by Amanda Owen
This time it was Tuppence’s turn to be grateful. ‘Yer bogger yer,’ he growled as the pair were reunited. ‘What trouble I’ve bin in ’cos of thee.’ And, smiling, he scratched the back of Rusty’s head and attached the string to his collar.
In our line of work, the dog is not only our best friend but also a colleague. The saying ‘what is a shepherd without a dog’ is certainly as relevant as ever in the hills. Quad bikes are often quoted as being the death knell of the sheepdog, but in the most inaccessible and inhospitable areas the sheepdog rules. They are a tool of the trade and an invaluable asset to the hill shepherd; never should there be a time when you do not have a four-legged companion with boundless enthusiasm to accompany you throughout your daily tasks. Inevitably, the passage of time dictates that throughout the course of a lifetime you will be accompanied by a succession of dogs. Some you will recall fondly, others are remembered for their failings and mannerisms.
Bill, Clive’s stalwart dog, is now firmly in the realms of the elderly. He has served his time but shows no signs of wishing to retire from the business of keeping order amongst the sheep. Loving and playful when in my company, belligerent and truculent when with Clive, he is a clever dog with a split personality. In his younger days, his athleticism was to be marvelled at. There was no wall he could not scale, no river he would not cross, no obstacle that could be put in the way of Bill and the rounding up of sheep. Bill has learnt every gather, how and where the sheep run, the places where the sheep can get away. My dog Kate is younger, but she, too, now knows the lie of the land and, although her and Bill are as different as chalk and cheese, they do complement each other. Her energy makes up for his lethargy. Bill’s mind is as sharp as a needle, but now his body is beginning to fail him; Kate is in her prime but lacks the same intellectual qualities. Together they are the dream team.
On a big gather, when we bring the flocks down from the moor, we’ll ask Clive’s friend Alec to come along with his sheepdogs and help us get them back home. It is tiring work so extra dog power will never go amiss. This spring, talk got around to our need for up-and-coming young sheepdogs ready to take over the mantle of top dog. It is not something that anyone likes to dwell upon but, nevertheless, it is a fact that the day will come when Bill cannot cope with the workload.
‘Yer need to be gitten thi’ sel a young dog boyo,’ were Alec’s words of wisdom to Clive.
‘Yer do an’ all,’ I chipped in.
‘I’ll take Kate if I ’ave to,’ Clive replied. This was met with the sternest of looks from me.
‘She’s a one-woman dog an’ I don’t think that she’d run for yer,’ I said. It is a most difficult thing to persuade a sheepdog to run for someone else, especially when it’s older and already set in its ways
‘Worra bout yon’ woolly dog?’
Fan, our young bearded collie, seemed as keen as mustard, but there was little work in her – she would run for a short while then become uninterested. She was destined to be a part-time sheepdog and found her way, via Alec, to a smallholder in Wales who needed a relaxed dog to move a few sheep around his pastures and be on hand to chase the sheep through the pens.
An opportunity to get a new dog arose when Ben, one of our neighbouring farmers, asked if it would be possible to line his best working bitch with Bill. ‘You’ll get pick of the litter’ was the agreement. The liaison resulted in two puppies being born, both dogs. Ours, we christened Roy, in the vague hope that it might follow in the footsteps of one of Clive’s best-ever sheepdogs. So good was the original Roy that when Clive and I began dating he made it absolutely clear that if Roy did not ‘tek to mi’ then our budding relationship could not progress any further. I loved the fact that his dog’s happiness mattered so much, but I admit that I was also relieved when Roy gave me the seal of approval by looking up at me from beneath his bushy tan eyebrows and lifting his head towards me in an invitation to stroke it.
Young Roy is a classic border collie with a flowing black-and-white coat. He has a habit of cocking his head to one side when listening to you and has inexhaustible energy that he chooses to expend rounding up sheep, so the initial signs are good.
Roy is the children’s friend, will go on walks, and has even tolerated a shampoo in the shower, but Clive’s big bugbear is that he has a propensity for jumping up. Like a coiled spring, he bounces with great big paws that reach almost to your chest. It is frustrating that he cannot be dissuaded from doing this, but it does sum up his whole demeanour, which is one of bubbly, joyous happiness.
I do understand why Clive prefers the more aloof stance taken by most working sheepdogs. They are a breed apart from a pet dog and their entire focus is on sheep; they seek to please, of course, but their pleasure is taken from the thrill of the chase. You’ll never see a shepherd showering his loyal sidekick with animated belly rubs or being overly affectionate, it’s more about a subtle word or casual touch on the head, a gesture that is a show of respect.
‘Dun’t black ’im,’ I’d say to Clive when Roy would launch himself at me, paws invariably caked in mud, his great face smiling, tongue lolling and tail wagging with unadulterated pleasure.
‘That dog is an idiot,’ he’d say, shaking his head, and it was true, but I liked him.
Since Roy was no more likely to change his ways than Clive, we needed a new dog, a younger version of Bill who could gradually take his place doing the harder work. Bill could still be used where intricacy and precision were needed. Perhaps in a roundabout way Bill would appreciate having to work a little less hard and be able to take more enjoyment in doing his job, maybe not turning out on the wettest, coldest days and leaving his younger counterpart to learn the ropes and develop a relationship with Clive.
Clive found himself a dog called Joe, who was big, ugly and unbelievably keen. His capacity for work was second to none. He’d have been brilliant if he had a clue what he was doing. In essence, he was insane, he just wanted to run and run and run. Even in the kennel he would run round and round until his paws became sore. He needed to be distracted, he couldn’t control himself.
Clive had a brainwave: to bring him into the yard and put him on a chain, and that way his head would be occupied with watching everyday life unfolding before his very eyes. The chickens that wander around the farmyard gave him a very wide berth, they could spot a nutcase at twenty paces. The peacock also stayed well clear, though the children would go across and give him biscuits and leftovers and never once did he show them any malice.
It was sheep that drove him wild but, although the general idea was that he should chase them, Joe did not know when to stop. To take him to the fields amongst the sheep was stressful. We would even run him up and down the road, with him following the quad bike, just to try and cool him off, but nothing seemed to take the edge off him. We had to buy him a muzzle when he committed the ultimate crime of sinking his teeth into the shank of a sheep that stood its ground.
We bemoaned the fact that we had one soft dog that bounced and rolled over and behaved like the Andrex puppy and another that was only one step off the Hound of the Baskervilles.
The upside of these dog issues was that Bill had developed an extra spring in his step; a new-found energy coursed through his veins, fuelled by loathing. Rather than welcoming the arrival of a new dog on the kennel block it had unleashed an intense hatred within him. Roy, his own flesh and blood, the fruit of his loins, he was all right with. In fact, no man nor beast could dislike him, but Joe was an entirely different matter. To say there was no love lost would be an understatement, though I had no idea how vehemently Bill despised Joe until I made the mistake of taking them all on a little walk up the sheep-less moor bottom. Edith and I opened the mesh doors of the kennels and all four dogs galloped off towards the beck. We caught up with the dogs and sat down on the bankside where Roy was bouncing enthusiastically around Kate, doing his utmost to impress her whilst she flirted back and then occasionally snapped at him if he got too close. Bill lapped water from the b
eck and quietly watched the shenanigans, seemingly unimpressed. Joe had already done numerous circuits around us and the other dogs, in search of anything to chase, but having failed to find suitable quarry, he now amused himself with the next best thing to a sheep, sheep droppings. He nosed through them with considerable enthusiasm while Bill looked on disconsolately, his ageing eyes unmoved and emotionless. Joe was oblivious to the fact that his every move was being scrutinized from afar, and Roy and Kate were too engrossed in each other to notice that a storm was brewing. By the time I realized that Bill’s hackles were rising, it was too late.
‘Let’s go yam,’ I said to Edith, thinking that I could diffuse the situation.
We stood up and turned for home, Roy and Kate galloping side by side back towards the kennels. Before I could even whistle for Bill and Joe, I heard the horrific sounds of a dog fight. Snarling, they locked jaws, blood pouring from both their faces, while Edith stood motionless, screaming. Bill had taken on a whole different persona and was now biting Joe like a dog possessed.
‘Do summat!’ screamed Edith as I stood transfixed. ‘Bill’s gonna get hurt.’
Adrenalin must have been coursing through Bill’s veins because he was relentless in his attack; if there was going to be any winner in this battle then it was going to be the elderly statesman, Bill.
‘Ga an’ get a stick,’ I shouted at Edith as I edged closer to the warring pair. ‘Hurry up, please hurry up.’
As Edith hurtled off back to the kennels, I picked up a large topstone that had fallen from the wall of the sheep stell (a circular stone pen) beside the beck. I flung it as near to the pair as I dared, in the hope that it might distract Bill and persuade him to let go of Joe, who by now was upside down, prostrate on the shingle beside the water. Bill was standing over him, his tail on end, with his jaws clamped tightly around the loose skin at the back of Joe’s neck. Joe’s head was screwed around so he was looking upwards at his towering aggressor, yelping in pain.
Bill let go and flinched as the stone flew past and splashed into the water.
‘That’ll do, Bill,’ I shouted. ‘That’ll do, yer worrying beggar.’
I could see Edith coming back with a shepherd’s crook, accompanied by Reuben and Miles.
Bill was breathing heavily, his chest heaving, as he stood triumphantly over his fallen enemy. Joe stared fixedly back at Bill with wide eyes.
‘Bill, that’ll do,’ I yelled.
He woke from his stupor, only to resume the attack. This time Bill dragging a flailing Joe by his shoulder towards the beck. Joe retaliated by sinking his teeth into Bill’s ear. The splashing, growling, blood-and-fur flying was a terrifying spectacle and one that I never want to see again.
‘Quick, stop ’em!’ shouted Reuben, who snatched the crook from Edith and thrust it at me.
Edging forward to the beck, I reached out and slipped the hook end through Bill’s collar, yanking him sharply towards me. For a few seconds, he kept his stranglehold on Joe, but then he reluctantly released his grip and instead angrily turned his attention to the crook, pulling against it with all his might. I prayed that the collar would not snap as I dragged Bill out of the water. His attention was still on Joe, who now stood, sodden and forlornly panting in the water, a look of dejection on his face.
The children were standing open-mouthed behind me. To see Bill, a dog they have known all his life, change like that was shocking.
‘Bloody ’ell, that were nasty,’ said Reuben.
‘Nivver underestimate the damage a dog can do,’ I said.
Reuben called Joe, who had had the wind knocked right out of his sails. I stood back, with Bill still anchored on the end of the crook.
Joe, being the younger dog, had withstood the attack better than it had first seemed, and only had a few superficial injuries, a tear in his ear and puncture wounds around the scruff of his neck. They had bled plenty but it had all looked a lot worse than it really was. There was nothing on him that required stitching, just the application of some antiseptic salve to ward off infection.
‘Poor, poor lad,’ said Edith to Joe, who had a hangdog expression to beat all others, as the children walked back with him to the kennels, where I could see Roy and Kate were waiting to be let back in.
‘I’ll land in a minute,’ I shouted to them.
Bill’s blood was still up, though the fact that Joe had departed had calmed him down considerably, to the point where I now dared lay my hands upon him. There had never been a time when I had any fear of Bill, not once had there been any sign of malevolence in him. I would say that I trusted him implicitly and I still do but to see him turn like that, even against another dog, was an insight as to what basic instincts can remain hidden from plain view. Although Bill was the victor of this dog fight, he had sustained a few injuries, losing a tooth and now walking with a pronounced limp. I know now that it was entirely my fault and that I should have recognized that Bill felt Joe represented a challenge to his position of authority, and that in order to remain top dog he needed to show Joe exactly who was the boss.
I vowed never to let the two out together ever again.
After the dog fight, we all went through a period of calm. Joe and Bill rested and recuperated, and I thanked my lucky stars that it hadn’t ended with a fatality. When Joe did return to work it seemed that his confidence had taken a battering and that he was not as bold as he was prior to the fight. Frankly, he was better for it. The muzzle came off and, although still keen enough on rounding up the sheep, he was now controllable. Clive began taking Joe out and to work. A trust was growing between the two and a bond began to develop.
Bill now only came out to work on his own or with Kate. As far as we were concerned, Bill, though old, was still the alpha male, the top dog who possessed the most knowledge about our farm and operations and would never fail us.
It was a beautiful warm May evening when Clive and I decided that we would go to the allotment to push the last of the yows and lambs through the moor gate. We had spent the morning marking them and tagging the lambs, then had taken them to the allotment to mother-up and graze before the final part of the journey to the open moors. I’d spent the afternoon serving teas to the walkers who passed through the farm on the Coast to Coast, whilst Clive had been mucking out one of the buildings in the farmyard. Now that all of the animals were out in the fields, it was a good time to get the buildings clean and tidy and do a little maintenance around the place before the next big tasks of clipping and haytime. After feeding the dogs and serving the final walkers their tea and scones, we’d sat down to tea with the children and decided that we would take Joe and Kate to the allotment and see how they fared running together.
‘Who’s comin’?’ I said as I cleared away the plates from the table.
‘Me, me, me, me,’ said Annas, always keen to be out and about.
‘There’s a bit of walkin’ tha knows,’ I told her, and she nodded enthusiastically.
The others were all occupied; Raven doing homework, Reuben, Miles and Sidney crafting something in the workshop and the smaller girls hellbent on having a campfire in the small walled-in garden known as the graveyard behind the old chapel (woodshed) and cooking some of the freshly sprouted rhubarb.
‘Right, that’s fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll tek Nancy too if you lasses is gonna be playin’ wi’ fire.’
Clive went to get the quad bike, and I put a beaming, grubby-faced Nancy in the backpack, still nibbling on a biscuit. Even though Nancy was now walking and very mobile she still loved being carried, getting a bird’s eye view and experiencing the sights and sounds of life on the farm.
Evenings like this had to be seen to be believed. Tranquillity descended after all the people had passed through and gone. Smoke from the chimney curled and wound its way skywards in a perfect corkscrew, not a breath of wind interrupting its journey. Swallows busied themselves flying at dizzying speeds around the farmyard. We were on the cusp of summer now and everything was alive and vibrant.
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br /> ‘Come on,’ I said to Annas, ‘let’s gan.’
‘Tek yer camera,’ Clive said from the quad bike, ‘it’s a bonny neet. I’ll gan an’ let dogs out.’
I tramped back to the farmhouse for the camera and returned to find Clive standing by the gate out of the sheep pens, and beside him the small figure of Annas, in a peach linen sundress and wellies, both with their backs to me.
‘Got it,’ I shouted.
Neither of them responded until I got closer, and then Clive turned with a look of abject horror on his face.
‘Whassup?’ I asked.
‘Joe,’ he said. ‘’Ee’s dead.’
‘Dead,’ repeated Annas, sounding more excited than upset. Death, through a four-year-old’s eyes, was merely a temporary inconvenience.
‘Eh . . . dead?’ I couldn’t quite compute how or why Joe would be dead. ‘But you’ve just fed ’im, ’avent yer?’
‘Aye, I did an’ all, but I mun’t ’ave shut t’door on t’kennel reet an’ he’s hung ’is daft sel.’
It was a horrible sight. I ushered Annas away, and she ran off at full speed to inform the others of Joe’s demise.
We could only guess that, after finding his kennel door ajar, he’d gone for a mooch about and stuck his head through the bars of the gate that led to the sheep pens. Probably the smell of sheep drew his attention. The stoop had two hinges, on which the gate was suspended, and two small lynch pins prevented the gate being lifted off them. It was on one of these tiny metal pins that Joe’s collar had become caught. He’d likely pulled and pulled and then panicked and scrabbled his way through the bars to eventually end up at the other side of the gate. Unfortunately, his nylon collar had remained snagged and so twisted even tighter, exerting an intolerable amount of pressure on his windpipe.