From all of us at Brandywine Farm

Auspex

Once in a California Sierra
I was swooped down upon when I was small,
And measured, but not taken after all,
By a great eagle bird in all its terror.

Such auspices are very hard to read.
My parents when I ran to them averred
I was rejected by the royal bird
As one who would not make a Ganymede.

Not find a barkeep unto Jove in me?
I have remained resentful to this day
When any but myself presumed to say
That there was anything I couldn't be.

-- Robert Frost

I am pleased to learn from this video that French for "Oh, shit!" is "Oh, shit!"

At least in Quebec it is.

Billy, did Grampa ever tell you about the time he was briefly abducted by an eagle?

Update 12-19-12
Alas, it appears that the exclamation unbelievable is probably spot-on.

Well-done, though.


And always nice to find an excuse for a little Big Bob Frost.

Perfect Circles

About a dozen years ago, I started fostering dogs who needed help getting adopted.

My first fosters were "cage break" dogs from Animal Friends in Pittsburgh.  I wanted to volunteer in a way that exploited my ability to train, and it was a bit too far to schlepp into town every day to work with the critters in the kennel.  Plus, I could see how frustrating it would be to teach a dog manners at the kennel gate, break him of jumping up, introduce him to the mutual pleasures of a loose leash -- and then have another volunteer undo every bit of it on his next walk of the day.  Penelope unraveling her weaving everydamned night, except for no good purpose.  More like the rowdy suitors breaking in and pulling the weft in their drunken revels.

Over a short period of time, the rules applied to volunteer dog-walkers became more restrictive. Dogs were not to be corrected. Someone might see it and get all butthurt. The poor goggies. Lost their homes and now some old meanie is making them do stuff.

The foster coordinators -- there were several in serial during this period -- and a couple other animal-care personnel understood that the party line about cookies and unicorns and fairy farts was not going to work on a lot of the dogs there, so they were -- unofficially, mind, never on paper -- absolutely good with sending dogs out of the facility to actually learn something.

So I started doing two-week (sometimes longer) cage breaks for the thugs -- mostly big, stupid, rude adolescent males with no clue about boundaries and manners.  Just about immediately, I started getting the cases that were otherwise going to be the subjects of a meeting of the euthanasia committee. In a couple weeks of living in a home and being held to account for their actions in a constructive way, they'd shed the kennel-induced anxiety, learn proper dog-manners from Lilly, Mel and Pip, get good and tired out, learn some basic obedience, be housebroken or re-housebroken, and generally start being real live dogs. I also once took in two little starved feral hoarder survivors, tamed and trained and fattened them up until they were real live dogs.  I'd write up a detailed, careful evaluation of each dog, with recommendations for the kind of home he was suited for and followup for his adopter.

Then I'd return him to the kennel and never hear of him again. Never knew whether the adoption counselors did dick-all with the reports.  Not so much as a phone call or a post-it note in my volunteer cubby telling me that my foster had been adopted.   But I could be sure that, before each dog left the kennel again, an army of soft-hearted and rule-hobbled volunteers re-taught him to drag a human down the sidewalk while gagging into the collar, climb and claw a person's body in "greeting," fence-fight with each dog in the kennel row, and play keepaway instead of fetch in the play yard.

Not much job satisfaction in that. And despite being larded up with t-shirts and tote bags, job satisfaction is really all that a volunteer gets for her trouble.

My first foster dog, ever. Shelter called him Karbo, which I don't think is even a name.
No idea where he went. He'd be about 13 now. Since he was evidently part Doberman, I doubt he's still among the quick. Would have been nice to know, though.

I offered a free private lesson for each of "my" dogs' adopters, with a nice certificate that I included with the dog's write-up. Never had one contact me.

I found out that the adopters never got the nice certificate. Because the official policy was, Animal Friends did not recommend trainers who were not "all positive."  By which they meant, they only endorsed those who mouthed the politically-correct mantras of behaviorist delusion. Didn't matter what the person actually did with the dog, mattered what she said she did, and which magic words were employed. Notorious dog-beaters such as myself were reserved for the role of git 'er done, but we were to enter and leave by the servants' door and expect no credit for actually, you know, training the dog.  I was never to expect a referral from Animal Friends, not even for a dog I had spent weeks training in my own home who was now in danger of being returned by his adopter -- not even when I offered to do it for free.

The PTB at this shelter genuinely imagined a regimen of rehabilitative savage beatings when the dog was out of sight, and they were okay with that, as long as nobody knew and the horrid but highly-effective dog-beaters stayed in black ops mode

So, obviously, fuck that.

Rudy (far right) was my last shelter foster. He was a perfect dog once removed from the screaming kennel.
About ten minutes after he came into my house, I vowed that he'd never go back to a cage.
Pip, Mel, and Lilly thought he was swell.
My friend and colleague Jack adopted him, and he became Jack's unlikely SAR dog and constant companion.
Jack outlived Rudy by only a couple years.
I miss them both. I'm glad they were, and are, together.

Then came Tyler.

Tyler was an English shepherd, or English shepherd-y farm collie, at a pound in central Ohio. He'd been a stray, and was a long-termer there when he came to the attention of the English shepherd community. His time was just about up at the pound; he'd only lasted as long as he did because the staff adored him; he dodged a scheduled date with the needle at least once.

Someone from Michigan decided she wanted him, but not enough to drive three hours to get him. The breed discussion lists and the rescue transport lists made it happen.

The same day he arrived, Tyler experienced something he had never known before -- a complete stranger trying to yank a comb through his densely-matted coat.  It no doubt hurt like hell, and surprised him even more than it hurt.


So he snapped at the comb.


And was promptly and persistently declared vicious, "dominant," and an edgy, challenging dog.  According to this first adopter, a vet and a trainer proclaimed this about him.


She wouldn't drive him back to the pound, either, so he stayed a spell with a border collie rescue before catching a lift back to central Ohio.


And I drove out to pick up my first Anger Foster.


That's when I'm so pissed about the idiotic mishandling of a dog, and the bullshit spun by the dog's owners, or a pound, or best of all a "behaviorist," that I foster the dog to spite the jackasses and prove them wrong.


It generally works out pretty well. Many of my favorite fosters have been Anger Fosters.


The one whose owners invented neurological issues to justify the craziness they caused. The one returned to the pound for "viciousness" -- not according to the owners, but according to the child welfare bureaucrat who had manhandled a crying foster child in front of him and found out -- without being injured in any way -- why you don't do that when an English shepherd is on duty. The one secretly dumped at the Pittsburgh dog pound by the vulgar-rich owners when we weren't quite fast enough at finding a foster home for him and they couldn't be bothered to take him when they moved. The one presented (with five relatives) at the pound for death the next morning by the puppymiller who knew the gas chamber schedule and didn't want competition for sales. The one proclaimed incorrigible by the nationally-famous behaviorist. And, of course, every one of my Operation New Beginnings houseguests, the canine crime victims.


I gave Tyler a few days to settle in, then muzzled him and started gentle grooming on his matted coat.

He reflex-snapped at the comb (not me, the damned comb) once, as I expected. I corrected him firmly, a bit dramatically for the oh shit effect, and on we went.  Discussion over. Never repeated.

Took four or five days of short sessions to get his mats combed out and the worst of them amputated; ever after, he'd lie comatose on the patio while I groomed him. Nails, too.

He was polite and willing -- if initially pig-ignorant -- from the first, and quickly integrated into our dog pack. Pip enjoyed having a young guy to play with and push around and show the ropes. I enjoyed having time to really work with him (not that he needed much), and the knowledge that an army of dog walkers were not going to undo his training before he could be adopted.

I could never get a great shot of Tyler's face with the camera I had then.
He was too dark, with dark eyes.
Photos don't do him justice.

In a couple months, I was asking for this vicious dog to be placed in a home with children.

So he was.

He went to live with Deanna and her husband and three boys and his foster sister Pip's half-brother Indy.

Yes, English shepherd-land is a very small place. It's not that huge a coincidence.

And there, he was a "perfect dog" for them. Deanna's words.

Tyler's story -- the real story, not his misfortunes before coming to me, not the events that befell a dog-in-waiting at a foster home -- doesn't belong to me. His real story is the story of his life with his real family.  And it was pretty uneventful, which suits most dogs -- it certainly suited gentle, unassuming Tyler. Dogs mostly prefer not to live in interesting times, and Tyler had known enough drama.

Unfortunately, Tyler's real life was also short. He passed away in December, aged perhaps 11. That's very young for an English shepherd or farm collie.

I knew this because Deanna made a point to get in touch and tell me, because she knew I'd care.

There's one satisfaction that is denied to those of us who place dogs with families through rescue -- the canine circle of life. As a breeder, I can look forward to seeing Pip live on in her grandpuppies, great-grandpuppies, and on and on.  We have the satisfaction and burden of knowing that our breeding decisions now will determine what kind of dogs will be helping to raise children, wrangle stock, and seek the lost long after we have joined our own shepherds on the Big Hill. 

Our rescues are neutered. Their genetic stories end with them.  Their circles, their pond ripples, must emanate from their lives with their people, not the lives that biologically derive from theirs.

This summer, Tyler's family was ready for another dog.

Another perfect dog.

"Oh!" I told Lady's adoption coordinator when she told me that Deanna had applied for her, "Yes! That's the one -- that's perfect.  And she will get to go to a home with kids, too!"

Forgetting that the "kids" who were ten and eight and five in 2002 are now young men.

No matter. They are all still at home. They will all still be Hollee's (her new name) boys. And Dog willing, she could be the shepherd who closes one more circle, the one who looks over the first grandbabies. (No pressure, boys.  Take your time.)  If not -- even if so -- there will be another shepherd looking for a family some day, who can take over for her or help her.  Maybe he will first bide a spell at Brandywine Farm, while the genetic and cultural descendants of Pip and Mel and Lilly help him get on his feet and ready for his real life.

Going home.

Snapshot Sunday: What's With All The Screaming?

I was shifting the small goats' pasture to new ground today when I moved some old wood out of the way of the fence, and found this lady in an odd, knobby jumper:

 

Mother was not very happy about the roof coming off.  I only had my phone with me to further invade her privacy, so the photo is not what it could have been.

She's a wolf spider (family Lycosidae) and the kids have just hatched. That's their empty egg case she's carrying behind her like a limp balloon.  Once they hatch, they climb her legs and ride around on her back until they are big enough to go off on their own to hunt.

Field guide authors and nature writers feel the curious need to emphasize the "solitary" nature of the wolf spider, as if they were some kind of weird hermits in contrast to the normally highly gregarious arachnid clan.

Really? So carrying several hundred of your family members around as they jostle for position on your back for a good chunk of your own lifespan is not enough togetherness for any arthropod?

Snapshot Saturday: Her Dorkness, Lady Mayor of Dorkville

Lady is five months old. She is constructed entirely from legs, tail, and schnozz.  She has no earthly idea where her feet are located, as every morning she wakes up and they have once again migrated.

Although they like her, all the adult dogs can read the Kick Me sign that Nature has painted on her ass.  They regard this as a kind of sacred duty. Face Mecca and flatten the puppy five times a day.

I think this stage is among the most charming in puppydom. No more issues about wee-wee on the rug, minimal discussions about chewing That Which Is Not Yours, but hours of comic relief as the Lady Mayor trips on the stairs, runs into trees, flees crabby chickens, and generally rules Dorkville with a benign and ridiculously outsized paw. 

What? What about my ears?

Lady is living in free-range foster in Southwest Pennsylvania, and looking for her forever home via National English Shepherd Rescue. There is no earthly reason she needs to stay here in foster. It's not fair for us to bogart all the puppy amusement.

Wildcrafting

For the immediate future, we won't need about two-thirds of the south pasture for animals. Our fencing plan will cut off the eastern portion of it, open land to be enclosed later.  It's not only far from the house, it's out of sight, and tucked in to the woods in such a way that the foxes, and sometimes coyotes and bears*, make as much use of it as we do.  When we do get around to using it, it will be for larger animals, and may require a guard animal.

There used to be a good bramble hedge between us and the farmland to the south, but the man who leases the field -- we call him Chemical Ali -- tells me that glyphosate herbicide is "so safe you can drink it -- my son is a biochemist** and he says so."

So I now avoid the surviving blackberries that grow just past their deceased hedge-mates on the edge of the mutant soybean desert.  Where the hedge is thicker, the ones on our side are okay.

I'm managing these acres as a blackberry meadow.

Berries are borne on two-year-old canes -- the thorny shoot forms from the root runners during one growing season, flowers and fruits the following year, then dries out and forms the dead tangle that catches your arms and legs and eyeballs as you try to pick fruit for the ensuing years.  It also allows bigger shrubs and noxious plants such as multiflora and poison ivy to take over, and can hold funk in wet years, contributing to mold and rot that damages plants and ruins berries.

There are ways of getting to the berries high on the bramble headwall. 

So I am mowing 1/3 of the reserve portion of the south pasture every year -- in late fall or winter, when I get to it and no critters are eating it or nesting in it.

This is the first year the practice has borne fruit. And how.

Despite drought conditions, the crop this year is vigorous.  Plenty for us, for the birds, the Pope, our friends.

So we hosted an impromptu Blackberry Day on Sunday.  About sixteen people and six dogs went pasture-picking.

Yes, during berry season, everyone eats berries and poops seeds. (Thanks to Scott Jackson, AMRG teammate, for catching Sophia on his phone.)

Okay, there are some high-maintenance individuals who don't get with the program ...

After a shift out in the blazing sun, adults, kids and dogs were all ready to come in to the shade of the porch and enjoy some of Eric's blackberry crepes.

Followed by a brief, blessed thunderstorm, followed by:

 

___________

* Either that or the Pope has been dropping by at night.

** I don't think he went to, you know, a good school.

Perfesser Chaos has a PhD in biochemistry from Harvard. His response to the notion of having Ali pay us for the right to kill every green (and otherwise) thing in our hayfield -- just above our water well -- with an environmentally persistent poison, and inject GMO corn and soybeans there, is not printable.

Making Lemonade

I partner with English shepherds in my work.  I breed and raise them to be as intelligent as possible -- no prudent stops on cognition, designed to make the beasts easier to live with.  You want to live with an English shepherd, it's your job to make it easy by co-opting that brain, not suppressing it.

So I am not easily impressed.

This video left me gobsmacked.

It's a cute two-minute clip of a goofy dog playing with the hose, right?



This canine engineer is the prophetically-named Sagan.

You may know him as Garrett, son of Rosie.

He went home to live with Eric and Braveheart in Connecticut.  A third (genetic) or fifth (cultural) generation dog trainer's assistant.

And he knows how to position a hose so that the water makes the arc he wants.  In fact, without resorting to opposable thumbs, he does better at it, with fewer errors, than I typically do when I'm trying to water something in the garden and want to put the hose down for a spell.

Most "experts" will tell us that dogs are not cognitively capable of the kind of calculation that Sagan performs here.

And consider -- he is a teenage dog, very recently introduced to the joys of hose-play, and is in an excited and slightly frustrated frame of mind.  Not a recipe for successful rocket surgery.

No one screwed around with a clicker and treats to manipulate Sagan into picking up the end of the hose. Nobody manipulated successive approximations towards an arc of flowing water.  Eric just gave his puppy the latitude to find what he enjoys and experiment with it.

A dog who is selected to be intelligent, and then empowered to be intelligent will always exceed the expectations of those who have dismissed them as "lemon brains."

Sometimes he will even leave his proud grandma with her jaw hanging slack.

Update:

The video is starting to go viral, with over 5400 pageviews in the last 16 hours.

And has been picked up by MSN.  Where they employ someone who understands English shepherds astonishingly well.