I don’t intend to pick on old dogs.  Really.  They just open themselves up to it and seeing as I have been on the receiving end of Lace’s brand of humor many times over the past 15 years I’m going to say “fair’s fair”.

We were heading back to the house after our walk today, Shaine, Lace and myself.  As walks go when a stir crazy 1 1/2 year old and a  plainly just crazy 15 year old are involved, it wasn’t all that eventful.  Lace actually managed to stay with us right up to the final stretch.  That’s when she found something incredibly smell-worthy beside the wood burner, did a sudden u-turn and planted her nose at the corner of it, oblivious to all else.  I managed to get her attention and motioned her toward the house, Shaine doing circles around me at the end of her leash.  I spun myself out of that, glanced over my shoulder to insure Lace was with us and headed off.

When we arrived on the deck there was no longer an old dog in the group.  I took Shaine into the house,  popping her into her crate before heading back out to find the Old Lady.  My guess was she had gone back to sniffing whatever had caught her nose earlier.  She can be very single minded at times.  Half way to the burner I saw her, standing behind a blue spruce, staring at it as though she expected it to move out of her way.  I called out to her and she cocked her head, looking up at the spruce with an expression that clearly asked, “Did you say something?”  I kid you not.

“She thinks it’s a person,” I muttered as I started walking toward her.  I waved my arm and called her again.  This time Lace peered around the spruce, gave me a quizzical, blurry-eyed look, looked back at the spruce, at me, then up at the spruce again but this time with a sudden air of suspicion.  Then she side-stepped around the tree and came trotting in, not without a look or two over her shoulder, I’m guessing to insure herself the oddly costumed person standing in the back yard wasn’t following.

Not for the first time I find myself questioning Grady’s future as a working dog.  Granted, most if not all of his shortcomings are most likely my fault.  But he will be five this spring and I’m wondering if I can rectify what went wrong and bring him around.

Yesterday was his turn for chores.  I took him in off lead, a mistake only from the standpoint that he was more interested in just about everything besides the sheep.  He didn’t push them off me and it was rather like feeding without a dog’s help.  He wouldn’t even look at the sheep, not directly, but skirted around them and avoided them at all costs.  Still, he was excited beyond belief to be going in with me and daily tries to find ways into the pasture.  When the snow was still piled high he clambered up a snow bank and launched his 60 pound self over the fence to come in with me.  Yesterday it wasn’t until we had been in and out several times and I was taking the first load of hay in that he “clicked”.  Bad timing.  But up to that point he really hadn’t shown me anything.

So when do you say a dog just doesn’t have it?  I’m giving Murphy another chance because I let him down.  I think it’s only fair I give Grady another chance because I screwed him up.  But I’m not sure how much of a chance.  Last year he was wishy-washy at best.  The type of dog that truly annoys me, what I term the “slash and burn” dog.  Dives in, does some “work” then darts away.  But I didn’t really work with him all that much and a lot of time in the pen was spent arguing because he didn’t have a down.  Goes back to working on things off stock.  I think it’s either a respect issue or a confusion issue.  Because of who his mother is (Rowan) and who his grandfather was (Duke) I didn’t trust him 100% and came down on him when I shouldn’t have.  So I’ve got my work cut out with this boy.

I only hope we’re both up to it.  This is my year of evaluation, observation and attempting to rectify.  Should make for an interesting year, hey?

I purposely go out of my way to feed my dogs the best food I can afford.  I research for days when I need to make a switch, analyzing ingredient labels, comparing one to the other,  figuring cost per pound.  Something that becomes necessary when feeding 6 mouths on a budget.  One thing I try to eliminate right off the bat is corn.  I want my dogs to have as much meat and as few grains as possible.  They’re carnivores after all.

Problem is, I think someone forgot to tell them that.

It’s a well known fact they, and other visiting canines, enjoy snacking on the Organic Kibble produced by the four-hooved organic kibble producing machines we keep on hand for apparently just that purpose.  But now I’m beginning to understand why they enjoy it.  They secretly crave grain like I crave dark beer and chocolate.

Take today, for example.  A part of my new training regime is to use a different dog each day for chores.  There isn’t a lot they need to do.  Keep the sheep off me when I’m filling the grain bunkers, don’t harass the sheep, and don’t push the sheep over the top of me when my back is turned and I’m filling one of the bunkers.  (I secretly think the last item is the toughest for them as they seem to have the same wickedly fine sense of humor I do.  Funny to us but not so funny to anyone else.)  The scenario is repeated with the feeding of the hay.

Today was Quinn’s turn at chores.  I should have known something was up when he climbed into the bucket on the Bobcat and stuck his head into the nearest grain pail, snorting oats out of his nose when I told him to leave it and get his arse out of there.  Perhaps, I thought, he mistook it for something like cat food (an apparent dog delicacy).  He tried to get into the bucket three more times before we made it up the hill.

In we go to feed.  Quinn on his hind legs walking next to me in an attempt to get more grain out of the bucket, me slapping him in the head with my free hand telling him not to be such an idiot.  The sheep were watching with a mix of apprehension (they know what Quinn can be like) and irritation (they wanted their feed).  I tossed some grain into the first bunker and headed toward the second.  The sheep, I noticed, had not moved.  Quinn, I noticed, had not moved.  It would have been hard for him to move, what with his head buried in the bunker, scarfing down the very food I try very hard to keep out of his diet.  I called him up, telling him to leave it, which he did so, reluctantly, his muzzle decorated with corn and a variety of other grain type ingredients.  The scene repeated itself at every bunker.  In fact, when I left him by the Bobcat to get the first load of hay he discovered the dish of grain intended for the rams.  Needless to say, the rams didn’t get as much grain as they usually do.  He even checked each bunker prior to my depositing the hay in it, making entirely sure the sheep had not left anything behind.

I suppose I should be pleased he did what I asked.  He kept the sheep off me, didn’t harass them, and didn’t push any up my backside when I wasn’t looking.  Now if only he could have done so without the frenetic feeding frenzy the sheep and I would be so much happier.