In Black and White Wedlock

“You married a Border Collie,” my rancher friend, Dan, simply stated as we drove across the Big Sky country of western South Dakota. Badland buttes dotted with junipers on a sea of high plains grass raced by my window. Dan’s fifty square mile “33” Ranch was stuck between two waves on the prairie ocean. The breaking foam on the west side was a crumbled sandstone rampart with a tangle of cedar on its summit. We both looked up to its peak in more silence than conversation. He inserted the next thought: “I know, because I married one, too. And you and I aren’t Border Collies. And that can be a major source of conflict.”

It was the truth. Both of us were still married to our life-long spouses, well over 30 years, but there were times where the conflict did not make for easy relationships. Border Collies have a passion for putting things in order, and are always on task. That one attribute is the same in our wives. As a result, it can be 2 in the morning, and if there is something still left unresolved from the day before, my wife wants to work through it. I can just fall asleep and deal with it tomorrow—or worse, forget all about it. For her, it is still on the docket, and she wants to put things in correct order and make a plan for resolution if there is any sort of problem, while I, to her frustration, can completely check out and postpone a fix.

It’s that attribute alone that makes Dan and I categorize our wives as Border Collies. We often talked about it; it was iron sharpening iron. I’m still very happily married, and have no regrets, but understanding that I married a woman with this Border Collie attribute has actually made it easier. And it took Dan to point that out. I’ll try, albeit imperfectly, to listen to her when she wants to fix things we have in our business or family quickly. She sleeps better at night, and so do I.

Besides being married and still in love with my wife, I am very attached to real Border Collies.  We’ve always had some on the ranch, and for me, there’s always been one in particular that is mine. I’ve gone through several, sadly over the years. I hate that I outlive them. I’ll always remember them: Maggie-Dee, Arrow, Gypsy-Dave and Clyder-Tay. Those are their full names. I mostly call them by their shortened names, but when they’re in the truck or on the dirt bike with me, I’ll use their full names. They knew/know both. Certainly, there’s been many other dogs in my life, but these were stalwart and brave companions, and were the ones that I really connected with.  

All of these aforementioned dogs would literally die for me, if they knew that was a thing. They would swim wild and icy rivers, walk 40 miles in the blast of wind-driven blizzard, dig recalcitrant herd-quitting cows out of the tangle of thorny creek bottoms, and defend all that is mine, including my pickup truck.

They’ve done all of the above. They’re mankind’s and womankind’s best friend. That’s an attribute only dogs have over all forms of life, including humans: they can unconditionally love.

And they’ll simply lick your hand when you’re having a tough time or lay at your feet while you’re writing a newsletter for your friends (Clyde is at my feet now).

Yesterday, I went up to check the mother-cow herd. They are staged down valley about 4 miles on “Judy’s” ranch, a place we’ve leased for 4 years. Judy is a retired schoolteacher, and likes to travel. She wanted nothing more than to leave the ranch in good hands while she heads to far flung places unknown. She also was a great partner for us as she allowed us to certify the entire ranch organic. The place is strategically located, as it is only 4 miles from our summer grazing range, where those mama cows are heading next week.

Then, the cows will cross the wide flow of the Salmon River on a narrow bridge, and then they’ll be on 70 square miles of our wild country grass.

The cows looked good. They were evenly scattered across the 40-acre meadow, contentedly grazing the spring greenup. They calmly looked up as I went through them all, and I noted that they categorically came through the winter in fine flesh. Their feet were good, udders were well-hung, and they had some nice fat on them. In ranching, you always want some fat on your cows. It’s like money in your bank account. If we come into drought or other lean feed times, I knew the cows would be fine—because of the fat cash they had in savings. I just didn’t want their money to get transferred to checking if I could help it.

All of them were starting to “slick up” with the beginning of green grass—their shining undercoats were beginning to emerge from the shag and loss of their winter fur.

Clyde was with me on the walk through, and I kept him focused on me instead of any other jobs he perceived that needed done. I wasn’t sure what those jobs were, but he is always crafting a plan to bring order. I’ve seen it; he’ll premeditate his actions, anticipating what might come next. He requires occasional attention, because here’s the deal if you didn’t know this about Border Collies: if you don’t give them a job, they will create one from conflict that they perceive. And they’ll give that job razor-sharp focus. It has to do with their need to have things well organized, or in place, and they’ll want to have margin to deal with the unknown that may be coming next.

They are planners. And they like to avoid conflict or stress.

On the walk through, I noticed that there were hot wire problems. The electric fence around the cows had a few knock-downs where the cows were drinking, and needed my attention. Otherwise, cows could be everywhere by the next morning, or worse, one of those cows could get tangled up while getting a drink. I’ve had it where a cow gets their foot caught, wrapped in a strand of the white poly hotwire twine, and while I’m sleeping, they’ll have hot wire strung out and wrapped around bushes and trees over a quarter mile.

No fun. First, I’d take care of the cow. Then the bushes and trees.

So while I focused on my hotwire twine, Clyde figured he’d go help on another project that needed a Border Collie’s attention. He perceived a problem. Conflict. Time to resolve.

In other words, I forgot about him. And I focused on my object at hand: broken down hotwire.  

The fiberglass posts needed re-setting first. I didn’t have a hammer on hand, so I used a “native” hammer. There’s plenty of those to be found, as we live on a pile of glacial till–soils mixed with 50% rocks. In short order, I found one that was just right: enough length to get some centrifugal force in a swing, and enough weight to drive a 3/8” fiberglass post into the rock and dirt matrix.

The charger was only 50 feet away, so I trotted over and shut it off so I could re-string the wire. I had to wade across a fairly deep and cold irrigation ditch while doing so, and nearly lost my now-filled-with-water boots in the sticky bottom mud.

In just 10 minutes of focused work, my mind relaxed and suddenly yielded to the incessant nagging that I had been ignoring: WHERE WAS CLYDE?

I quickly scanned the once cow-scattered meadow and spotted his little black and white shape in front of a background mass of cows on grass. He was already done with his job. He was sitting, tongue hanging out the side of his mouth about 50 yards away.

He was an artist stepping back and admiring his work.

In just 10 minutes, he had silently, without a bark or growl or even the bawl of a cow, gathered all 200 cows to a 1 acre area in the bottom of the pasture. The cows weren’t stressed in any way. They were still grazing. But he had efficiently, by ones and twos or fews, gathered and singlehandedly, quietly, without any drama, pestering, biting or barking asked the cows to walk over to where he wanted them. And so they did.

For Clyde the scatter of the herd was too great; cows are supposed to be in ordered bunches. I had no idea why they had to be that ordered. But to Clyde, it made perfect sense. And in his mind, it would make sense to me too. I am certain that they know things—see things—we do not.

I just stood there with my hands on my hips. Then I simply said, “Hey.”

He turned from relishing in his work, and looked back at it one more time and trotted over to my side, sitting down his butt on the newly greened grass. After we looked at the herd and admired the fine placement together, he looked up, and our eyes met.

“Well done, Clyder-Tay. That’ll do.”

His black and white-tipped tail wagged once.

Happy Trails.