They're Not Flocks, They're Wings

One of these mornings you’re gonna rise up singing

Then you’ll spread your wings

And you’ll take to the sky

But till that morning

There ain’t nothing can harm you

With daddy and mommy standing by

Gershwin's "Summertime"

Rock Solid

Ah, Plymoth Rock. Many people come everyday to admire the stone in the cage pictured here just beyond my nose. Many people everyday are forced to suppress their disappointment about the less than grandiose spectacle that is the rock. On this day, at least, the people were given a little flocky something special.

A Quiet Week in Lake Rain-Be-Gone

I've been wanting to post but mom has been too tired to help me out with the typing. You may have noticed from my earlier post "On Couches" that I am not one to venture out in the inclement weather. Well, today was a doozie. I went out for a walk before it got too bad but spent the rest of the day writing masterpieces (in my head actually, while lying on the couch).

I'm sure some Bergamascos don't mind the rain messing up their hair and remain in happy oblivion as their delicate paws are saturated in puddles. But not this Bergamasco. Other than the one time I was distracted by a beautiful lady Bergamasco and wandered in a haze into the sea, I have kept myself out of the wet.

For those of you wondering how to get your companion sheep to stop dragging you out in the wet weather, here are some tips:

1. Act like you are sleeping when they are putting on their shoes. You might want to give it a little four-paws-in-the-air-I'm-really-sleeping look.
2. If they bring you to the door, stick your nose out and then back quickly away from the door. Then it should be pretty obvious that you are not interested.
3. If worse comes to worse, and you are there, on the front porch with your leash on (and god forbid a bright yellow rain coat), plant your feet and refuse to go further.

I would welcome any other dog's tips on getting out of getting wet. Where there's a will...

Never Were There Such Devoted Sisters

As I have previously mentioned, I have two sisters: the cats.

It used to be that the definitions were simple - I am a Dog=I chase cats. Small, furry, fast... Perfect chasing material.

Then Mom fell in love and my dog-centric universe became reshaped - I live with cats. At first I thought it was really cool. Cats! Right here in my own house for the chasing. A few swipes to the nose and severe scoldings later and I was reformed to a tip-toeing, subservient, dog.

After a few interactions, the pecking order became exceedingly clear. Misty is in charge. I really wanted to be, but there is no denying her presence. She is the eldest, the wisest, and the most assertive of us. Mom tends to laugh at Misty's assertion of Queen, but it's no laughing matter. I respect Misty - I give her space, let her eat my share of the turkey, give her a wide berth in the hallway, and always, ALWAYS, lower my eyes in deference to the Queen.

Anna is different. Ah, Anna, beautiful, sweet Anna. She's a furry ball of yellow/orange love. I always know where she is. She lets me give her a bath sometimes if I can hold my excitement in check long enough. The most loving thing about Anna is that even though she is certainly ahead of me in the household alpha order, she pretends she doesn't know it. Anna completes me.

There are other cats in my life now - the aforementioned Tuck and other family kitties. As you can see from the aforementioned Tuck incident, I have a little more trouble ignoring that essential dog equation with those cats. Those cats get me into trouble. Cats. They really demonstrate how your beliefs can shape your reality. They really think they are always in charge - And so, they are. Cats.

For Elizabeth

Summer sun lingers
Autumn whispers her shadow
Chihuahuas running

Life of a Working Dog

It may all look like fun, but being a sheepdog is tough work. Sometimes I am envious of my true sheep herding brethren. Herding people and cats has got to be tougher than white fluffy sheepies.

We went for a very long walk tonight, ate a big supper, and then it is clearly time for an early bed. So I stand in the hallway to the bedroom for a while and urge them gently with my mental powers. That gets more tiring, so I go stare down Nate for a while, with the occasional clearing of my throat. I can tell he's tired too and fighting it. Ignoring me does not get us closer to the bed. Then I go back to the hallway and bark. Once. Pause. Again. Nothing. So I go to Mom, I know she's ready for bed and will clearly hear my request. Maybe a little bark here too. Once. Again. One more. Then she does the whole, "outside?" thing. I mean, come on, how could I be misunderstood here?

Finally, Nate says, "He's herding us to bed." Duh. So, one by one, my vastly uncontrollable sheep head to bed. One, Nate's in the bed. Two, Mom is in the bed. And then, (and isn't it just like a cat to do this) Misty takes my spot at the foot of the bed, even though her spot is supposed to be on Nate's chest. She lounges there mocking me until Nate finally hears my plea and asks her to move. Once I am settled, Anna (the other cat who is much more beautiful and loving) comes to snuggle somewhere warm.

All the sheep in one bed, lights out, the sheepdog can at last clock out. Or can he? After a brief respite on the bed and a dream or two, I jump down and assume my evening post in the doorway.

Bedtime, daytime, anytime, a sheepdog's work is never done.