I just lost my best friend after eight years together. Ours was an unlikely partnership, considering her beginnings. Some said it would never work.
I first saw her chained in the corner at the end of the leaky, cobwebby old barn late one August morning. She looked like a huge border collie, fluffy black-and-white, with a white ruff. But she didnu2019t have the spirit of any border collie I had ever seen. She was curled up, with eyes downcast and tail motionless, exuding sadness. She didnu2019t even acknowledge my presence.
u201cWhatu2019s the story on the dog?u201d I asked the goat farmer.
u201cSheu2019s the Great Pyrenees mix I got from a guy up in Washington. She keeps trying to run away, so I had to chain her up. I donu2019t know what to do. Iu2019ve tried grooming her, giving her treats, spending time with her. All she does is try to run away.
u201cShe digs under the fences, and I found her in the other pasture trying to dig out of that, too. So I had to chain her up. Hopefully sheu2019ll learn.u201d
I thought about that melancholic dog off and on, wondering whether she had ever u201clearned.u201d A month later I had to go back to that farm.
The dog was in a dank, dark barn in a large, plastic crate this time. She was still withdrawn, and refused eye contact with me. When I offered some kibble she turned her head the other way, apparently uninterested in food. I patted her head. She showed no response, other than seeming to shrink into herself even more.
u201cWhy is she in the carrier?u201d
u201cI donu2019t know what to do with her. She is worthless as a guardian dog. I canu2019t depend on her to stay here. She doesnu2019t trust people.u201d
u201cWhy not? Whatu2019s wrong with her? Was she like this when you got her?u201d
u201cShe was raised with sheep and other guardian dogs, and never had any contact with people. They just kept an automatic feeder out with the dogs and filled it from time to time. Then when I went up to get her, the owner roped her and put her in my van. She probably misses her sister and her mother. But sheu2019s worthless to me like this.u201d
u201cSell her to me. What did you pay for her? Iu2019ll buy her from you. I know I can help her, especially since Iu2019m not working and can spend the time with her.u201d
u201cAre you sure? Sheu2019ll try to run away. Youu2019ll have to keep her chained up. I paid $125 But you arenu2019t going to be able to do anything with her.u201d
u201cThatu2019s okay. Iu2019ll take her tonight.u201d Something about the dog called to me. Despite the fact that I had failed miserably with past attempts at training dogs, I had high hopes for this one.
We finished our other business and worked out a payment plan. Then the farmer got the dog out of the crate, hooked a long, metal chain to her grubby, black collar and loaded her into the back of my van. The dog looked scared and halfheartedly struggled to avoid entering, but we got her in. I slammed the door and headed to the driveru2019s seat.
u201cBy the way, I forgot to ask you what her name is.u201d
u201cI havenu2019t named her.u201d
u201cHow old is she?u201d
u201cHe said she was six months old when I got her, so she must be nine months old now.u201d
u201cOkay, thanks. Iu2019ll let you know how it goes.u201d
I started the van and drove down the rutted driveway and onto the main road.
* * *
After I arrived at home, I opened the back of the van, blocking the doorway to prevent the dog from escaping. The maneuver was unnecessary, though; she was too depressed to even move. I reached in, picked up the chain and eased her out.
u201cYou were a sheep-guarding dog and thereu2019s something regal about youu2014I think Iu2019ll call you Sheba,u201d I told her.
She stole a look through mournful eyes, and then followed hesitantly as I pulled her chain through the side door of the large pole barn. When she got to the door, she pulled back at the chain. I sensed her fear. u201cCu2019mon, girl,u201d I encouraged, as I grasped her collar and pulled her over the threshold. u201cYouu2019re going to be all right.u201d I wished I didnu2019t have to imprison her.
u201cThese are your goats,u201d I told her as I led her through the inside gate to the goatsu2019 loafing area. One look at the dog and goats scattered like buckshot, most of them running out the front door of the barn. Sheba gave a slight look of recognition, then just as quickly withdrew.
I opened the gate to the middle pen, which was about 3u2019 wide and 10u2019 long, and was situated between the milking room and another pen of twice that size. I pulled her in, closing the gate behind me. She slunk to the back of the pen and lay down in the corner.
u201cThis is where you are going to sleep at night,u201d I said, as I removed the heavy steel chain. I crawled back to her and began petting her fluffy, but matted fur. u201cYouu2019ll get used to us. Iu2019m sorry I have to lock you up.u201d
I left the stall, and found an empty bowl and an unused pail. I poured dry dog food into the bowl, filled the pail from the utility sink in the barn and carried both back to the stall. As I put the food bowl down by Shebau2019s head, she sighed heavily, again turning her head away. I gave her a few more strokes and let myself out the gate.
I watched her for a quarter of an hour, encouraging her to eat, but she was in another deep, melancholic world. Some of the older, more dominant goats slowly gathered in front of the pen, ears up and on the alert. Jinx, a beautiful tri-color Nigerian Dwarf who was the herd queen, came forward and rapidly dropped her head twice, threatening to butt the interloper. Sheba didnu2019t acknowledge the threat, and Jinx couldnu2019t get to her, anyway. Gradually the goats lost interest and drifted off to find places to bed down.
After feeding goats and refilling water buckets, I went back to the house for the evening, still worried about the dog.
* * *
The next day dawned to a gray, overcast sky with slices of blue, promising sun later that day. This would be my first day of dog training.
I went into the barn and began my usual morning chores: milking, emptying water buckets and refilling them with hot water, and giving everyone alfalfa. Sheba still seemed morose, but I noticed that her blue plastic food bowl was nearly empty and the green bucket had less water in it.
When I finished all of the chores, I grabbed the steel chain, went into Shebau2019s pen and hooked the chain to her collar. u201cCome on, girl. Weu2019re going for a walk.u201d
I led her out through the gates and the barn door. While not enthusiastic, she seemed less resistant to going out than she had been going in.
We began what would soon become a routine. We headed out behind my little bungalow to the Bureau of Land Management timber reserve that abuts the farm. The first time, I led the way down the little stone path, through salal, bracken fern and moss, to the year-round creek that winds through the property. Then, after stopping so she could take a drink of the fresh running spring water, we crossed the creeku2014me with a jump and Sheba just slogging straight throughu2014and headed up the hill to the Big Log.
The Big Log is a huge old-growth tree that fell down many years ago and now spans the creek. When it fell, it landed on the hillside above the creek, so it now acts as a bridge from one side to the other. It is about three feet wide and covered with moss, and 20 yards from end to end. Small dogs have been known to cross the Big Log, but only because they were handed up from one person to another. Sheba was too large to get up the steep natural ladder, which was made of branches and other undergrowth. I usually am too scared to climb up and cross.
The meandering hike to the Big Log goes back u00bc mile behind my propertyu2014in an area where logging is prohibited. Itu2019s like having a national park right in my back yard. On hot summer days, itu2019s a refuge and a magical place.
Sheba and I regularly took these long, leisurely jaunts two to three times a day, weather permitting. At night she stayed in the barn and during the day she was kept on a long chain outside, in sight of the goats and my house.
Over the next three weeks of our routine, Sheba began to take the lead, while I held the 20-foot rope that had replaced the metal chain. This allowed Sheba to have some freedom and it allowed me to feel secure that she wasnu2019t going to run away. She often walked down the creek, as the water rushed over her skinny legs. She was happiest in the woods.
During the third week the first breakthrough occurred: Sheba looked me in the eye when I spoke to her. I was thrilled! The next day, I was running with her, trying to get her to play, and when I stopped, she made eye contact and wagged her tail. My efforts were working. Two days later, Sheba looked at me, wagged her tail and bowed down in a semi-crouch, rear end in the air: She was acting playful. Now I was sure that this dog was going to work out.
Sheba continued to resist being chained between walks and put in her pen at night, but I was still afraid to let her roam free. Although she was eating the dog food that I gave her twice a day, she refused to eat when I was around and she was completely disinterested in dog biscuits. I wondered how I would train her without rewards. Still, we were making progress.
Then one day, at the end of September, I had to go to town. Previously, Iu2019d been gone for only a few hours at most while she was chained, but this trip took several hours longer than expected.
Before leaving, I took Sheba on a walk up the path, and then chained her in the usual place. The area where she was chained was inside the welded wire fencing up the hill behind the barn. This fenced area surrounded the barn and was part of what I wanted to be her territory for protecting the goats. She had access to both shade and sun, with a pile of fir branches and other brush that she liked to nest under. Although the sections in the fence were too small for Sheba to get through, I kept her chained because of her history of digging, and because I didnu2019t know whether she might try to jump a section that was only four feet tall.
I got home around 5:00 that evening. A mild drizzle was coming down, so I rushed over to get Sheba into the barn. Only she wasnu2019t there. Her steel chain was stretched up to the edge of the woods, through a section of the fencing, and was hanging on the other side with no dog attached. She must have been magic to have gotten through that fence. Or was she really so thin under that fluffy mane that she could have squeezed through?
I spent that evening and the next week or so walking down the lush path to the Big Log, calling Sheba, first hopefully, then frantically, usually going back to the house in tears. After a few weeks, I lost hope.
Behind my house and past the big log is a forest that goes on for miles. You can ride a horse to the coast through those woods. The Big Log is the start of a canyon that is home to black bears, cougars, coyotes, deer and bobcats, as well as other smaller creatures. Looking there for a dog that didnu2019t want to be found would be an exercise in futility.
* * *
I eventually got into a new routine and went about my life. I often heard a dog barking next door and thought about Sheba frequently, but never saw her. Autumn turned to winter and winter turned to spring.
One morning I got up and started to walk out the back door, as usual, to do my chores. There, about a foot from the door was huge pile of dog manure. Thatu2019s weird, I thought, as I held my breath and removed it.
Three days later a friend sighted Sheba in the woods behind the house. Hearing this news, I raced outside to fill her food bowl. I left it at the bottom of the hill in front of the wood shed. The next morning it was empty.
After several days of refilling the dog food bowl, I finally saw Sheba. She was barking at something in the thick woods behind the woodshed. I recognized that bark! She had been barking out in the woods behind the house since shortly after she left. I had thought it was the neighboru2019s dog, but she was there all alongu2014living right behind me.
Another day I watched her lying under a tree eating a fat, furry wood rat that she had caught. She began to come closer, but still wouldnu2019t let me touch her or even get very close to her. And she still didnu2019t like me to watch her eat.
I decided to again try to tempt her with dog biscuits, and I guess she was just hungry from those months of catching all of her own food, because it worked. I threw crunchy, liver-flavored biscuits on the ground in front of her and walked away, watching from a distance as she chomped them down.
I wanted Sheba back and I realized that in order for her to trust me, I needed to let her keep some of her freedom. I talked to her from a distance, promising that I wouldnu2019t chain her or put her in the barn if she would just give me another chance.
As the days passed, flowers bloomed and spring came to life. Then Sheba gave me that chance. She came closer and closer, eventually letting me pet her. Our bond grew, and then one day, I knew that she was mine. She opened her heart to me, ready to learn and eager to please.
In just one week she learned to come, sit, stay, and lie down. Slowly, she got comfortable eating and being touched. She continued to run in the woods, but gradually narrowed her territory to the area around my house and the goats. She worked the graveyard shift, guarding and barking at night after a few hours sleep after dusk, and was always around to greet visitors to the farmu2014never quite trusting at first.
She also developed another habit: She began to smile. Each day I drove in after leaving the farm, she would run toward the car to greet me, looking me in the eye, upper lip curled with teeth showing, and tail wagging a mile a minute.
