Local Woman Starts Literary Magazine, Acquires Sheep
My beloved Labrador Retriever is a great disappointment to my children. You see, she has two great loves: food and me. So, of course, I think she’s perfect just as she is. I might feel differently if I wasn’t so highly esteemed.
I get it, though. Your kids think that, by simply existing, she would pledge them her unwavering troth, and while she’s fond of them, the devotion she affords me—or a slice of bacon—just isn’t there.
It was an accident, you see. I know those words will go on my tombstone, but I truly didn’t mean to enter into one of my life’s great love affairs when we got the “family” dog.
While I can often be best described as a flibbertigibbet, there are a few things, in my opinion, that require calm and reasoned decision-making. Once I got my husband’s qualified approval—meaning he grunted an answer that sounded like yes while distracted—I immediately ran to my BFF Google. Not really (you know who you are), but I am very fond of that search engine.
The prompt was something along the lines of best dog for dummies? In truth, I searched for a mid-sized animal. Little ones have entirely too much to say, and I have enough for both of us, thank you very much. Good with people and cats.
I know: adopt, don’t shop. I legit searched, and listing after listing discounted us as their ideal home: untested with cats, didn’t like men. I considered rehoming my husband, but that would be cruel when we were the only home he knows.
After completing a highly scientific quiz—What is the best dog breed for you?—the answer was definitively a Labrador.
Not one to take the first suggestion, I researched a number of breeds, among them the Border Collie. I won’t lie and say their looks didn’t turn my head. Size? Check. The canine equivalent of Einstein? That was problematic. I felt it was important that I maintain higher cognitive functioning than my pet.
As I read about Border Collies, I was fairly certain that if I did cave and bring home one of those coal and ice silk furred beauties, an unfortunate game of Are You Smarter Than Your Dog? with nebulous conclusions might arise.
As I read about them, I felt a sense of kinship: the compulsion to gently guide their flock seemingly by will alone; an ability to creep stealthily, sneaking up on their oblivious victims; tidying up their territory, leaving no sheep behind. Yes, me, me and me.
Shrieking at my children after having asked them reasonably ten to fifteen times—sometimes even in writing? Check. Creeping stealthily up on them, Beats headphones firmly in place, entirely unaware of my approach? Check. And last but not least, folding and arranging the throws after my charge has vacated the paddock—or room, if you want to be exact? Check.
Ultimately, it came down to each dog’s prime directive. Yes, that violation that was always threatening to bite Captain Kirk in the ass. While she would be my first dog, I live in a neighbourhood with what seems to be an equal number of canines and two-legged residents. I know this because each time I look outside, I see them there, dutifully exercising their humans—some much more rigorously than others. This was worrisome, as I am not fond of water falling from the sky.
While Labs can find a life that boasts only an hour of exercise a day, topped with delicious treats—thankfully, they’re not picky eaters—completely fulfilling, to a Border Collie this would result in a hostage situation within forty-eight hours, with the unfortunate hostage being yours truly. For these literal canine mental giants, think Olympic physical training with a chaser of Mensa-type activities to keep them from getting rusty.
I neglected to mention this was not the first time we’d “almost” gotten a dog. Not long after my husband and I married, we flirted with the idea of getting one, going so far as to visit a coworker who bred Jack Russell Terriers. Her stud was exiled outside for the duration of our visit, and imagine, for a moment, a fifteen-pound angry rubber ball being hurled at the glass patio door with an alarming, frankly horror-movie-esque cadence. He leapt up, bounced backwards off the glass and down again, in a rhythm similar to a death match of racquetball. My husband, thankfully, kept his composure, and I didn’t have the heart to argue when he forbade the idea on the drive home.
Their puppies are very cute, however.
Keep in mind, they have lower physical exercise demands than a Border Collie. The closest approximation I have ever witnessed to the Looney Tunes Tasmanian Devil requires less exercise.
As I returned to the drawing board—the Jack Russells were too small anyway—it was a fine Canadian who made the case in a way only a Canuck, with our bizarrely twisted sense of humour, can.
An Ottawa-area photographer/videographer crashed my socials with reels explaining each dog breed in its human incarnation. The Chihuahua: an epic case of overcompensation in a very, very angry package. The Husky: a dramatic loudmouth seriously collapsing at the sight of a needle. Every dog that mattered—shyeah, all of them, dude—was represented. The retired police dog. The frat-boy Lab. And, my personal favourite and apparent spirit animal, the Border Collie.
I clicked on the reel, captivated by the sheep.
You too can masquerade as one in the comfort and privacy of your own home for the bargain price of $7.58 CAD.
Almost as funny as that dude you see online doing If Someone With Common Sense Was in Horror Movies, we see two sheep shooting the breeze and, all of a sudden, there’s a Border Collie.
You gotta watch it. Forget it—just watch them all. His And God Created Dog Breeds series is a solid way to spend a week or more of your life online without feeling like you want to lie facedown in the garden and eat worms afterwards.
I wondered where the sheepdog was while watching The Sheep Detectives recently. There was some remarkably lax flock maintenance going on. Sheep wandering through the village. Peering in windows and generally running amok. Conducting investigations—and thank goodness, because the police force, numbering one, was clearly overwhelmed.
This must be the risk you run when there is no border security on your farm.
Imagine it’s the gloaming and your flock is doing sheepy things, in about as much hurry to get back to the barn as my son was when he was a kid. That dude never wanted the party to end.
When, all of a sudden, you feel somebody’s watching you. Yes, I wrote it to the tune of that lyric too.
You look around and, at first, you don’t see anything. Squinting, you can just make out a shape close to the ground. Nah, must be your imagination.
But the disquiet gets worse. You nudge your neighbour, entranced with that patch of clover you somehow missed—dammit—and ask if they notice that there’s something amiss.
This time you both look around because they do, matter of fact, feel like somebody’s staring.
RUDE!
Closer than before, there’s definitely something in the grass.
Huh. Careful not to panic just yet. Might be like that time Larry got into the farmer’s special crop and saw monsters for a week.
You tell your bud, hey man, let’s try that spot over there—conveniently closer to the barn—and walk casual, because appearances.
Weird. That spot by the barn, empty a minute ago, suddenly has, like, ten members of the flock there. Did they miss a meeting invite?
You turn to ask your neighbour, but they must have booked it because there’s no one there.
Or is there?
You pick up the pace a bit. Maybe the farmer put out that treat again. Must be why there’s at least twenty there now.
Crap. And there’s Rachel. She ate the last bite last time and didn’t even say sorry.
You check again.
There’s definitely something there this time.
Just a bit faster. Cardio is good for you, right?
Over by the barn, there’s even more of the flock. If you don’t hurry, you’ll miss out for sure.
You check over your shoulder one more time and freeze.
That shrub has eyes!
And they’re staring right at you.
It’s The Eye, just like your mom told you.
She wasn’t just saying that like your sister said.
Suddenly, you’re pushing and shoving your way up the path to the blessed safety of the barn.
Panting, you look around. Seems like everyone is there. No unexplained absences like that time Jeff came back naked.
Went out to work like normal and then—completely random attack. Some dude he’d never seen before grabbed him, held him down and shaved him bald before he even had a chance to say WTF?
I was astonished when I read this. I can barely get my dog to lie down without a cookie in my hand. A Border Collie possesses the keen intelligence of Hannibal Lecter and the running acumen of Pheidippides, without the inconvenient dying part at the end.
They circle the sheep in ever-tightening circles, directing them more skilfully than a traffic cop, crouching close to the ground and creeping almost imperceptibly toward the grazing flock, staring them into submission. Their flock finds itself tucked into the barn, snug as a bug in a rug, barely realizing it wasn’t their idea in the first place.
With the question of who was smarter answered—beautiful heterochromatic eyes be damned—I eliminated the Border Collie from the selection pool and questioned the sanity of non-farmers and/or marathoners who choose to own them. I mean, what do they do at night after a brisk workout of three or four hours? Sit down to a casual game of chess?
Regardless of my unsuitability as an owner of one of these creatures, I found myself fascinated by the question: what sort of mind requires this level of stimulation?
Returning to my search for the perfect doggie life partner, there were specific criteria to be considered. Like all those songs say, it takes more than love alone. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure there are plenty of working-dog/human couples out there making do with much less of the Kim/Kanye-level disaster I’m imagining.
Without a herd, Border Collies have been known to start a neighbourhood watch. Begin a crusade against ghosts masquerading as shadows at home. This has resulted in a disturbing dip in property values in their dataset.
They will perform the common herding behaviours—you know, the party where everyone somehow finds themselves in one corner of the kitchen without knowing quite how this occurred.
Do Border Collies retire? I suppose not. I imagine they’d be like those fellows who have been frog-marched by their wives to the nearest dealership to finish their days as a courtesy driver after one helpful comment too many.
They aren’t the only examples, just one of the least camouflaged.
There are examples aplenty on Instagram—or perhaps that is just my algorithm. People who aren’t satisfied with a wee vegetable garden or some tomato plants on the patio. No, on a quarter acre they have constructed a full hobby farm. With goats! For milk, and then, of course, in classic inch-mile fashion, you start with a simple goat cheese. Next, you’re looking into bylaws to see if you can adopt a dwarf Highland cow so you can complete your entrance into the artisan cheese market.
I didn’t even mention the chicken run.
As I pondered these myriad psychological escalations, I realized I’d seen this before. You may have thought Scandal was a political drama about Washington corruption and an ill-advised affair with the President. I now realize it was a seven-season documentary about an impeccably styled Border Collie with some very badly behaved sheep—which, come to think of it, sounds like all politicians.
Olivia Pope is yet another of Shonda Rhimes’ brilliant creations. Which made me wonder: is her art just a funhouse mirror of reality? First there was Grey’s Anatomy, then Private Practice, then Scandal. Somewhere along the way, she either fell—or was pushed—into a vat of toxic waste and Shondaland was born. Apparently, the reasonable response to creating one wildly successful television show is to create several more and then give the whole operation its own name.
And all this time I thought it was abnormal to start writing like it was going out of style, discover you’re an essayist, assign yourself—in the most self-centred manner possible—the task of rehabilitating nonfiction’s image, realize that also wasn’t enough, and create a fledgling literary magazine?
While I may not have succumbed to the lure of a ultra marathoner disguised as a canine, at the end of the day, I took the internet’s advice and selected a titan-haired, failed water goddess. Webbed feet be damned, Sunshine is very suspicious of water.
Good with cats? Yes. She will plead with me to move the scary feline pack leader out of the way so she can have a drink.
The only question remaining is what she will do with the Valais Blacknose sheep I’m considering next.