Kennel

The ideas of a Bobtail kennel did not rush into my mind with a sudden burst. It matured slowly, growing from a sincere love of and admiration for the breed, awaked by my dog, Billie, a half-bred Old English Bobtail Sheep-dog. Billie’s Bobtail half was crammed with the loyalty, lovableness, wisdom, courage and kindness of the breed. His something-else half was negligible, though it debarred him from the show bench. Heart, instincts, intelligence-all were pure Bobtail.

When Billie was offered as a gift to me, I refused him, not because of his being cross-bred but because of circumstances. Billie magnificently ignored my refusal and gave himself to me in the wholesome, wholehearted way a Bobtail’s devotion works. It was not the easily transferable love of a puppy, for Billie was then three years old. He had the reputation of being wicked and had several bites to his discredit.

First I bathed Billie, then I beat him for killing a chicken–this only glued his self-given allegiance to me the tighter.

He was mine for thirteen years. When he died at the age of sixteen he left such a blank that the Bobtail kennel idea, which had been rooting in me those many years, blossomed. The question was where to obtain stock. There were only a few Bobtails in Canada, brought out as “settlers’ effects” from the Old Country.

Their owners would as soon have thought of selling their children as their Bobtails. Some of these dogs were excellent specimens, but they were unregistered because the settlers had not bothered to enter them in the Canadian live-stock records at Ottawa, and after a generation or so had elapsed the puppies of these dogs were not eligible for registration.

After long searching I located a litter of Bobtails on a prairie farm and sent for a female puppy. I named her Loo.

Loo was a sturdy puppy of good type and the beautiful Bobtail-blue. The next step was to locate a sire. Friends of mine on a farm up-island had a Bobtail for stock work–a good dog. They mated him to a Bobtail bitch on a neighbouring farm. I never saw the so-called Bobtail mother, but the puppies from the mating were impossible. My friends gave me one.

Intelligence the pup had and a Bobtail benevolent lovableness had won him the name of “Mr. Boffin.” But he had besides every point that a Bobby should not have–long nose, short, straight hair, long, impossible tail, black-and-white colour. I bred Loo to a butcher’s dog, a Bobtail imported from England–well-bred, powerful, of rather coarse type but intelligent.

The butcher came to select a puppy from Loo’s litter. Dangling his choice by the scruff, he said, “Work waitin’, young fella. Your dad was killed last week.”

The man sighed-set the pup down gently.

“Shouldn’t put a pup to cattle much under a year,” he said, and, looking down, saw Boffin standing beside me. Boffin had eased the dog-field gate open and come to me unbidden.

“Go back, Boffin!” I pointed to the gate. The dog immediately trotted back to his field.

“What breed is that dog?”

“Supposedly a Bobtail.”

“Bobtail nothin’–I want that dog,” said the butcher. “Not for sale.”

“You can’t sire a Bobtail kennel by him; ‘twouldn’t be fair to the breed.”

“Don’t intend to. That dog is my watch and companion.”

“Companion fiddlesticks! That dog wants to work. I want that dog.”

“So do I…. Hen, Boffin!” I called.

From the field Boffin came and with steady gentleness persuaded the hen from the garden back into her yard.

“I want that dog,” the butcher repeated and, taking Boffin’s head between his hands, looked into the dog’s face. “I want him for immediate work.”

“He is untrained.”

“He knows obedience. Instinct will do the rest. That dog is just crazy to work. Be fair to him–think it over.”

I did think–but I wanted Boffin.

At dusk that night a boy came with a rope in his hand. “Come for the dog.”

“What dog?”

“The one my father saw this morning–this fella I guess.”

Boffin, smelling cow-barn on the boy’s clothes, was leaping over him excitedly.

“We drive cattle up-island tomorrow at dawn,” said the boy and threw an arm about the dog.

My Boffin, happy till then in rounding up one hen! My Boffin behind a drove of cattle! How mad-joyful he’d be! I slipped the rope through Boffin’s collar, handed it to the boy. He persuaded gently. Boffin looked back at me.

“Go, Boffin!”

The smell of cow was strong, exciting his herding instincts. Boffin obeyed.

Splendid reports came of Boffin’s work. I did not go to see him till six months were past, then I went. His welcome of me was overwhelming. The dog was loved and was in good shape. He stuck to my side glue-tight. We stood in the barnyard on the top of the hill. Suddenly I felt the dog’s body electrify, saw his ears square. Sheep-bells sounded far off; Boffin left my side and went to that of his new master. “Away then, Boffin!”

The man waved an arm. The dog’s lean, powerful body dashed down the hill. When the dust of his violence cleared, a sea of dirty white backs was wobbling up the hill, a black-and-white quickness darting now here, now there, straightening the line, hurrying a nibbler, urging a straggler. Soberly Boffin turned his flock into their corral, went to his master for approval, then rushed to me for praise.

I was many blocks past the butcher’s when I sensed following.

“Boffin!” I had seen them shut Boffin behind a six-foot fence when I left the butcher’s. The wife had said, “Father, shut Boffin in. He intends to follow.”

It hurt me to return him, but I knew the job that was his birthright must prevail…