ScoutyLove

It must have been the temperature, the oppressive waves layering onto their overheated bodies and brains like the prickly winter blankets I took to our boarding school to combat the cool nights of the Nilgiri Hills in South India. I would lie as motionless as I could, hoping I wouldn't get jabbed by the vicious fibres; wondering if I was actually cold or just needed a hug and Mum to bring me my morning cup of tea in my green plastic mug in my own bed; wondering how long before morning broke the chill of the moon. 

Every day Musket, Phoebe Snow, Earl Grey, Carly Simon and Gunpowder have been lying motionless in the porch or under the green leafy Virginia creeper, panting slightly, hoping to avoid the spiky fingers of heat that find them no matter where they hide; stirring only for the occasional mouthful of water; wondering how long before evening breaks the grip of the sun.

Not Scout, though: Scout is a dog who was created for this often merciless life; whose greatest joy is charging out in the wake of The Good Rancher and his horse, tail wagging so vigorously that Jack-the-Cat-who-wishes-he-were-a-dog would go flying if he were following his idol too closely.

Scout is the late-arriving baby in this blended dog-family. In human terms, Musket is approaching 60, Phoebe and Grey are 53, Carly and Gunny are 40; and Scouty is an annoying 17 — energetic, friendly, loving, always wanting to be busy. Green balls, orange balls, and balls that light up when you throw them litter the inside of the house. Outside there are sticks of all sizes tucked away in strategic locations so that a quick game of Throw can break out no matter what part of the garden a person and her dog find themselves.

Scout was a country boy in a city; I was a city girl in the country. It was an improbable match made in heaven. It was love at first sight for me; for him, he had to mourn the loss of his city family and to establish trust with us, which took a couple of long days after he came to live with us. 

He declared that I was HIS, however, a few days later, during which time he had been fully instructed as to his status in the canine pecking order. 

That early morning he was cowering behind my bed as I dozed fitfully. Carly decided to jump on the bed, to let me know she wanted to go outside and it had to be with me.

Suddenly there was a flurry of black and white dog fur and Scouty launched himself onto my head, staking his claim. It was a brave, rash, foolhardy thing to have done. I lay there praying for no dog bites, for no blood to be spilled.

Fortunately — particularly for me — Carly saw the writing on the wall and backed off. From then on, with very few exceptions, Scout was accepted as part of the canine detachment, a promotion he never took for granted and a position he never took advantage of.

He was in his element, though, with the GR. He was a natural cow dog. A month after he came to live with us the GR needed to move cows from Ken Keibel's place to the pasture at Mile Corner. There was no one around except for me and my shadow to help him. "If you must bring him, make sure he stays in the side-by-side. I cannot have him spooking these cows."

The first hundred yards proceeded according to plan. And then a cow took exception to being herded.

Before you could yell, "Get out of the ditch!" little Scouty had leapt over the hood and planted himself firmly in front of the cow, locking his eyes with hers.

The standoff lasted perhaps 45 seconds before that grand old lady, mustering as much dignity as she could, turned around and rejoined her companions.

The dog was not even one year old, but he had discovered his raison d'être. It would be like hearing the opening bars of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony (yes, the da-da-da-DUM one) and knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that you were born to conduct an orchestra.

There was no turning back. From then on it was a given that when cows were being moved, Scout was at work.

People had told me about highly intelligent dogs; my experience was Musket down to Gunny — all five of them lovable and loyal and a couple of them a bit doltish, if the truth be told.

But then Scout arrived. He could understand almost everything that was said and certainly all that was going on. There was one time when the GR was bringing cows up the side road onto the 855. He was on horseback and a friend was on a quad. I came to guard the intersection, and found Scouty totally rattled by the quad. The GR was too. "Keep your dog in your side-by-side, and you and the quad stay out of the way!"

The cows had been rattled as well, their normal rhythm hopelessly disrupted. The three of us sat there helplessly, watching the GR and his horse work in vain to get them back into some order.

It was more than Scout could bear. He hopped out and paused, listening to my shrieks that he better get back in Right Now.

He turned toward me, locked eyes with me, dipped his head apologetically, and then ducked under the fence. He gave the cows a wide berth as he ran through the adjacent field in the opposite direction to which they were supposed to be going. He got back to the last one; and in less than five minutes everyone was under control and moving smoothly up the road. When he got up to the side-by-side he hopped in and lay on the floor at my feet, his usual spot, no big deal.

The GR was all smiles. "Where's my great dog?" he asked. I swear Scouty winked at me ...

Scout's life from day one has been about work. The purpose-driven life. If it's not a cattle-moving day, there's always something to do. It might be guarding miniature kittens along with his co-sentry Gunpowder ...

or performing quality control on the calves' milk replacer ... 

or checking the field in hopes of discovering the start of tender green shoots emerging ... 

or chaperoning. 

If there was nothing else going on, he'd be happy to challenge you to a ball game ... 

... regardless of who "you" are, and regardless of the weather! 

A new little game has emerged in the past few months: when I arrive home, the dogs accompany my truck from somewhere between the middle and home cattle gates to the house. 

But not Scout. Scout sits near where I will park, perfectly still, stick in position in front of the driver's door, waiting for me to disembark from the truck. Our eyes lock. 

"Hi, Love," I will always say, and pick up and throw the stick. Then I greet all the others.

The first time this happened, a couple of the others converged upon him, pinning him to the ground. The second time I said, "Oh ScoutyLove, they're going to come for you — you'd better go round to the front door and wait for me there." 

He went and collected the stick I had thrown and trotted off. Once I had greeted all the dogs and unloaded the truck and gone inside I glanced out of the front door. There he was, in the position. On the step was his stick. 

He can speak with just his eyes. The strong, silent type. If I couldn't find his ball, or the precise stick he was using at that particular moment, or if I wanted to know the whereabouts of the GR, I would just ask him. Then I would watch his eyes. He would first look at me and, without moving his head, then look in the direction of the object. If I couldn't locate the item in question, he would remain where he was, looking at me and looking in the direction. Sometimes I would get frustrated. He wouldn't change. He waits me out. I always find it. 

He has been right 100 per cent of the time. 

He has taught me to listen. 

He has taught me patience. 

He has taught me to love as much as I can, even those who would act unkindly toward me on occasion. 

He has taught me the value of loyalty. Of perseverence. Of playing the long game. 

He has taught me that while he is here, I am not alone. He will not leave me. 

The love of God conveyed by Dog. 

Halfway through June when the temperature in the house was 28° and the thermometer outside registered 39 and the blistering wind taunted us unceasingly, the dogs with their thick coats could bear it even less than I. Tempers frayed. 

It must have been the temperature, the oppressive waves layering onto their overheated bodies and brains. Two of the five started to gang up on Scout. Where he was, there they would go. Standing over him, threatening him, shoving him. Bullies on the playground. 

He never retaliated. He would lie there quietly, waiting for them to be done. He knew that if I was there I would call them off; if I was not, he could wait them out. And then he would carry on about his business — no hard feelings. All he knew is that he loved his brothers and sisters. The rest was up to them. 

Last Thursday I was in Brooks when I got the call. A friend had stopped for a visit. He had thrown a Scouty stick many times as he and the GR talked.

As he left, before he even reached the first cattle gate, the two dogs who had been acting up cornered my ScoutyLove and drove him toward the truck. It was going at only about 1 km / hour; but the way he struck it must have done damage to his heart. He cried out once. The GR, inside the house, recognised that cry and came running out. 

Scout stepped back and lurched toward the middle of the lawn. 

Our friend had felt the thud and immediately stopped and leapt out. He ran toward my ScoutyLove and held him as he took his last breath. 

It was all over in less than a minute. 

A day and a half later we buried him on top of the hill, our kind neighbour giving up his relaxed camping Saturday morning and making a special trip to dig his grave. 

It's a beautiful spot, overlooking the horse pasture, the corrals and the house and yard. 

I collected some of his sticks — sticks of all shapes and sizes, used for particular games — and placed them with him, along with the toy that had been sent with him when he first arrived at our house.

Our neighbour waited while the GR said his last goodbye and we went back down the hill; only then did he fill in the grave. He volunteered to fill it in by hand. I replied, "He's a dog; it's fine to use the backhoe. And thank you for even offering."

We checked later, and he had carefully made a mound of earth covered by grass on the top. 

I couldn't say anything of importance out loud that morning on that hill. We rarely talked with words. And I couldn't see his eyes. 

I will never see his eyes.

But  I think he knew. I think he knew that he was my best friend on the ranch. That we could talk about anything. That I loved him with my whole heart. 

Bye, Love. 

But Scouty, it's still sleep time! 

Pulling the Bulls

Some days I sense that he misses her more than he knows what to do with. 

On yesterday's overcast morning he had to rely on me and the side-by-side to be his sidekick; two days ago he went to pull a bull and he was injured slightly. It is so much better for everyone —bulls, horses and humans — if there is no mechanical noise in the delicate process of extricating the Boys of Summer from their playgrounds. But yesterday there was no one else to help.

"Why don't you drive on up the fence line, and I'll meet you at the next gate?" he suggested gently. I remembered how he said one of his greatest joys was to ride, side by side, in silence for the most part, breathing the air heavy with the scents of wild sage and silver willow and hearing the sounds of creation in perfect synch with the clop-clop rhythm of the horses' hooves. As I turned to go, I noticed his shoulders more stooped than normal, perhaps carrying another unseen to the human eye.

He had told me that once, toward the end, when she was so sick she had to be admitted to the hospital, he had taken a great branch of silver willow to her because it was her favourite. The hospital staff threw him and it out; there was no room for that "smelly weed" in their antiseptic environment.

There was the gate; I turned off the engine, waiting for him to appear.

And slowly he did, faithful Chopper intuiting his thoughts. He saw me and paused, opening the gate, glancing toward the next stage. "Follow this fence. We are looking for two Herefords, and a red and a yellow." 

I putted along in the direction he had indicated. Cresting a hill, I saw shimmering waters in a vista that took my breath. 

"Isn't it beautiful?" he called out, and I saw him passing me lower down the hill.

I drove closer to him. "This was one of our favourite views," he said, almost to himself. 

I wondered what it was like for the two of them to come across this exquisite place for the first time, to work together morning 'til night until it was theirs, to ride out here together for no reason but to enjoy the view and the breeze and the scents.

She was only 48.

As I pursued the fence line, I came across a truly pretty pink-streaked rock; I tried to hoist it from the ground but it was embedded too deeply and I had no tools to assist me. I placed a blue bucket over it in hopes of finding and retrieving it later.

The next gate opened into a field of cows and calves, and five somewhat stubborn bulls. Back and forth we went, horse and side-by-side forming a hobbled alliance as we slowly separated the bulls from the cows. 

We got the former heading in one unified direction, and as we started up a hill, the sun suddenly blazed with renewed warmth and energy. 

Finally, finally, after a few hiccups in communication between rider and driver, and a couple of outbreaks of bulls being, well, bullish, we came within sight of the corral. 

The Good Rancher and Chopper were hot, tired, dusty and thirsty. He led his friend into the barn and unsaddled, brushed her down, gave her grain and released her to drink water from the always fresh livestock waterer. Only then did he walk slowly to the house. Animals first. 

I handed him a cool drink. 

"I'm sorry I'm so difficult some days," he said slowly. 

"I'm sorry I can't ride," I replied. 

We looked warily, wearily, at each other for a few moments. 

"Let's go get your rock," he said. 

Today was a new day. Their old pal Bud was riding with him. 

These two friends have helped with each other's cattle for a couple of decades. They are often each other's first call. Their wives, both exceptional horsewomen, were also friends.

The day was one of big skies, big fields, big horses, big bulls, big hearts. 

It wasn't the same as it would have been with him and her, but it was sure something.

And sometimes something is enough.

Carry Me Home

The last rays of sunset were fading,
A bronc stood with head hanging low

"Oh Dad, is this going to be a sad cowboy song? Please Dad, don't sing a sad song today ..."

The cowboy in vain tried to mount him
The last mile atryin' to go

The first time I saw my Dad ride a horse was when he came back to "The Farm", as we all referred to it - although we had never been there, never even seen pictures - for the first time in ten years. He left his home in January 1959, thinking he would be gone for three or four years.

Now he was back. It was the fall of 1968.

He walked outside the house to the corral. The next thing we knew, there was a horse charging full-tilt toward him, whinnying as she reached the touch of the hands she had missed for all those years.

"Hello, Girl," he murmured.

Dad's Dad, our Bapa, as we all referred to him - although we had never met him, never even seen pictures - had kept her for his boy. The boy he had missed for all those years.

"Carry me home, I'm all alone out on the prairie
Take me back to the roundup corral.
Carry me home, I'm all alone out on the prairie
Oh don't let me down, old pal." 

Dad and Bapa saddled her and then Dad swung himself up and settled in.

They had worked up a little routine of tricks that they used to do together, man and horse, every day before he left. After ten years, neither of them missed a beat.

He was home.

With his last hope he clung to the stirrup

Then he motioned to his faithful pal

I never really appreciated what my Dad gave up to go to India, never understood how deep the connection between the man and his roots, until in February 2014 I married The Good Rancher and moved out to an area near where Dad was raised. 

Hours later they stopped at the ranch house

Just west of the roundup corral

One of the times we went for a drive, he asked me to tell him where The Farm was. I couldn't get hold of Dad so I tried his brother Clark. Clark, ever the joker, gave us long convoluted directions.

When we eventually arrived, The Good Rancher burst out laughing.

"This is only 12 miles from my place! Your Dad had to go all the way around the world to India in order for his daughter to get back to Endiang!" 

"Carry me home, I'm all alone out on the prairie
Take me back to the roundup corral.
Carry me home, I'm all alone out on the prairie
Oh don't let me down, old pal."

It occurs to me that there are three "prairie" concepts.

The first one, which I learnt about as a child - which is also the one I understood from working with a legal publisher for the twenty years prior to moving out to Endiang - is the prairie provinces. Miss Agnes Dueck, an Albertan teaching at our British elementary school in India, told me that I came from "The Prairie Provinces."

I had thought I came from Bombay.

I didn't know what prairie provinces meant.

And apparently I was from there.

Canadian legal publishing chops up Canada tidily into different segments. British Columbia and The Prairie Provinces often have their courts' decisions published together. There was an Encyclopedia of Law in two editions, Ontario, and BC and The Prairie Provinces. Go figure.

The second prairie concept is what I would hear at Nilgiris Tea House a lot. "We're going to drive through the prairies for our vacation." It was usually through the prairies. Not many people had them as their destination. Ontario has the beautiful colours in the autumn, the Hockey Hall of Fame, Niagara Falls, people's families. BC has the mountains and Victoria. Quebec has history and melodrama. The Territories have sorrow and raw determination. The East has lilting accents introducing friendly people, ruggedly beautiful terrain and Anne of Green Gables. 

I myself had driven through the prairies, one long kilometer crawling lethargically after another under my car. Everything looked the same. You had to slow down in Saskatchewan.

That night as he lay in the bunkhouse
we all thought him plumb out his head

The third prairie concept is simply the prairie.

This is where Dad was bred and born. This is where he had lived, and what he had left when he went to India.

This is where I now live.

This is the prairie I'm learning about, a tumbling kaleidoscope of beauty and pain, of exuberance and grim resignation, where the weather is a serious topic of conversation to be discussed in depth with those close to you. Where feelings aren't discussed much at all. Feelings aren't going to get a calf pulled, orphan babies fed, bales rolled out each day, cattle rounded up and herded to sweeter pastures.

Feelings don't band and brand and Ivermec. They don't sort the drys from the breds. They don't load the trucks and head to auction.

If everyone was fuelled by their feelings alone, they would go stark raving crazy with the weight of it all. The heaviness.

Nothing would get done with feelings at the helm.

Then he smiled as he motioned us closer

These are the words that he said:

But nothing feels as good as a day where the babies born are up and their mothers love them, where the cattle drive from one area to another is accomplished with all the herd leaving and arriving quietly and the riders starting and finishing together. 

When no animal needs to be treated for sickness, and there are no phone calls about cows on the road. 

Where drivers sketch a brief salute as they pass each other on the dusty pitted tracks.

Where there's hot coffee and a meal waiting, no matter what time of night the day's chores are done.

All of this and more is why Dad sang his plaintive cowboy songs.

And from the time I was a tiny child, I was the one who begged him not to sing them. They filled my eyes with tears and my heart with an ache I couldn't explain. My throat would tighten and I wanted to go hide from the missing I heard in his voice.

This is where I now live. 

Now I know why he would sing me this song.

"Carry me home, I'm all alone out on the prairie
Take me back to the roundup corral.
Carry me home, I'm all alone out on the prairie
Oh don't let me down, old pal."

"Dad? He dies, doesn't he? Does he die, Dad?

Oh, Daddy ......"