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.