We took Roxie, our 2-year-old English Shepherd, to a herding clinic on Saturday. Now, the idea was to see if she had any natural instinct to herd. Turns out, she does! Just not the right species.
The clinic was held in a muddy field, and in the pouring rain. Of course it was. Mother Nature apparently got the memo that I was planning to be outside and responded with, “Release the monsoon!” So there I was, squelching through ankle-deep muck, and getting soaked from above, while Roxie stared blankly at the sheep like they were beige statues.
No spark. No drive. No "I am Dog, hear me herd!" Nope.
But then—then! A trained border collie stepped onto the field to keep the sheep from scattering like popcorn in a microwave, and that is when Roxie came alive.
She was last in line. It felt like an eternity of watching the other dogs perform their so-called “herding” routines—sheep bursting in every direction like popcorn in a skillet, tails and wool flying, while the saintly border collie marched in again and again like a traffic cop at rush hour, corralling the chaos into something that at least resembled livestock management. When it was her turn I released her from the leash, which was the only thing keeping her from enforcing her idea of what we were there for. She bolted out to where the action was like she was shot out of a canon.
Problem was, she didn’t herd the sheep. Oh no. She herded the herder. She clearly misunderstood the instructions.
She went full gladiator mode. Dropped into position like a furry linebacker and started intercepting the border collie with surgical precision. Blocked every move. Anticipated every pivot. And just to seal the deal, at one point she ran right over its head. Gracefully. Like a linebacker crossed with a ballerina. On caffeine. She was intent on adding a new rule to the playbook, “Thou shall not chase the sheep!”
The border collie was stunned. You could see it thinking, “Wait, I’m the professional here! Who let the intern off-leash?”
I stood there, mouth open, trying to decide if I should be horrified, proud, or start selling tickets.
The instructor—who, to her everlasting credit, managed to not double over laughing—watched the whole thing and said, “Well. That’s a first. I've never seen that before.” (And not likely to ever see it again.) Apparently in all her years of herding instruction, she had never seen a dog invent a new event: "Competitive Border Collie Herding."
Did she tell me to take Roxie home and try something easier, like synchronized napping? Nope. She gave me some solid advice on redirecting Roxie's laser focus to the actual livestock. Honestly, I was just impressed she didn’t hand me a refund and a participation ribbon with a sheepish smile, and a “Thanks for playing.”
Meanwhile, where was my video camera to capture this herding clinic hi-jinks? Oh, just a quarter-mile away. In the truck. With my husband. Who, being smarter than both Roxie and me that day, stayed dry and cozy while I stood ankle-deep in muddy sheep business, soaking wet and slightly humiliated.
Roxie may have flunked her first herding test, but she passed her audition for most creative interpretation of the assignment with flying colors.
Next time, if there is one. . . we bring the camera. And an umbrella. And maybe a therapist for that poor border collie.
1 comment:
That's a great story! My neighbor has a dog that she would like to train for search and rescue but it's so expensive, and my neighbor would have to pass a fitness test. It's too bad, because the dog is amazing.
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