Luther: Farmstead Guardian

In the wee hours of this morning, I woke to the sound of thundering hoof beats just beyond the wall from my pillows. Although I am used to the sound of Stella and Millie galloping by, racing one another to the driveway gate or just running for the shear pleasure of movement, this sound was different. These gals were running from something, not romping towards a playful goal. I cannot explain how the sound was different; I just knew.

The dogs kicked up a ruckus, of course. Molly and the pups had been kenneled since dinnertime, and Luther was guarding the alpacas in our home pasture. I got up, listening. After some minutes the frenzy had not lessened, nor had the mares passed by heading downhill again. I opened the front door and stepped onto the porch, whereupon I clearly heard the sounds of rustling brush and a thud of an intruder bumping the wood of the big goat girls’ shelter.

Only yesterday afternoon had I come home to view the bigger milk goats exiting from their shelter, slowly as if after a sound nap. The sight had heartened me, for I had not before seen them in the shelter unless I had led them there. So, hearing the animal sounds downhill, I hurried back through the house, slipped my bare feet into a mud-caked pair of tall boots by the side door, and hustled up to the home pasture.

Luther came to my call and met me at the lower pasture gate. He hesitated a moment when I opened the gate for him, since I normally reach out to restrain him before escorting him to another job site, but he understood when I stood wide that he was being sent to work. His massive white form slipped right past me and he checked in with the dogs in the kennel while I refastened the gate.

By the time I turned around, he had vanished downhill into the night. I followed—much more slowly. Between torrential rains and playful hoof beats, the swath of “lawn” heading down past the kennel and house is an uneven sea of boot-sucking mud, guaranteed to have me slipping and sliding. Wearing shirtsleeves and pajama pants, I had no desire to slip down into the muck.

When I had safely navigated the hillside, I approached the wooded patch where the large goat shelter stands. Listening hard because I could see so little in the night’s blackness, I determined that the goats were not in the shelter but I did hear some movement beyond the shelter and then Pamela Chrysanthemum’s neck bell chimed. It sounded as if the goats might be in this lower area after all, so I pressed on.

Ultimately it turned out that a large animal was crashing about along the creek bank, periodically splashing down into the water and then lurching back onto the bank. Unarmed, I headed in that direction only to flush the animal out on the far side of the creek. In the dim light it could have been Goldie Rose, the light colored alpaca mom, but she would not be out of her pasture area. When the animal turned tail and fled over the barbed wire fencing and into the neighbor’s pasture, I saw it was a doe. So deer had found the feed I’d left in the goat shelter. This would present a problem until I get that last little stretch of perimeter fence fully secured. Even then, though, a shoulder-high fence that holds our livestock may exclude a coyote, but a deer will sail over a six-foot fence with ease when motivated. I listened a bit longer, then left Luther on duty and gingerly made my way back to the house and into bed.

Twice more during the night I woke and ventured out without retrieving Luther. One time I saw him wading down the center of the creek in chest-high water. He was still patrolling the property. I did want to secure him again before dawn, lest he take it into his head to go visiting once his night shift was over. Finally at about 5:30 I went out to find him curled up at the base of the hill, lying practically nose-to-nose with the similarly-curled spotted saddle horses. He took his leave from them, and came to me for praise and food.

He was amply rewarded, and again confined to the home pasture. I requested that he not share his kibble with the greedy geese, but I’m sure they’ll have had a chance at it by now. When I left, he was crunching his way through the kibble in his bowl, accepting the reward as his due after an eventful night on watch.

Good dog, Mr. Luther. We thank you for your dedicated service. Keep up the good work.