I’m Not a Sheepdog – I Have Sheepdogs for That (Part 1 of 2)
Posted By Randy on January 5, 2014
“I will not stand for trivializing the sacrifices made by those who fought and often died so I can sit hear speaking the truth as I see it, and to my mind the title of “Hero” is thrown around entirely too easily these days. There are times and situations in history that few of us can even imagine, and those times raise the bar on who gets to wear the “Hero” badge. Some of those we recognize today are Heroes. That having been said, the fact that countless others simply did their duty without ever once meeting that moment of truth demanding of heroism doesn’t make their actions any less worthy of celebration, commendation, and the sincerest of thanks for doing everything they did.” ~ Lest We Forget – A Parting Shot
Long before the 9/11 debacle precipitated rebranding of the word “hero” to mean anyone and everyone who wears the uniform of any military, public safety, or security agency or organization, regardless of that person’s job description, experience, personal attributes, or role in events, I took umbrage with some ill considered imagery based on animal stereotypes. I’ll be talking about them today.
I speak specifically of sheep, wolves, and sheepdogs; and if you understand my policy of capitalization, you will get the lower case first letter of each of those words insofar as they are used in the context under discussion, for these references have no bearing on the creatures of Nature who hold true right and title to those names. Most particularly, I take exception to the widespread advocacy that society can be simplistically subdivided into people who fit neatly in one of these categories – most often by people who claim to be sheepdogs themselves.
Willingness to injure, or take the life of, another in a life or death contest is the ultimate expression of selfishness, and in this it represents an adaptation necessary for survival in Nature. While that term carries a negative connotation in most of its Human applications, in the context I’m using here, it simply means placing the value of one’s life ahead of that of another in a contest from which it’s possible there will be only one combatant left standing – if that. Selflessness combined with this form of selfishness though – ah! Now there’s the deal, for in this combination not only lies the willingness to injure or kill another in defense of the self, but the determination to do so in defense of something other than one’s own life. Something one deems valuable to the degree that its defense is worth risking injury up to and including the loss of one’s own life to ensure its survival. Every creature in Nature groks this without explanation or politicizing the issue. Only Man feels a need to take ownership of what is already there, and use it as justification for an agenda.
I hadn’t reached the age of 10 when I first felt a pang of resentment at hearing a clergyman refer to the congregation of his church as “my flock”, and the genesis of that resentment lay in a lesson taught to me in the summer of my 8th year by the Border Collie I grew up with. His name was Bullet because my Parents had permitted me to name him after the trusty canine comrade of Roy Rogers, the hero of a television programme I never missed. He accompanied me on many a childhood adventure, and always came along on family outings like the one I’m about to relate.
Corkum’s Island is located near my home town of Lunenburg, Nova Scotia, and before the pollutants of human effluent rendered their consumption unsafe, was a favourite destination for the digging of Clams. Today, the place has become an enclave for the monied and the remnants of long entrenched families, but back then it was mostly farm land, and not far from the causeway that connects the island with the mainland was a pasture where we would park before traversing it to the beach.
On this particular Summer day, my Father was at work, and my Mother had decided that a Clam feed was on the menu for supper, so off we went – my Mother, my sister, Bullet, and me – in the family Ford Comet, to collect the harvest. For years, the gate of the rustic wooden fence that formed the perimeter of the pasture was nonexistent, but on that summer day, two stout rails were found to have been run across the gate opening. No reason could be seen, so we disembarked and slid through the fence.
We were half way across the 150 meter expanse of fenced pasture when Bullet suddenly barked in a way we had never heard him bark before. Noting he was staring in a direction that was to the right and slightly behind our position, we all looked where he was looking – to see a large bull stomping toward us.
For a few seconds nothing but the bull moved, and then Bullet was off like an arrow from the bow. I remember seeing him slam on the brakes in front of it, and seeing the bull lower his horns. I recall hearing my Mother scream his name, and then half running/half being dragged toward the beach before diving under the fence. Safe, we all looked back to see that far from being a horn tossed bloody wreck, Bullet – who had no formal training beyond what Nature had bestowed upon him as his Border Collie legacy – had moved the bull into the corner of the pasture that was furthest from us where he was keeping it cornered. Evidently, every attempt by that bull to hook him with a horn had met only empty air, and Bullet was all over him, as the saying goes, like a cheap suit. By the time we looked back, Bullet was lying sphinx like in the grass, staring at the bull, which was standing facing him with its ass in the corner, head lowered, breathing hard, and clearly outclassed.
When my Mother – still fearing the worst possible outcome – once again screamed his name, and the sound finally reached him, Bullet took a quick look in our direction before rocketing back to us. Needless to say, we circumvented the pasture on the way back, but that bull stayed as far away from Bullet as the fence allowed. You know, I have tears in my eyes writing this because, while I am blessed with many powerful and wonderful memories, this will forever stand out as one of the best. That night, by my Father’s decree, Bullet dined on steak with a side of Clams – symbolism at its best.
So, now. The lesson.
My Mother failed to notice the threat until it had approached within potentially lethal range, but from this singular incident she learned never to cross the perimeter of a fenced pasture when the reason for its being fenced was unknown. My sister and I, being children, followed her blindly; intent only on what we would do on the beach ahead, and I at least learned that many sets of eyes and ears trump leaving everything to one. The bull – well, he was simply intent on defending his territory from interlopers, while Bullet would brook no bullshit (literally) when it came to his family, and the lineage of his ancestry did the rest. My Mother made a mistake of presumption, I followed blindly, the bull was not evil, and a Dog saved the day.
Would we have escaped unscathed if Bullet hadn’t been there? Perhaps, for who knows what reserves of ferocity my Mother would have found in herself, and what effect its coming to the fore would have had on the intentions of the bull? I know of a certainty that she was far from a quivering waif in the face of danger or adversity. She was, after all a child of the Great Depression, World War II, and the daughter of a blooded sniper in “the war to end all wars” who went on to lie about his age in an unsuccessful attempt to get a piece of its sequel. But in the dark interval that was the gift of Bullet’s leaping into the fray, she saw to the safety of her children, as a Parent must. In that same interval, while beyond immediate aid, Bullet was operating on his own, as he saw fit, and of the four of us who came from Lunenburg that day, he was the most capable of dealing with the threat. He knew what to do, and why. He didn’t herd his family out of danger. He protected his own by putting himself between the threat and them.
This brings me to an all too common theme – the pigeon holing of people in society as sheep, wolves, or sheepdogs. I’ll be returning to this next time, but for now, watch this bit of clarity courtesy of TheYankeeMarshall. His specific mention of firearms notwithstanding, it’ll give you a clue as to my leanings with respect to training, preparation, vigilance, and self-reliance, if you don’t have one already.
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