Jolene Says, Lock Up Your Sheep (While I Flounder On)

We’re on the road at 6:30 AM on a Sunday, and the first vehicle we passed was a horse trailer. I don’t recognize the driver, but I have been her, so I wave. Then I realized that sitting in a truck doesn’t make me look like we’re compatriots, but we are both off for similar adventures. It’s been less than a week since our last trip, and we’re off to our first herding trial. Jolene is thrilled. She doesn’t know where we’re going. It doesn’t matter.

I know Jolene and I are being totally insufferable, aren’t we? Wait, that was probably true six months ago; it’s worse now.

I pack a fraction of the things a horse needs, but there’s a folding chair, rain gear, and some real shoes. I am nearly unrecognizable in real shoes. Jolene’s crate and her new sorting pole. I’ve given up on small water bottles. When Jolene works sheep, she drinks like a Viking, so I bought her a highfalutin, overpriced water bucket. I had to smile remembering all those years ago, long before I was showing my Grandfather Horse, I started purchasing things I would need. One month it was a blue bucket. His color is now Jolene’s color. Some might feel embarrassed to be such a sentimental sap. 

The Greater Swiss Mountain Dog Club of the Rockies put this trial on, so it was no surprise that there were a lot of really huge black dogs. Some border collies and Aussies, too. Jolene, weighing in at a polished eighteen pounds, was the smallest dog there. I signed in and checked the order of go. We were sixth. I grabbed my chair, and we hiked over. My plan was to watch a few people go and build my confidence. So it was no surprise again when we were called to go first.          

I walked Jolene to the gate, asked her to sit and wait. I went through the gate, paused, and then called her to me and closed the gate. Jolene sat while I took off her leash and released her to the sheep. I blinked, and we were done. I called Jolene to me and put her leash on, and we exited the gate the same way we came in. Jolene passed, got the first leg of her herding title, and a score sheet, just like dressage. Great, since I apparently blacked out in the pen. There were words I had to look up. Jolene showed “a little wearing.” Meaning she fanned from side to side to keep the sheep together. Her power was marked “sufficient for stock.” Jolene says, I’m mightier than I look.

Jolene worked with the passion and agility of a cutting horse, turning in an instant, dancing for joy as I called her back. Herding requires the dog to control their prey drive. I have to say it: humans could take a lesson.

We were done by 8:40 AM. Way too early to go home, so we watched the other dogs go. All of us beginners, every dog different, and many of the dogs had had no previous lessons. They were excited, but their raw instinct calmed quickly. The sheep were so dog-savvy, it was beautiful to watch.

That is unless you are with Jolene. She’s not blinking, oblivious to sound, and visibly vibrating on my lap. She leaned so far forward that she had to catch herself from tipping off nose-first. Her little toenails dug into my pasty, dry skin. She mumble-barked. It felt like I was in a sports bar during the Super Bowl. Was I cruel letting her watch? The judge kept looking over and smiling. 

When I couldn’t take it anymore, I walked over to the sign-in area where there were snacks. It was a double garage, with a big ranch truck taking up half, and the sign-in table on the opposite side along with the food table. It would have been roomy, but four Greater Swiss Mountain Dogs and their humans were there before us, so there wasn’t much floor space.

I almost turned away, knowing how terrified Mister would have been. But he was safe at home, so I tiptoed in, wondering what Jolene would do. She was on my heels. The dogs were impeccable; the people friendly. As I answered the usual what-kind-of-dog questions, I watched an elderly Swissy who was lying down. When she saw Jolene, she positively deflated, pressing her gray muzzle flatter to the ground to be shorter than Jolene. Her cloudy eyes were bright and playful. Jolene took a couple of steps toward her, but could only stare at the dog the size of a beached whale. In that moment, she had moved beyond Mister in so many bittersweet ways, I had to catch my breath. 

Mister is not Jolene, I say for the hundredth time in the last hour. But don’t feel too sorry for him.

A few days later, Mister wandered in with a squinty, mucus-laden eye. It was two days before the weekly Emergency Vet Clinic fund drive. It’s held every Saturday and Sunday, and I’ve been a big donor before. I begged my vet to squeeze us in.

Mister would like you to know this is a different sort of trial, and he is a contender. As we enter the reception area, he tilts his pathetic, squinty eye toward the women behind the desk, and it’s game on. Let the cooing begin. When asked, he strode to the scale and posed like an elk with his rack of ears. He’s proud of his manly thirty pounds, and the receptionist nearly swooned.

It becomes a team sport once we are in the with vet. She put doggy peanut butter on a lick mat for the exam. There is quite a bit left, so I asked a few extra questions. While she answers, she absently puts one bit after another on the mat, and Mister droops his ears and politely cleans every drop. I finish asking questions when the peanut butter runs out. We leave with ointment and a cone of fame. It means even more doggy peanut butter at home. I worry the eye might turn chronic.

On the way out, a vet tech remarks that his legs are very short, and he tosses her a look. I translate for her as we pass. Mister thinks your legs are too long, I say. She finds this hilarious, and I marvel at humans who think the truth is a joke.

While I’m paying the bill, Mister stood up and nudged the treat jar on the counter. He is the puppet master, and the women act like it’s a privilege. Mister acts like it’s Holy Communion. They should weigh him now, I don’t say. Mister strutted back to the truck, a debonair lothario. No ribbons, no title. But a huge score.

Does it seem like I’m endlessly yammering about my dogs, when our insignificant lives are less than a speck in this big world? Memoir writers are always looking for meaning in the minute. As if dogs and horses could ever be that. I feel like a Pony Express rider, switching steeds in mid-air. That instant when one foot is in the old stirrup and the other is reaching for the new. Some parts of my life are slowing after a hard run. Cherished things vanish or slowly fade away without my consent. I’ve never been this old before, and change comes hard. But I’d be foolish not to catch the next ride, even if it is heading to an unknown destiny. 

With horses, we call it forward. The necessary ingredient for survival. I lack their grace, as always. But what can we do but flounder on?

P.S. It’s our blogaversary. Every Friday morning for sixteen years, never a miss. Animals are my muse. The first fifteen years about working with horses and the last year about dogs. Mister says high time. It’s not like you can do this without us. He includes you, of course, still reading after all this time. I never take you for granted, dear reader. Thanks so much for coming along. 

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