Puppy Escapades

Late yesterday afternoon, as I was serving the animals’ evening meals, I handled the pups a little. As working dogs their primary bond is with the livestock, so we don’t catch them up for cuddling or playing as one might another puppy. They do get individualized attention, though, when it’s time for immunizations, monthly flea and tick treatments, or worming. Yesterday was the end of a three-day course of a light-duty wormer. When coming up to the barn, I had left Heidi gathering and feeding five of the pups but expected them to follow along imminently. After catching up and treating the four dogging daddy Luther at the barn, I looked down the driveway but did not see the others swarming up the drive as I had expected, so I went about fetching hay for the ruminants.

On one trip I paused outside the barn to admire the view. Our land rolled out before me displaying alpaca boys capering in the late day sunshine, spotted horses happily munching hay, and the fine new four-board fence Jeff completed last week to keep our animals contained and out of the road. The acreage across the highway was newly hayed, artistically dotted with rolled bales that cast shadows in the late-day light. The tractor and baler that had been prowling those acres for endless hours had been put up; they sat in repose alongside the scenic red barn. Feeling satisfied and thoroughly happy with my situation, I admired the scene for a moment when my eye was caught by a trail of white animals crossing the field—a larger animal followed by a trail of smaller ones. It took probably the space of a heartbeat for my mood to turn from satisfied to aghast: what I was admiring had to be Heidi and a passel of the pups!

Goodness gracious, what was Heidi thinking?! Certainly the puppies slide through fences as if they’re not there and were seen Sunday in the yard next door, but to lead them across the busy roadway—I could not condone such risk-taking. That said, they did look quite beautiful streaming along in the late-day glow—almost picture-worthy, but I had no time for photography. I had to finish up the chores and get after the wayward lot.

In order to grain the alpaca boys without pushy goat boys horning in, I had to first distract the goats with some grain of their own. A smattering of sweet goat chow offered in a tub near the gate would do, so I hustled off to accomplish that task. Perhaps I erred by cutting through the alpaca boys’ stall en route to the goats. I did leave feed for the alpacas, but I did so quietly to escape the notice of the goats. Too quietly, I quickly learned, for when I stopped to pour grain for the goats I had hardly bent over than a full-on tackle by an exuberant alpaca sent me sprawling. Luckily I had dispatched some goat feed before the fall, so I was not trampled by stinky, greedy goat boys. Shawn looked surprised; apparently he had been following closely on my heels and had not expected me to stop short—so I had to forgive him for what was clearly an accident. Still and all, my head was ringing from the impact.

After dusting myself off and settling the alpacas, I grabbed a bucket with the necessary worming tools—medicine, syringes for measuring oral dosages, pen and paper for recording who got what, and most importantly the wand for reading each puppy’s RFID chip. (Now that they’ve grown and the litters have commingled—Heidi’s two with Molly’s seven—I can no longer tell one puppy from another. Certainly they each have distinctive markings, but I have not the brain power to commit the variations to memory and must rely on their chips for positive identification.)

Hopping into the little Trail Wagon, I raced down to the front gate and parked. I would cross the street on foot and see what I could see. Having never actually passed the guardrail and fencing into the neighbor’s field, I was not sure of how exactly to proceed. Standing in the breakdown lane by the guardrail, I admired Heidi and her brood. They had passed all the round bales, crossed a stream, and entered the next field with vegetation so tall that only Heidi was visible. She’s a fine teacher, even if this lesson was not one I wanted for the pups. Cars and trucks breezed by me infrequently as I pondered my next step.

If I were to trespass upon the hayfield, would I have time to cross the field before losing sight of Heidi? And how would the farming neighbors whose acquaintance I have yet to make feel about me traipsing across their land? I don’t know when hunting season begins (or began) but the sounds of gunfire have washed across the land for several days now. Did I want to be wandering on unfamiliar ground where I might be mistaken for game?

My thoughts were interrupted when Theresa pulled up behind me in her new car. When she offered to go put on her sneakers and come back to help me track the dogs (now mere specks appearing and disappearing along a fence line), I decided—no, I would not chase after the dogs further. Heidi would bring them home soon enough. Then I noticed that the pups from the barn had followed me downhill and now spotted me out in the roadway. That sent me packing for home; I had no desire to manage more puppies by the road.

Although I have yet to figure out where the parents are slipping through the fence, I would find those vulnerable places without the dogs on my heels. After crossing back through our gate and greeting the pups, I thought to call back across the way to announce “doggie dinnertime” in hopes that those words might hasten Heidi’s return. It did not.

Finally, after I had given up, finished chores, and gone inside, I heard a car horn honking as if at an animal in the road. Heidi! I raced outside to see her trotting along the breakdown lane with pups in tow, then turning up our drive. Since I had (I thought) escape-proofed the front gate I hustled down to meet the group and to welcome them back in. Oddly, Heidi had only four pups with her; I had expected five. About two minutes later I heard the calls of a pup in distress—the sound seemed to be coming from the hayfield across the way. The crying would start, sound briefly, and then stop by the time I had turned to listen or started back down the drive. Choosing experience over compassion, I set about identifying and worming the four pups Heidi had brought with her. Then I escorted the crew (which had grown in number) back towards the barn to put away the bucket.

At the barn I turned back and thought I saw a white speck in the middle of the hayfield. Staring until I was able to discern movement, I deduced that I was seeing the missing pup—the one whose RFIP tag ends in the number 780, and the most elusive of the lot. The pup was moving steadily towards home, so I went back to grab the medicinal bucket and marched down to meet her. I still was faced with the problems of entering the field across the way, but I face one obstacle at a time so chose to worry about that only after I had reached said fence. Of course I was stopped and distracted by other chores as I went—getting this for the horses and that for the chickens—so by the time I actually reached and passed the house, I saw a pup gamely galloping uphill along the fence line to Stella’s horse pasture. After chasing her down, number 780 was identified, medicated, and released. Only then did I put away my wares for the night (up in the barn) and head back down to the house amid gathering darkness.