It's not winter in Harmony until ...

… someone big slides off the driveway into the south pasture.

Our old oil supplier is no longer providing this service, so I warned the new guy that the driveway, though plowed, can be tricky for larger rigs. He figured that since the old driver could manage it, he would too.

As he left, I went into the house to secure the beasties. I looked out the window a minute or so later, and didn't see the truck. Gee, he got out already, good deal.

Went back to work inside.

An hour later the dogs start going apeshit. Because the tow truck had arrived. The special pull out an oil truck with 1500 gallons of fuel in the tank before it tips over in my pasture tow truck.

Poor guy had been starting his second attempt up the hill when I looked out, just as he was blocked from view by the barn.

The tow vehicle had to be secured first. That's where the lone hemlock comes in.

The cherry tree at the curve can never come down; it provides the anchor for the redirect. This is all the same as our mountain rescue rigging, except winch instead of manpower for hauling, no real use of mechanical advantage systems, and if the steel cable snaps, it doesn't just drop its load, it whips around and removes the heads of every person in range. Also, the tow operator had a lot more faith in the power of gravity for progress capture than I did. I figure gravity is what got him in that spot in the first place.

Good times.

If a vehicle is pickup-sized or smaller, I can generally get it out with our manual come-alongs and tow straps.

This was the second oil truck the pasture has bagged in five winters, and here's the thing -- it always takes at least two tow trucks, with winches and anchoring to trees, to get one large truck out.

It's all about the angles, man.

Everyone stayed cheerful about it. No gateposts harmed in this production.

The boss needs to buy some chains for the truck.

You Should Be So Lucky, Redux

The next generation of AMRG canine searchers shows how it is done.

If you are lucky enough to be conscious when the search team finds you, this may be what you see just before life gets a whole lot better.

 

This video shows some of what I look for in an operational SAR dog: a robust understanding of the goals of his work, and an assertive commitment to communicating with his handler. With real understanding -- cognitive mastery -- comes flexibility and robustness. An animal that is simply conditioned to perform a sequence through a stylized stimulus-response chain won't have either.

It takes years of training to develop a dog and handler into partners working towards a shared and mutually-understood goal.

When Nico first came to us, his handler Jennifer had plucked him from a looming death sentence at a local shelter.

Seems he was, you know, dangerous.

Phhhhppptttt.

What he was, in addition to "a young male working dog locked in a box in a kennel of yapping idiots," was an ignoramus.

A year or so old, of obviously good working breeding, and no one had taught him anything.

He liked to bite rocks.

That pretty much covers his hobbies and interests at that point.

He had no idea how to greet another dog. His approach to Pip -- in her teens, judgey by nature, and, unknown to us, beginning to feel the effects of the cancer that would kill her in a few months -- was to rush straight at her and mouth her on the top of the neck.

And Pip, never a forgiving sort, said "He's just ignorant. He'll learn."

So we said yes to Jennifer, and Jennifer said yes to Nico, and Nico said yes to a mission in life, which is what all the rudeness and rock-obsessing had been about.

But it took about two years of constant training to get there. No fairy tale "ending" because we are never done. The reward for getting there is the continued hard work it takes to stay there.

Once again, you should be so lucky.

Your Argument is Invalid

Has accomplished more in five years than many people ever will.

Photo courtesy Jennifer Kelley

Five years ago today, the great mass of 189 canine crime victims (plus those in utero) were forcibly removed from Dog Hell as envisioned by Hieronymus Bosch.

Previous victims of the same offender had been "rescued" by those guys who fuck up your day when you see their guilt-dunning commercials.

If by "rescued" one means "confiscated and summarily killed."

An awful lot of people figured that should have happened to the ONB dogs, too.  Said so. Sometimes in print.*

Nobody was saying that about my friend Mr. Barry White last week, as he held sofa-court at his owner's annual full-house-of-guests holiday party.

(Sorry about the crummy phone-photo. His throne room was candle-lit.)

Even the most jealous agility rival doesn't wish dead  the adopted dogs who beat them at the trials.

Sky can grab some of her namesake.

Photo courtesy of Rachel Roper

Blue. Not scared of you.

Photo courtesy of Jody Richwagen

The Ralph Lauren photo shoot personnel didn't wish it about their lovely ES model, Katydid. (Katy got her modeling gig based on wholesome good looks, charm, and solid training -- she didn't need any politically-correct special consideration as a "rescue dog.")

Get my good side. Ha ha. They're all good sides.

Photo Courtesy of Jane Connors

The farmers and ranchers whose ONB dogs slipped right into their birthrights to help with the cows and sheep, goats and chickens, generally do not think everyone would be better off if they were dead.

Skeeter put in an application for a farm or ranch position back in 2009.

Photo courtesy of Liz Dickinson.

Those who figured they were adopting pets are not sorry that their dogs have opened up new realms to them.

Libby, at lessons.

Photo courtesy of Rob McMillin

Contrary to popular perception, not all of them were English shepherds. No matter. We love them no less. Even when they eat rocks.

Jet and his boy.

Photo courtesy of Melinda King.

Absolutely nobody at the search this spring where Cole made his first find -- located our missing man's mortal remains where previous searchers had failed to do so -- suggested that the cheerful little black dog ought to have died for the convenience of his "rescuers," or for his own good, or to save the taxpayers money. Not the police, not the bereaved family, not the firefighters or the media or the other search teams, and especially not his teammates.

In the command post with his friends just before the very last task,
tired after days of searching, but game to do his duty.
Cole does not leave a man behind.

Photo courtesy of Jennifer Kelley

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* The op-ed to which I am replying in this letter-turned-op-ed does not show up when I search The Outpost's site. Not sure whether their archives don't go back that far or what. If anyone has a link to it, please send along.

Christmas Puppy

This Saturday, the last jolly crewmate launched on her own good ship. Miss Trudy has changed her identity to Pearl, and will be assisting Linda in life and dog training, herding a flock of derpdogs, and, I suspect, achieving a great deal else and forging some new paths in the lives of her people, starting out from her command post under the Christmas tree. Her long-anticipated permanent home is a gift to her new family and to her.

Ordering her minions.

Nobody should have to wait around for the show to start.* I'll let puppies go as early as eight weeks, but think there are some real advantages to hanging around a week or two longer for more littermate lessons and Mom time. Anyone who has to fly in a crate needs to grow out until he's eleven or twelve weeks old, well clear of any primary fear imprint window. Free-range farm-puppydom plus regular field trips build lifelong resilience.

After that point, there is no point. Puppy is just being obstructed from her mission. She needs to be connecting to her people, learning her work, adjusting to her reality and helping to create it.

We chose Charlotte for our reality when she was ten weeks old and volunteered for SAR duties. We ask a lot of our SAR partners beyond the full-time job of finding people and telling us about it.

Charlie will need to conduct herself in public in a way that brings credit to her team -- well-mannered and friendly, ready to take on PR and agency relations. She will help me with client dogs and foster dogs and present herself well to their owners. She'll have duties towards the livestock and poultry, both managing and protecting them. She'll live in a pack of strong personalities. She'll go on hikes and bike rides and skiing, host summer parties, and snuggle away the winter nights.

If she acquits herself well at all of the above, and she enjoys good health, she'll be the mother of the next generation.

Like I said, a lot.

And much of it wasn't happening.

Charlie was progressing well with her SAR training. She's the second pup who we've started as a trailing dog, and this is going well, as it did for her mother. Despite being a generally goofy, dorky puppy-puppy, she brings a shockingly mature professionalism and focus to each task.

It was also clear that she really, really enjoyed being the baby on training days, the only puppy among the big dogs and the Special Snowflake.

Like her sister, she was pig-ignorant about obedience as such. She came when called, though not as consistently or with the commitment that I'd like. Knew how to sit for her dinner and when asked, had just learned to down, could walk on a leash, and was mostly ignorant of any concept of "stay." Unlike her sister, she showed zero interest in the hoofstock, had excessive caution of the electric fences, and hung back during chores. She thought Trudy had it covered.

We were still using the gates meant to control baby puppies and foster heathens to manage the two of them for housebreaking and mischief. This impeded our own movements through the house, prevented them from mastering the art of the dog door, and tended to isolate Crazy Uncle Moe from the rest of the family. Since Moe cannot handle being cornered by baby dogs who are still exercising their puppy licenses, and reliably intercepting two heedless monsters is beyond my powers,  he was not integrated with the pests except on walks. So pests they remained.

In the four days since she became an only puppy, all of Charlie's latent oursness has emerged at once.

The gates are open. She is truly free-range. Uncle Moe is fine with it.

On Sunday I sold eight wethers, requiring the most stock handling we've done in her lifetime. Charlie marched into the shed and tried to help us load them.

She has stopped torturing our overly-indulgent cat.

She has taken her place in the Big Bed.

I call, and I get a puppy. Right away. With imperfectly-engineered brakes, so it's best to be prepared before calling.

She is remarkably adept at distinguishing dog toys from the general clutter.

When it's quiet, she is not up to no good. She's usually following the family tradition of slipping in silently behind me.

Fact is, we got a puppy for Christmas.


---------------------------------------------
*Beats a really crappy show that starts on time, though. Like maybe a double feature of Twilight and Eraserhead. Yeah, I'll just wait.

Situation Wanted: Farmer's Little Helper

Gertrude Imogene Stubbs was meant to go to a farm home as a potential future dog mom.

I later decided that Trudy is not a great prospect for carrying on the family. Not because she isn't healthy, vigorous and robust. And there's nothing wrong with her personality, either. She's friendly, affectionate, likes people, and is a naturally polite and rather dainty creature.

But Trudy has the tiniest overbite (she seems to be outgrowing this) had a tiny overbite, but is now scissor-tooth Gertrude, and is a little bit light-boned and fiddle-fronted. It's not the structure I was going for in this breeding. She may outgrow it, but she may not. (Yeah, so she has just about outgrown this, too. A bit of transient puppy-fugly.)

So after sticking around for a few weeks of further interviews she's looking for another position.

Ideally,* at a farm.

Helping with things.

She already really likes helping with things. Chickens. Turkeys. She's thinking about goats and sheep and her role in their management. Last week she genuinely helped Perfesser Chaos catch a loose wether

Do you by any chance need help with things? Do you have some dog experience and a light hand with animals?

She's fourteen weeks old as of yesterday, and ready to be your right-hand dog.

Her pedigree and information about her parents is here.

Email me for more information and an application.

______________

*I could be convinced of another placement, but you'd have to make a good case.

Yo Ho Ho

Sunday was the four-week birthday of the Jolly Crew.

Red Sonja. She is seal, not black. You are gonna have to trust me on this.

Gertrude Imogene Stubbs. Daddy's girl. Really. She looks like her  papa Jet with lipstick.

Dread Pirate Roberts. We call him Bob.

Charlotte de Berry. Yes, that eye is blue.

Sadie Ferrell, aka Sadie the Goat. Yes, she is eating in public, but she is still a supermodel.

Belit. She and Red Sonja are hard to tell apart, but she is black and has a little spit-splash of white on her head.

In the dirge-like service of the empirical application of the most current ethological-behavioral research  (Clinique calls that burning) we hosted the first of our closely-engineered and highly technical puppy socialization optimization sessions.

Also, there were burgers, watermelon, corn from the garden, and beer. And we hoisted the Jolly Roger.  Because SCIENCE.

The Crew were handled by 17 people, of whom 12 were entirely new to them, and three were below the age of reason.  They hung out on the back deck, front porch, and two places in the front yard.

They ate their first solid food -- two meals of satin balls, one ounce of meat each at each meal, provided by a helpful volunteer who titrated access to cut down on the nom nom nom choke factor.

Uncle Cole stepped up to his role and began playing with them for the first time.

Their mother also began playing with them, swallowing their heads, and delivering love-nibbles.

And they got assigned use names for the next month or so.

Famous pirates, of course.

Without too much persnickety attention to the factual basis of any names or narratives. Because why spoil the fun?

Photos have been delayed by rolling technology failures, and the best ones are currently not retrievable. You got a problem with that, come to my house and fix all the computers and cameras and media cards.

Snapshot Saturday: Fall

The wild cherries ripen, black and fat,
Paradisal fruits that taste of no man’s sweat.

Reach up, pull down the laden branch, and eat;
When you have learned their bitterness, they taste sweet.

 -- Wendell Berry