home and to build her trust in me by letting her be a dog, and play the silly puppy too. Pups must know they have validity in the world, that they are equal in their being to us. And, along with that existential understanding, when they know they belong to something larger than themselves, when they know they belong to a pack—a pack of her and me—they become abiding and civil; but until then pups are pure mischief.
I know where we should go, but the problem is, I’m not sure I know how we should get there. In the 11 years since Shade was a pup, I’d forgotten the patience a puppy required. When I’d rolled a ball to her on the white rug, she watched it go by, and before my eyes, she squat and peed—I thought I’d trained her—clenching my teeth, I poorly feigned calmness and corrected her again. Yesterday when Karen asked me how the pup was, I said, “Some days I love her, and other days I want to love her.”
Avenpart Xendaa/"Poem" Part 4
baa Volume 3 Number 9 April 14, 2007
While I’m honking my own horn here, let me tell you about a good sentence I wrote. In Australia all breeders, be they breeders of sheep or of herding dogs, have keepers; that is stock they want to keep and don’t want to sell; stock they intend to breed themselves. The offspring from the matings of the keepers, it is hoped, will continue the genetic lineage of the breeder’s stud and further her reputation. When you go to an on-property merino sale, or to look at kelpies for sale, you won’t be shown the keepers, the breeder holds these close to her breast; they are probably hidden in a back field, behind the barn, in an out-of-the-way pen or kennel and kept distant from the sale offerings to not distract the buyer from the contemplation of his purchases. Of course, the sale sheep and dogs must be excellent examples of the breeding the stud is known for; but be assured, as good as these animals may look, as excellent as their parentage may be, they are not the breeder’s keepers.
A good sentence is like a good dog; it does what you want it to do. In early March, I had to have Shade put down; for 11 years, she had been a constant companion; her death emptied my days. The sheep had a different need, a dog to herd them—a good dog—and I needed a good sentence to get one.
After watching a DVD of a kelpie herding sheep in Virginia, a bitch about to whelp (her litter was to be for sale), I was still unsure. That evening, I opened the Avenpart website http://www.avenpart-avenel.com/avenpart_main.html and when I saw the photo of Avenpart Nulla Nulla advancing on a sheep, I knew I had to go back to Avenpart—yes—there are few things more beautiful to me than seeing a dog with good eye work sheep—yes—Avenpart was Shade’s breeding and the breeding of her dam, Miss (Avenpart Fancy Free). And yes, the pup’s airfare from Australia would be dear—but what’s money got to do with it—a good dog is priceless.
On the Avenpart puppy page there were pups from four litters for sale. The Avenpart Pekoe X Avenpart Tink litter interested me: “Pekoe, an AI son of Zondo…has strong eye on a few…Tink is worked by Jenny Clarke. She has a terrific temperament, wide cast, nice amount of eye and she backs freely with some bark.” There was one pup left from this litter, a black and tan bitch, the kind of pup I wanted. I liked her because Avenpart Zondo, the sire of Pekoe, the most famous dog of his day, the Babe Ruth of kelpies, who had won most of the major Australian sheepdog trials, was also the sire of my first bitch, Miss. Zondo was the grandsire of this pup and of Shade—we were family—I had not cried after Shade died, only joy brings me to tears. I emailed Mary at Avenpart but didn’t tell her which dog I wanted—I could only hope—Mary would choose the litter and the pup.
A good sentence is like a good dog; it does what you want it to do. In early March, I had to have Shade put down; for 11 years, she had been a constant companion; her death emptied my days. The sheep had a different need, a dog to herd them—a good dog—and I needed a good sentence to get one.
After watching a DVD of a kelpie herding sheep in Virginia, a bitch about to whelp (her litter was to be for sale), I was still unsure. That evening, I opened the Avenpart website http://www.avenpart-avenel.com/avenpart_main.html and when I saw the photo of Avenpart Nulla Nulla advancing on a sheep, I knew I had to go back to Avenpart—yes—there are few things more beautiful to me than seeing a dog with good eye work sheep—yes—Avenpart was Shade’s breeding and the breeding of her dam, Miss (Avenpart Fancy Free). And yes, the pup’s airfare from Australia would be dear—but what’s money got to do with it—a good dog is priceless.
On the Avenpart puppy page there were pups from four litters for sale. The Avenpart Pekoe X Avenpart Tink litter interested me: “Pekoe, an AI son of Zondo…has strong eye on a few…Tink is worked by Jenny Clarke. She has a terrific temperament, wide cast, nice amount of eye and she backs freely with some bark.” There was one pup left from this litter, a black and tan bitch, the kind of pup I wanted. I liked her because Avenpart Zondo, the sire of Pekoe, the most famous dog of his day, the Babe Ruth of kelpies, who had won most of the major Australian sheepdog trials, was also the sire of my first bitch, Miss. Zondo was the grandsire of this pup and of Shade—we were family—I had not cried after Shade died, only joy brings me to tears. I emailed Mary at Avenpart but didn’t tell her which dog I wanted—I could only hope—Mary would choose the litter and the pup.
Avenpart Xendaa/"Poem" Part 5
baa Volume 3 Number 10 April 21, 2007
“Dear Mary…your eyes will have to be my eyes. I'm assured by your experience and reputation that you know what you're looking at in your pups; and I'm confident that you would have a better feel for them, and their potential, than I would, even if I were standing there beside you.”
“Dear Eugene…I have picked out a very outgoing Tink pup who is working sheep now so if you confirm that you want to go ahead I can book her on a flight immediately.”
The Pekoe x Tink litter! Mary picked the one I wanted without knowing my preference—her eyes were my eyes. But did the sentence I wrote have anything to do with her choice or was I just lucky? Rereading the sentence: it was wordy, obvious, a little embarrassing and I wanted to edit it, but I didn’t. And nobody died. The good thing about a bad sentence is that it’s not the ‘perfect sentence’ as defined by William Burroughs: when you read it you die (merci Barg). I thanked Mary; and she replied, “I do hope you like her as I would have liked to have kept her here. I have kept the 2nd best one.” But the Avenpart web page only listed one sale pup from that litter, not two? I got another, the hidden one, the kept one, I got the keeper!
Mary added, “She is a lovely pup. Everyone calls her “Princess” here, you call her what you like, but she will be registered as Xendaa.” And that’s another problem, what do I call her. Wondering what her name was while walking along Goshen’s Main Street one afternoon, two matrons in sneakers, maybe Daughters of the American Revolution, stopped, admired her and asked me her name. I shrugged, “She hasn’t told me yet.” They smiled and walked away, and I could hear them whisper to one another, “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” “That poor dog should have a name,” as they entered the headquarters of the very proper Republican Assemblywoman, Annie Rabbit.
I guess you heard that the members of the New York City Council banned use of the “N-word” in New York. I support their ban of this pornographic euphemism. The City Council should be commended for its wisdom, or rather for its sense of humor; their unanimous resolution will ensure that comedian Chris Rock uses “nigger” and not that loathsome “N-word” in his stand-up routine. But what’s funny from one mouth is not funny from another, as Don Imus knows, race is complex and has as much to do with power as with morality; it’s not as plain as black and white.
When my father was a boy, in a time perhaps more innocent than our own, he had a little black dog that he loved, and you know what its name was.
Avenpart Xendaa/"Poem" Part 6
baa Volume 3 Number 11 April 28, 2007
“Dear Eugene…I have picked out a very outgoing Tink pup who is working sheep now so if you confirm that you want to go ahead I can book her on a flight immediately.”
The Pekoe x Tink litter! Mary picked the one I wanted without knowing my preference—her eyes were my eyes. But did the sentence I wrote have anything to do with her choice or was I just lucky? Rereading the sentence: it was wordy, obvious, a little embarrassing and I wanted to edit it, but I didn’t. And nobody died. The good thing about a bad sentence is that it’s not the ‘perfect sentence’ as defined by William Burroughs: when you read it you die (merci Barg). I thanked Mary; and she replied, “I do hope you like her as I would have liked to have kept her here. I have kept the 2nd best one.” But the Avenpart web page only listed one sale pup from that litter, not two? I got another, the hidden one, the kept one, I got the keeper!
Mary added, “She is a lovely pup. Everyone calls her “Princess” here, you call her what you like, but she will be registered as Xendaa.” And that’s another problem, what do I call her. Wondering what her name was while walking along Goshen’s Main Street one afternoon, two matrons in sneakers, maybe Daughters of the American Revolution, stopped, admired her and asked me her name. I shrugged, “She hasn’t told me yet.” They smiled and walked away, and I could hear them whisper to one another, “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” “That poor dog should have a name,” as they entered the headquarters of the very proper Republican Assemblywoman, Annie Rabbit.
I guess you heard that the members of the New York City Council banned use of the “N-word” in New York. I support their ban of this pornographic euphemism. The City Council should be commended for its wisdom, or rather for its sense of humor; their unanimous resolution will ensure that comedian Chris Rock uses “nigger” and not that loathsome “N-word” in his stand-up routine. But what’s funny from one mouth is not funny from another, as Don Imus knows, race is complex and has as much to do with power as with morality; it’s not as plain as black and white.
When my father was a boy, in a time perhaps more innocent than our own, he had a little black dog that he loved, and you know what its name was.
Avenpart Xendaa/"Poem" Part 6
baa Volume 3 Number 11 April 28, 2007
Juliet’s reason sedates Romeo, “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” Over Romeo’s slumbering body I called out, “O sweet Juliet, come and let me ply thy raven hair, then whisper in my ear, if thou wilt, the name of Will Shakespeare’s dog.” I had no shame; I was sacking cultures, east and west; I was raping locks; I did what I had to do; I was looking for a name.
The obvious name would come from shortening Xendaa, “Come Xen, come…” but the pup ignored me like a Buddha statue. And the homonym now seemed embarrassingly pretentious. Through the study of Zen, I became keen on Chan Buddhism, the unadulterated Chinese ancestor of Japanese Zen, which today exists only in the heart of the mind. I quit Zen. I met a Buddha coming down the road and I killed him, as I was admonished to do by Wu Men in his 13th century commentary on Chan Master Joshu’s 9th century koan: Joshu was asked, “Does a dog have Buddha nature?” he replied sharply, “Mu!” Since then, Zen acolytes have meditated on Mu, (pronounced 'muh') until their minds have the texture of tofu; they know of, but seldom realize, the simplicity of Chan Master Wu Men’s commentary on Mu, killing Buddha and enlightenment. The Dali Lama smiles, when asked if he is enlightened, and replies that he is but a simple monk, the good Buddha killer that he is.
I could call her Mu, I could call her Wu, I could call her Koan, I could call her Muse, which I did for awhile; but these are my names for her, they are not her name and they didn’t suit her; they were like gaudy seersucker shirts on me. I gave up. I needed some cheap sunglasses.
I donned a pair of knock-off Ray-Bans that were made in an adult sweatshop on the outskirts of Shanghai, or so I was told by a street vendor on 14th Street, well why not. Belief has two forms, and they are identical, the second form is disbelief; and that is all there is. But only when, that is all there is, is there something else. And it can’t have a name because if it does it can’t be known. And this is pure Chan.
One afternoon last week, I was going over to the farm on Rt. 17 K to feed the sheep and singing, as I often do, letting the verse make itself up as I drove along. When I came to a red light, I took off my sunglasses and looked down at the warm pup curled up beside me and concluded my song with the coda, “…O my little Poem,” she looked up with the most vulnerable brown eyes I have ever seen and gave them to me—she gave them to me—then looked away. That was all there was, and there was something else.
Avenpart Xendaa/"Poem" Part 7
baa Volume 3 Number 12 May 5, 2007
Poem and I are more free verse than sonnet, but we’re learning to rhyme. Our work is rhythmic, day in day out, by trial and error. I teach her to come and to sit on command; and when she doesn’t respond, she teaches me patience. It depends on the day as to who’s the slower learner.
She is house trained but still has a favorite spot on the carpet downstairs, within smelling distance of the cat box, for her dew. Last night, I caught her by the collar, trying to conceal my flash of anger in a fitting disappointment, I took her to the spot. “No!” Was this an accident or a lapse of memory on her part—she knew where I was taking her—or was her act intentional and part of a power struggle waged even in play, or was she acting out of fear.
The paradox is that being fearful, she is willful. She eagerly gets into the truck, but riding frightens her; she quivers unless she has her head and front legs on my thigh while speeding down the road, and she insists on being there. After a week of pushing her away, hoping she would overcome her fear with mileage, I gave in. It seems there is a fine and wavering line between what one must permit and that what one must prevent. I’m unsure if permitting her to be in my lap was the right thing to do; but right or wrong, my bonus is to feel like her champion.
‘Relationship training’ better describes the stage we’re going through than what is commonly called “obedience training”. Yes, she must obey me; but also, and equally important, I must observe and obey her needs. She must know how to live happily with humans in their environment; and I must know what she needs of me for us to enjoy this sought after elysian relation.
I do not consider myself an expert on dogs, even though I’ve had kelpies for 16 years. Furthermore, it’s been a decade since I’ve had to work with a pup. Dogs remain a mystery to me. Recently I’ve read several ‘how-to’ puppy books (with more coming from Amazon), I’ve subscribed to Kelpie-L, a net discussion group devoted to the breed, and I watch with interest the acquaintance making of Poem and the house cats who, being smaller, are less dominant; but, being older, are more dominant.
I’m not sure what degree of success Poem and I will have in our working relationship with sheep. Oh she’ll work, but how well is the question. There are days when I barely have the time to foster the calm, assertive attitude that she needs to work sheep. But these are days when I remind myself (as I’m doing now) to make time where ‘it isn’t’; and no matter what she does, that I am to be patient and serene around her. I teach Poem about sheep, what Poem teaches me is not about dogs.
She is house trained but still has a favorite spot on the carpet downstairs, within smelling distance of the cat box, for her dew. Last night, I caught her by the collar, trying to conceal my flash of anger in a fitting disappointment, I took her to the spot. “No!” Was this an accident or a lapse of memory on her part—she knew where I was taking her—or was her act intentional and part of a power struggle waged even in play, or was she acting out of fear.
The paradox is that being fearful, she is willful. She eagerly gets into the truck, but riding frightens her; she quivers unless she has her head and front legs on my thigh while speeding down the road, and she insists on being there. After a week of pushing her away, hoping she would overcome her fear with mileage, I gave in. It seems there is a fine and wavering line between what one must permit and that what one must prevent. I’m unsure if permitting her to be in my lap was the right thing to do; but right or wrong, my bonus is to feel like her champion.
‘Relationship training’ better describes the stage we’re going through than what is commonly called “obedience training”. Yes, she must obey me; but also, and equally important, I must observe and obey her needs. She must know how to live happily with humans in their environment; and I must know what she needs of me for us to enjoy this sought after elysian relation.
I do not consider myself an expert on dogs, even though I’ve had kelpies for 16 years. Furthermore, it’s been a decade since I’ve had to work with a pup. Dogs remain a mystery to me. Recently I’ve read several ‘how-to’ puppy books (with more coming from Amazon), I’ve subscribed to Kelpie-L, a net discussion group devoted to the breed, and I watch with interest the acquaintance making of Poem and the house cats who, being smaller, are less dominant; but, being older, are more dominant.
I’m not sure what degree of success Poem and I will have in our working relationship with sheep. Oh she’ll work, but how well is the question. There are days when I barely have the time to foster the calm, assertive attitude that she needs to work sheep. But these are days when I remind myself (as I’m doing now) to make time where ‘it isn’t’; and no matter what she does, that I am to be patient and serene around her. I teach Poem about sheep, what Poem teaches me is not about dogs.
Avenpart Xendaa/"Poem" Part 8
baa Volume 3 Number 13 May 12, 2007
The play of light was dramatic. The warm, late afternoon sun slanted through the trees as I steered around the potholes on the dirt road leading to the farm. The flock, grazing by the pond, was shadowed; the four ewes closest to me were sunlit; and behind them sparkled two silver domed silos. I stopped the truck, a cloud of dust blew up over us, I told Poem to stay, I got out and photographed the scene with my new Nikon D 80: 10.2 mega pixels, 18-135mm Nikkor lens, 3 frames a second.
Zooming in and zooming out for composition, I bracketed the scene for proper exposure; suddenly the ewes in the foreground looked up and ran. I turned round—my heart sank—Poem had leapt from the open truck window and was running full speed along the fence line parallel to the ewe flock. She ducked through the fence and ran directly into the flock, not around the sheep as a herding dog should. She split the flock in two groups, then looped around one group to push them back together, only to dive in again and scatter them like a bursting firework. “Poem!” she ignored me and kept wildly running the flock. Horror-struck, I became exquisitely calm,
To prevent the sheep from being electrocuted when she drove them into the net fence, I had to cut the power. The source was behind the silos, several hundred yards away; I drove the truck over the potholes, ducking my head to keep from breaking my neck, hoping I wouldn’t bounce into the steering wheel and knock my front caps out. I disconnected the fence and ran round the silos to find Poem chasing down an older ewe who couldn’t keep up with the flock. Fright had stiffened her gait; she hobbled as if her legs were wooden stilts—I was sickened—Poem’s bone white teeth and blood red gums flashed as she charged the ewe—I was sorry—Poem had come to the farm to help with sheep not to harm them. I wanted to kill her—but life is not as fair as death—if she were someone else’s dog I would have taken my rifle and shot her dead.
That ferocious moment made Poem mine, we were alive, it was unfair. I stepped in front of the ewe and yelled “Down,” Poem circled around me, “Come,” Poem ran from me; but the flock was behind me, they were safe. The problem now was to catch the frenzied dog. Eventually she lay down in the tall grass, panting, telling me she was through.
She barely glanced at me as I clipped the leash to her collar. Being ignored by her angered me but it was symptomatic of much worse: I had no control over my dog, I was not different from the dog owners whose errant dogs I’d shot over the years to protect the sheep. I was with them, I was alone, I never blamed the dogs, I looked into Poem’s pure dumb eyes, I became exquisitely calm.
Zooming in and zooming out for composition, I bracketed the scene for proper exposure; suddenly the ewes in the foreground looked up and ran. I turned round—my heart sank—Poem had leapt from the open truck window and was running full speed along the fence line parallel to the ewe flock. She ducked through the fence and ran directly into the flock, not around the sheep as a herding dog should. She split the flock in two groups, then looped around one group to push them back together, only to dive in again and scatter them like a bursting firework. “Poem!” she ignored me and kept wildly running the flock. Horror-struck, I became exquisitely calm,
To prevent the sheep from being electrocuted when she drove them into the net fence, I had to cut the power. The source was behind the silos, several hundred yards away; I drove the truck over the potholes, ducking my head to keep from breaking my neck, hoping I wouldn’t bounce into the steering wheel and knock my front caps out. I disconnected the fence and ran round the silos to find Poem chasing down an older ewe who couldn’t keep up with the flock. Fright had stiffened her gait; she hobbled as if her legs were wooden stilts—I was sickened—Poem’s bone white teeth and blood red gums flashed as she charged the ewe—I was sorry—Poem had come to the farm to help with sheep not to harm them. I wanted to kill her—but life is not as fair as death—if she were someone else’s dog I would have taken my rifle and shot her dead.
That ferocious moment made Poem mine, we were alive, it was unfair. I stepped in front of the ewe and yelled “Down,” Poem circled around me, “Come,” Poem ran from me; but the flock was behind me, they were safe. The problem now was to catch the frenzied dog. Eventually she lay down in the tall grass, panting, telling me she was through.
She barely glanced at me as I clipped the leash to her collar. Being ignored by her angered me but it was symptomatic of much worse: I had no control over my dog, I was not different from the dog owners whose errant dogs I’d shot over the years to protect the sheep. I was with them, I was alone, I never blamed the dogs, I looked into Poem’s pure dumb eyes, I became exquisitely calm.
Avenpart Xendaa/"Poem" Part 9
baa Volume 3 Number 14 May 19, 2007
I accept responsibility. It was I who left an untutored dog near sheep. It was I who left the truck window down from which she leapt. I was at fault, not Poem. And we were lucky, nobody was killed.
If this were Australia and if this were a 10,000 head merino stud and if I were a young jackaroo working those mobs of sheep with my kelpie (all jackaroos have their own dogs) and if my dog had killed one of the owner’s sheep, his stud master would expect me to take a knife to my kelpie’s throat; and being the good jackaroo that I am, sorrowfully, I would have done that before being spoken to. This is the rule of working dogs and sheep. It’s not the vicious justice of an eye for an eye, but a dog that has tasted the warm blood of sheep can never be trusted around sheep again.
This isn’t Australia and I don’t have that many merinos and I’m my own jackaroo—not a bloody good one either, mate—with a tardy pup who hasn’t killed any sheep yet. And I pray to the big dog in the sky that she won’t.
Dogs die for the sins of men. These sins are mostly sins of omission: failure to train, failure to lead, failure to love. I failed my dog in that I expected too much of her too soon. She is as young as I was impatient. Since her sheep chase, Poem stays at the farm in her kennel; she no longer lives with me in town; there, familiarity did breed contempt; she found that she didn’t have to do as I wished to be loved.
Poem whimpered the first two night alone, but from her kennel she can watch the kids playing ball, hear and smell the cows, and see sheep grazing in the distance. And at night she is privy to the animal dark; I can see her there wide-eyed, prick-eared, looking at indistinct shadows moving before her, listening to unseen sounds, enjoying the basic mystery of it all. She has settled in and knows the kennel is her space, not one she must share with me. And this is a good amendment to our lives.
She is happy to see me when I take her from her kennel on a leash. Before, walking her was a tug of wills; with “come behind” (“heel” in Australian) I wanted her on my left a foot behind while she wanted to be anywhere her nose would take her. Now, we are a proud and pretty pair in our promenade around the barnyard. Twice a day, we work with four ewes in a training pen behind the barn; the sheep excite her but she listens to me. I tell her to sit and the earth shakes when her little butt hole hits the ground.
If this were Australia and if this were a 10,000 head merino stud and if I were a young jackaroo working those mobs of sheep with my kelpie (all jackaroos have their own dogs) and if my dog had killed one of the owner’s sheep, his stud master would expect me to take a knife to my kelpie’s throat; and being the good jackaroo that I am, sorrowfully, I would have done that before being spoken to. This is the rule of working dogs and sheep. It’s not the vicious justice of an eye for an eye, but a dog that has tasted the warm blood of sheep can never be trusted around sheep again.
This isn’t Australia and I don’t have that many merinos and I’m my own jackaroo—not a bloody good one either, mate—with a tardy pup who hasn’t killed any sheep yet. And I pray to the big dog in the sky that she won’t.
Dogs die for the sins of men. These sins are mostly sins of omission: failure to train, failure to lead, failure to love. I failed my dog in that I expected too much of her too soon. She is as young as I was impatient. Since her sheep chase, Poem stays at the farm in her kennel; she no longer lives with me in town; there, familiarity did breed contempt; she found that she didn’t have to do as I wished to be loved.
Poem whimpered the first two night alone, but from her kennel she can watch the kids playing ball, hear and smell the cows, and see sheep grazing in the distance. And at night she is privy to the animal dark; I can see her there wide-eyed, prick-eared, looking at indistinct shadows moving before her, listening to unseen sounds, enjoying the basic mystery of it all. She has settled in and knows the kennel is her space, not one she must share with me. And this is a good amendment to our lives.
She is happy to see me when I take her from her kennel on a leash. Before, walking her was a tug of wills; with “come behind” (“heel” in Australian) I wanted her on my left a foot behind while she wanted to be anywhere her nose would take her. Now, we are a proud and pretty pair in our promenade around the barnyard. Twice a day, we work with four ewes in a training pen behind the barn; the sheep excite her but she listens to me. I tell her to sit and the earth shakes when her little butt hole hits the ground.
Avenpart Xendaa/"Poem" Part 10
baa Volume 3 Number 19 June 30, 2007
Poem has been staying at the farm for the past two months and not with me in town. Now, when I go to check for newborn lambs, I take her from the kennel to a large fenced training area on my way to the lambing paddock. Since being at the farm, Poem has learned to take direction well. She sits on command, will “stay” until told to “come,” and on the way to me she will stop when I give her a “down” command. When she does well, I praise her and stroke her face—it feels good to do this—then I release her from my command so she can frolic and bound about like the pup she still is. Later, after ear tagging the day’s lambs I go back to her area to work her again. Now, when I tell her to “come behind,” she walks on my left, a step behind; this command has taken her the longest to master. Obedience training is calmly telling the dog, “Sit, Stay, Come, Down, etc.” praising and stroking her when she does as told; but when she doesn’t—I don’t insist—we simply try again another day. In September Poem should be ready for a formal introduction to working with sheep.
Avenpart Xendaa/"Poem" Part 11
baa Volume 3 Number 20 July 7, 2007
Thursday morning Poem was tied to a fence post--she broke free and ran away. My fault--I tied her there and I should have tied her better. Dogs never let you escape culpability; they make you own up to your wrongdoing, if not publicly then privately, and always messily in that agency blurs. You over confess or under confess, and you never know which--that’s the bedeviling power of dogs.
Thursday evening Dominique came to the farm and brought two sick lambs that she had been raising for me on the bottle at her place. One had entropian, inverted eyelids, and the other was weak in the hind quarters, both had been deserted by their mothers and would be dead with out her help. The best medicine for these two is crossed fingers. She also brought some vegetables that she had grown; and we looked for Poem. We didn’t find her. Later that evening I emailed Dominique.
“I steamed the turnip tops and had them with a garlic/onion rice (your young garlic), my red pepper/fennel lamb sausage and boiled hakurei roots. Thank you.
Poem is a tragedy in two parts. She’s gone, I feel sorry for her, and I’m worried sick. I had high hopes. I invested months of hours ‘training’ her, rain and shine, to have her ignore a "down" command and run off. Had she stopped she would be home safe and sound in her kennel. But she didn't listen--she rarely listened to me--what I had to say was not important to her.
As you know after Shade died, I didn't want another dog (the pain of loss exceeds the joy of having one), but I needed a dog to help with the sheep. I kept hoping Poem would learn the way--there is always tomorrow--but in time hope becomes folly and to continue hoping is insane—but you’re never sure when that time has come. Even if Poem comes back--I must take the chance again--I must get another sheep dog, hopefully a good dog, a calm and loving kelpie like Shade or her mother Miss.
Yes, I feel bad saying this, not only was Poem a poor dog (as the say in Australia) with no innate herding tendency, she had proven herself to be an uncomfortable companion. She never did respect me nor consider me her master--or even her friend--and this was the most difficult thing that I had to face when I looked into her vacant eyes. Her direful power made me feel this void was my fault. I feel sorry for myself. I'm the second part of the tragedy, I feel for both of us. Cross your fingers.
You are doing good for those two lambs. Thank you."
Thursday evening Dominique came to the farm and brought two sick lambs that she had been raising for me on the bottle at her place. One had entropian, inverted eyelids, and the other was weak in the hind quarters, both had been deserted by their mothers and would be dead with out her help. The best medicine for these two is crossed fingers. She also brought some vegetables that she had grown; and we looked for Poem. We didn’t find her. Later that evening I emailed Dominique.
“I steamed the turnip tops and had them with a garlic/onion rice (your young garlic), my red pepper/fennel lamb sausage and boiled hakurei roots. Thank you.
Poem is a tragedy in two parts. She’s gone, I feel sorry for her, and I’m worried sick. I had high hopes. I invested months of hours ‘training’ her, rain and shine, to have her ignore a "down" command and run off. Had she stopped she would be home safe and sound in her kennel. But she didn't listen--she rarely listened to me--what I had to say was not important to her.
As you know after Shade died, I didn't want another dog (the pain of loss exceeds the joy of having one), but I needed a dog to help with the sheep. I kept hoping Poem would learn the way--there is always tomorrow--but in time hope becomes folly and to continue hoping is insane—but you’re never sure when that time has come. Even if Poem comes back--I must take the chance again--I must get another sheep dog, hopefully a good dog, a calm and loving kelpie like Shade or her mother Miss.
Yes, I feel bad saying this, not only was Poem a poor dog (as the say in Australia) with no innate herding tendency, she had proven herself to be an uncomfortable companion. She never did respect me nor consider me her master--or even her friend--and this was the most difficult thing that I had to face when I looked into her vacant eyes. Her direful power made me feel this void was my fault. I feel sorry for myself. I'm the second part of the tragedy, I feel for both of us. Cross your fingers.
You are doing good for those two lambs. Thank you."
Avenpart Xendaa/"Poem" Part 12
baa Volume 3 Number 21 July 15, 2007
Poem is home. I found her where I lost her. She didn’t run off, I did.
The Thursday morning of her ‘disappearance’, I was moving the ram flock to a new paddock. I build paddocks from portable poly net fencing that comes in 164’ rolls with a metal spiked plastic post every 12’; each roll weighs 13 lbs. The poly of the net has metal filaments braided into it capable of conducting electricity from the fence charger to shock the sheep in and predators out. A paddock for the rams measures 2 fences by 1 fence enclosing 1.25 acre, which contains enough grass for the 60 odd rams for a week or so at this time of year.
Normally, to move sheep to a contiguous paddock I extend two single fences from the ends of the existing paddock; I then connect these end fences with a side fence of two joined nets making a rectangular enclosure of the same size adjacent to the one where the sheep are. I open the side common to both paddocks by pulling up several posts and gathering the net to create an opening for the sheep who will eagerly pass through to the fresh grass; I then re-place the posts and net closing them in their new domain. This is a simple procedure; it takes about an hour to move the fence and sheep. However this time, thinking that when I let the sheep in they would occupy themselves eating the near, new grass--as they always do--I didn’t install the side fence (I was short two fence rolls and would have to take them from the far side of the exited paddock) but the sheep, for a reason of their own, made their way across the new paddock; seeing no side fence, they knew no bounds and trotted into the adjacent cow pasture where the grass was greener. Damn! There I stood, alone, my fences down, my sheep roaming free, watching a dozen hostile heifers eye the ovine intruders who were gorging themselves on the cow’s grass. When the cows charged, the sheep pranced back enough to safely begin eating again all the while keeping a wary eye on the snorting bovines. Truthfully, I was rather proud of them. They had a playful and taunting presence before the bullying cows, they were contrarians in the face of Republican and Democrats, they were my kind of guys. And they knew something that the fat cat politicians vying for the Presidency don’t know, that hunger knows no law. This was anarchy and this was beautiful--dosy doe--the rams square danced back every time the heifers charged. Music was everywhere. Terpsichore played a steel guitar in her lap--the world danced to her twangy thing. God, I had to call her Wanda.
In my Buck Owens-Sophocles-Woody Guthrie reverie I accidentally touched the high tensile cow fence. 9500 volts knocked me on my butt and the music died--clearly dazed clearly now--I wondered how I would get the sheep back into their paddock. Yes, I needed a dog, a good dog, a Poem dog.
Avenpart Xendaa/"Poem" Part 13
Volume 3 Number 22 July 21, 2007
I walked the quarter mile back to Poem’s kennel and unplugged the fence charger on the way. I leashed her and we went back to where the rams and cows were facing off. She seemed to know that this was work and not training; I was pleased. I tied Poem to a wooden fence post supporting the cow fence; then I finished a corner of the net enclosure that would contain the rams. Again for expediency, I left the distant side of the paddock unfenced, thinking the rams wouldn’t get that far. I would have time to fence it closed with them inside later. I opened the corner that I’d just made and angled the fence out into the cow paddock to make a ‘wall’ that would turn the rams into their paddock when driven toward it. I took Poem on her leash and we circled round behind the rams to drive them forward. She began to move the sheep by changing her position in relation to them, rather than running madly at them as she usually does. Was she learning, I don’t know; but I was impressed and I praised her when we so handily got the rams back into their paddock.
Now I had to reestablish the corner and close the fence. I tied poem up to another fence post, directly in the path of any ram who would try to go back to the green grass of the cows. But as I was gathering the fence, Poem broke free and ran through the rams. I called her, but she didn’t heed me. What she did do though was to turn the rams back to me and away from the unfenced part of the paddock. I was impressed—pissed—but impressed. I called her again but she sped out of site into the tall grass. Before the dog come the sheep. I had to finish the fence, then look for my errant dog.
Poem was nowhere to be found, I called and called. In the ensuing hours, I drove around the property line, I visited the neighbors alerting them and I went to the Goshen Humane Society. Poem hadn’t come home and the sun was setting. My spirits dimmed with the day. She had her leash still attached to her collar, a rope 20 feet in length trailing behind her. I feared that if she tried to go through the woods that surround the property, her leash would catch on a fallen branch; she, unable to move, would not come home and die a slow death tangled up in brush somewhere. But if that were the case, when she got hungry she would bark or so I hoped.
That night I opened the door to her kennel and put food in her dish in case she came back. Early the next day I went back to the farm hoping to find her, but no. Again I drove the property line stopping and shutting off the tractor off every 200 yards to listen for her. I heard nothing. With dread, I drove the roads around the farm looking for road kill. A dead deer ahead looked like a dog until I got close.
Poem had run off before but returned in an hour. Now she had been gone for 24 hours. Was she caught in the woods, or had she been hit by a car, or had she been shot by a neighbor as a stray dog.
The Thursday morning of her ‘disappearance’, I was moving the ram flock to a new paddock. I build paddocks from portable poly net fencing that comes in 164’ rolls with a metal spiked plastic post every 12’; each roll weighs 13 lbs. The poly of the net has metal filaments braided into it capable of conducting electricity from the fence charger to shock the sheep in and predators out. A paddock for the rams measures 2 fences by 1 fence enclosing 1.25 acre, which contains enough grass for the 60 odd rams for a week or so at this time of year.
Normally, to move sheep to a contiguous paddock I extend two single fences from the ends of the existing paddock; I then connect these end fences with a side fence of two joined nets making a rectangular enclosure of the same size adjacent to the one where the sheep are. I open the side common to both paddocks by pulling up several posts and gathering the net to create an opening for the sheep who will eagerly pass through to the fresh grass; I then re-place the posts and net closing them in their new domain. This is a simple procedure; it takes about an hour to move the fence and sheep. However this time, thinking that when I let the sheep in they would occupy themselves eating the near, new grass--as they always do--I didn’t install the side fence (I was short two fence rolls and would have to take them from the far side of the exited paddock) but the sheep, for a reason of their own, made their way across the new paddock; seeing no side fence, they knew no bounds and trotted into the adjacent cow pasture where the grass was greener. Damn! There I stood, alone, my fences down, my sheep roaming free, watching a dozen hostile heifers eye the ovine intruders who were gorging themselves on the cow’s grass. When the cows charged, the sheep pranced back enough to safely begin eating again all the while keeping a wary eye on the snorting bovines. Truthfully, I was rather proud of them. They had a playful and taunting presence before the bullying cows, they were contrarians in the face of Republican and Democrats, they were my kind of guys. And they knew something that the fat cat politicians vying for the Presidency don’t know, that hunger knows no law. This was anarchy and this was beautiful--dosy doe--the rams square danced back every time the heifers charged. Music was everywhere. Terpsichore played a steel guitar in her lap--the world danced to her twangy thing. God, I had to call her Wanda.
In my Buck Owens-Sophocles-Woody Guthrie reverie I accidentally touched the high tensile cow fence. 9500 volts knocked me on my butt and the music died--clearly dazed clearly now--I wondered how I would get the sheep back into their paddock. Yes, I needed a dog, a good dog, a Poem dog.
Avenpart Xendaa/"Poem" Part 13
Volume 3 Number 22 July 21, 2007
I walked the quarter mile back to Poem’s kennel and unplugged the fence charger on the way. I leashed her and we went back to where the rams and cows were facing off. She seemed to know that this was work and not training; I was pleased. I tied Poem to a wooden fence post supporting the cow fence; then I finished a corner of the net enclosure that would contain the rams. Again for expediency, I left the distant side of the paddock unfenced, thinking the rams wouldn’t get that far. I would have time to fence it closed with them inside later. I opened the corner that I’d just made and angled the fence out into the cow paddock to make a ‘wall’ that would turn the rams into their paddock when driven toward it. I took Poem on her leash and we circled round behind the rams to drive them forward. She began to move the sheep by changing her position in relation to them, rather than running madly at them as she usually does. Was she learning, I don’t know; but I was impressed and I praised her when we so handily got the rams back into their paddock.
Now I had to reestablish the corner and close the fence. I tied poem up to another fence post, directly in the path of any ram who would try to go back to the green grass of the cows. But as I was gathering the fence, Poem broke free and ran through the rams. I called her, but she didn’t heed me. What she did do though was to turn the rams back to me and away from the unfenced part of the paddock. I was impressed—pissed—but impressed. I called her again but she sped out of site into the tall grass. Before the dog come the sheep. I had to finish the fence, then look for my errant dog.
Poem was nowhere to be found, I called and called. In the ensuing hours, I drove around the property line, I visited the neighbors alerting them and I went to the Goshen Humane Society. Poem hadn’t come home and the sun was setting. My spirits dimmed with the day. She had her leash still attached to her collar, a rope 20 feet in length trailing behind her. I feared that if she tried to go through the woods that surround the property, her leash would catch on a fallen branch; she, unable to move, would not come home and die a slow death tangled up in brush somewhere. But if that were the case, when she got hungry she would bark or so I hoped.
That night I opened the door to her kennel and put food in her dish in case she came back. Early the next day I went back to the farm hoping to find her, but no. Again I drove the property line stopping and shutting off the tractor off every 200 yards to listen for her. I heard nothing. With dread, I drove the roads around the farm looking for road kill. A dead deer ahead looked like a dog until I got close.
Poem had run off before but returned in an hour. Now she had been gone for 24 hours. Was she caught in the woods, or had she been hit by a car, or had she been shot by a neighbor as a stray dog.
Avenpart Xendaa/"Poem" Part 14
Volume 3 Number 23 August 4, 2007
Friday, thirty-one hours after Poem was lost she was found, alive and well, where she was lost. Unknowingly I fenced her in with the rams; the orchard grass was waist high and it hid the rams too.
That afternoon Clara called and said that when she and the boys were up on the hill fixing fence they heard a dog barking in the grass by the ram paddock. But when she went down there, she heard nothing; nevertheless she thought she should mention it to me.
I was 80 miles away pulling into to the slaughterhouse in LaPlume Pennsylvania. I called Dominique and asked her to go to the farm and walk the ram paddock looking at every square foot of it. Dominique said she would call me from the farm after she’d searched.
The slaughterhouse was behind because the Fourth of July had fallen on Wednesday, their killing day. Mr. Darling said my sausage wouldn’t be ready for a couple of hours. I hadn’t slept well and with a market day in the morning I thought I should find a quiet place off the road and close my eyes for an hour. I remembered a grassy parking area that gave onto a small field that was mowed like a golf course on the road into LaPlume. The small sign in the lot said the field was for flying radio controlled model airplanes “only.” The afternoon was dark, there was thunder and lightening. No one would be flying today, the little airport was mine.
I kicked off my boots, cracked the window, bunched up a red hoodie for a pillow and lay my head down on it. I closed my eyes and thought of what I’d done and what I could do from here. Yesterday and again this morning I went back to the ram paddock and called her but got no response. If she were in there with the rams they would have been spooky or she would have driven them through the fence by now—but they grazed peacefully—I fell asleep thinking of Poem’s cold wet nose.
My classic, old phone ring tone awakened me; it was Dominique, “I found Poem.” “Oh, what good news…” “Her leash was wound around two tufts of grass and she couldn’t move.” “So that’s why the rams were undisturbed.” “She was happy to see me, wagging her tail” “Great news, thanks; I should be at the farm in a couple of hours.”
I drove back to the slaughterhouse, picked up the lamb, took 81 South to Scranton then got on 84 East to New York. It was a new day. When I pulled into the farm I could see her in the kennel. She had been out in the overnight rain and she was as black and as sleek and as clean as a new Porsche.
That afternoon Clara called and said that when she and the boys were up on the hill fixing fence they heard a dog barking in the grass by the ram paddock. But when she went down there, she heard nothing; nevertheless she thought she should mention it to me.
I was 80 miles away pulling into to the slaughterhouse in LaPlume Pennsylvania. I called Dominique and asked her to go to the farm and walk the ram paddock looking at every square foot of it. Dominique said she would call me from the farm after she’d searched.
The slaughterhouse was behind because the Fourth of July had fallen on Wednesday, their killing day. Mr. Darling said my sausage wouldn’t be ready for a couple of hours. I hadn’t slept well and with a market day in the morning I thought I should find a quiet place off the road and close my eyes for an hour. I remembered a grassy parking area that gave onto a small field that was mowed like a golf course on the road into LaPlume. The small sign in the lot said the field was for flying radio controlled model airplanes “only.” The afternoon was dark, there was thunder and lightening. No one would be flying today, the little airport was mine.
I kicked off my boots, cracked the window, bunched up a red hoodie for a pillow and lay my head down on it. I closed my eyes and thought of what I’d done and what I could do from here. Yesterday and again this morning I went back to the ram paddock and called her but got no response. If she were in there with the rams they would have been spooky or she would have driven them through the fence by now—but they grazed peacefully—I fell asleep thinking of Poem’s cold wet nose.
My classic, old phone ring tone awakened me; it was Dominique, “I found Poem.” “Oh, what good news…” “Her leash was wound around two tufts of grass and she couldn’t move.” “So that’s why the rams were undisturbed.” “She was happy to see me, wagging her tail” “Great news, thanks; I should be at the farm in a couple of hours.”
I drove back to the slaughterhouse, picked up the lamb, took 81 South to Scranton then got on 84 East to New York. It was a new day. When I pulled into the farm I could see her in the kennel. She had been out in the overnight rain and she was as black and as sleek and as clean as a new Porsche.
November 7, 2007
Poem works sheep under the tutelage of Dianne Bauman owner of the Dog Dome Herding School in Wantage, N.J., about 25 minutes south of the farm. I was relieved to hear that Dianne thinks Poem has good herding potential, and that she should realize her promise when she gets older and through her puppyhood.
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