We ‘bitches’ got this

I had a realization the other day. The farm is being run completely by females at the moment. Three women. Two livestock guardian dog bitches. One border collie bitch. What I can say? We get stuff done.

What does that look like? We’re down in guardian numbers, but my LGD gals, Maya, 2-year-old Kangal, and Jael, 16-month-old Boz, have been holding the line, patrolling the 180 acres of pasture land, until I can get more pack reinforcements.

They’re there every step of the way. Watching the sheep. Shadowing us during chores, quiet, strong, capable, watchful. The past nights, they’ve been shouldering up to unseen intruders. Not coyotes. Maybe bobcat? We joke that it’s a chupacabra.

Regardless, they’ve pulled back toward the barns, rather than their favored posts looking out over the valley. When they come in the house for a snooze midday, they’re out cold.

I’ve taken to escorting the main flock up to morning grazing. It used to be Houdini’s role. The path they take through the valley, through the trees, was an ideal ambush area for coyotes, before Houdi.

A battle-tested, 5-year-old Akbash cross, Houdini was the one who changed it all for me. He died too young this spring. More on his story and mine in future installments. Bruno, too.

The first morning, as I and Maya and Jael fell into step with the flock, heads whipped around, like, what the heck is the human doing here? The dogs got the side eye, too. Before, they’d been forward scouts, well ahead of the sheep. We trudged through the skiff of freshly fallen snow. Happy spring.

One morning, I walked out, saw the flock gearing up for its trek, with Jael sitting right in front of them. Maya sat at the gate. I went into the pasture and started the journey, skirting the edge of the cliffs. Maya and Jael tussled for a minute in greeting and then began leading out. The sheep followed.

The early morning sun glazed the grass as we meandered our way toward the back fields. As we reached a high wall with trees, Jael disappeared, only to reappear, nose to the ground, intently following a trail. Maya fell into step and both plunged into the trees, seeking the scent trail. They circled a couple of times and then continued on.

We went down the rocky slope and through the gate to the back fields, where the sheep meander through the remains of an apple orchard and skirt another high wall.

Tails up, the two dogs advanced. Suddenly, Jael’s nose hit the ground and she started circling the high wall, flitting over rocks and debris. Maya darted off at a different angle, investigating the high wall too. They began to fly over the rough terrain, searching for something. Up and down, over and around, criss-crossing the area. Silent, stealthy, intent. Like they were running on flat ground, not hard-scrabble leavings from strip mining.

It was one of the first times I’ve seen the two of them working together like that. They often scout together, but our terrain is such that when they’re out of sight, I don’t see their tactics.

The flock still trailed behind, picking its way down the hill and through the gate. I walked up the rise, toward the last place I saw the gals disappear. I got to the top and looked around. Silent. Still. No dogs. I looked toward the woods. They were flying. Whatever the scent was, it had their attention. Had they slipped through the fence to follow it?

I called them. The flock approached. And coming along the edges were Maya and Jael, giving me looks, like “you called?” They had been so silent, they had gotten around behind me, and I hadn’t even noticed.

It was awe-inspiring. They really are made for this work.