The White Ghost

This past weekend, my youngest daughter brought her fiancé, Marc, up to the farm. Now Marc is a big guy—college football star big. The kind of man who makes door frames feel inadequate and folding chairs sweat nervously.

Levite, our Great Pyrenees guardian, did not appreciate Marc’s linebacker energy one bit. I’m not sure Levite had ever seen a human that size before, and as far as he was concerned, that was a clear and present danger.

When Marc walked up to the fence, Levite launched into full protective mode—fur standing up like he stuck his paw in a light socket, barking like the wrath of God in fur. And he wasn’t just bluffing. He was making it crystal clear that this fence is the line, buddy, and you shall not pass.

Once he was convinced that Marc wasn’t going to breach the perimeter, Levite did a full barnyard patrol. He checked every sheep, every chicken, every corner of the yard—like he was taking attendance. One, two, three…yes, even the ridiculous-looking silkie with the bad haircut. All accounted for. Then he parked himself right between the animals and Marc and stayed there, quiet but watchful, until Marc had moved on.

At one point, one of the sheep started wandering up to the fence, probably out of nosy curiosity, and Levite gave her a sharp correction like, “No ma’am, back with the herd. Stranger danger.”

Later, when my daughter and Marc came inside the pasture with me to see the new fencing setup, Levite allowed it—grudgingly. He even let Marc pet him a few times, like he was willing to give him partial probation as long as I was present to supervise. But he never let his guard down. The whole time we were in there, Levite stayed about 15-20 feet away, drifting from bush to tree to tall grass, like some kind of white ghost haunting the fenceline. Watching. Waiting. Protecting.

I don’t even want to imagine what he would’ve done if Marc had raised his voice or made a sudden move. And I almost feel bad for the coyote that ever thinks this farm is a buffet.

Levite isn’t just a dog. He’s a sentinel. A spectral, silent guardian. And when he’s on duty—which is always—you can bet your boots that nothing bigger than a grasshopper crosses that field without being seen.

He may be fluffy, but he's nobody’s fool.

Let the Experts Run the Farm

OK, I'll admit it. The barking of a Great Pyrenees is nothing to be trifled with - or to sleep through. Add 2 more to the chorus and the 3 of them can wake the dead!

Usually they'll bark only for 15 minutes or so and give up. This morning about 4 a.m. they all went spastic and kept it up for way longer that the usual. The neighbors have quite a few apple trees and when the apples begin to ripen, which is about now, the deer come in to dine. Since I didn't hear anything else about I figured that's what was upsetting them. So.... I got up, hastily got dressed, put on my muck boots, and wearily traipsed out to bring everyone into the barnyard and close the paddock gate so they couldn't get out far enough into the pasture to be disturbed. Of course I was muttering the whole time about stupid dogs that couldn't tell the difference between a predator and a vegetarian deer.

As I was taking off my boots and entering the house I heard the distinct chorus of coyotes in the field down the road. Boy, did I feel stupid! Had to go back to the barn and apologize to the dogs.

This morning when I opened the gate to the pasture, Levite, our dominant male, led the procession out as is his usual way of making sure everyone is safe. He has everyone wait at the gate, goes out just far enough to make sure everything is safe, then turns back to his flock and using some secret code that only the sheep understand, tells them to follow keeping a distance of about 15 feet behind. They all orderly file out to begin their day's activities. I did notice that when Levite marked his territory and did his usual scratching of the dirt, he kicked it in my direction. I'm sure he was thinking "Stupid humans can't tell the difference between vegetarian deer and predators!"

Best to leave the managing of the farm to the experts!

Speaking Sheep

Or: Levite the Translator, Goat Edition Pending

I have a neighbor across the street who only comes up from Connecticut a few times a year. He’s perfectly pleasant, but since he's rarely around, the dogs consider him highly suspicious—like Bigfoot, only with a Range Rover and a weekend bag. So every time he shows up, our Pyrenees launch into their full nighttime alert system: DefCon Bark.

They position themselves at the edge of the pasture, facing his house like fluffy four-legged neighborhood watch, and bark in his direction all night long. It’s not aggressive barking—more like, “Hey! We see you! You better not be up to anything weird!” Which, honestly, is fair. You never know with part-timers.

To keep the peace (and get some sleep), we move the flock into the paddock near the barn when he's here. That keeps the Pyrs quieter and out of trouble.

Come morning, the gate opens, and this is where things get interesting. Levite, our dominant male, takes his job very seriously. He insists on being the first one out of the paddock, like a secret service agent clearing the scene. He struts out, scans the field for threats, real or imagined, and within seconds gives some invisible signal that only the sheep seem to understand.

I swear, the rest of the flock just knows. They stand quietly, like they’re waiting for the usher at a movie theater to wave them to their seats. No one pushes. No one complains. They just wait. Then, Levite gives some kind of “all clear” body language—a tilt of the head, a puff of air, who knows?—and they file out calmly behind him like it’s Sunday morning at the church buffet.

Now, I don’t speak sheep. But apparently he does, because they actually listen. They trust him. It’s bizarre and oddly touching, like church ladies following a potluck casserole—calm, committed, and not to be questioned.

The goats, however? Completely unmoved. They don’t wait. They don’t follow. They certainly don’t listen. They just squeeze through whatever opening they find and bolt out like it’s Black Friday at Tractor Supply. Levite tries to stop them—puts himself in front of them, does his “follow me” routine, but they blow right past him with the same energy as teenagers sneaking out after curfew.

It frustrates him to no end. You can practically see it on his face: “I’m speaking sheep. Why won’t these idiots get it?”

Sorry, buddy. Apparently, goat isn’t in your dialect. Yet. Maybe it’s time to invest in Rosetta Stone: Goat Edition.