On hot days and cold days and the days in between you’ll find
a ranch dog on the front porch or maybe beneath the shade of a mesquite tree or
even under the house if it can get there.
It’s an unhurried life. Ranch
dogs don’t know the meaning of a leash and there are no restrictions on things
like pooping. Besides, Southwestern ranches
have their own pooper scoopers in the way of dung beetles that swoop in and roll
everything to places unknown.
Ranch dogs spend their nights on alert. In fact, ranch dogs prefer the night because
that’s when the excitement begins. One
dog takes sentry on the back porch while another dog is at its post at the
front door and dog number three meanders from the end of the driveway to the
walk-around and all points in between.
When coyotes start howling in the distance ranch dogs join the chorus
yodeling and whooping and sometimes singing.
Alla en el rancho grande,
alla donde vivia
Habia una rancherita, que allegre me decia
Que allegre me decia….
Habia una rancherita, que allegre me decia
Que allegre me decia….
Oy on patrol
Ranch dogs come in two forms.
One type of dog stays close to the house always on guard. Another sort spends its time roaming. I’d probably belong to the second group if I
was a dog but I appreciate the fact that my dogs stick around keeping me
company. The roaming dogs, however, can
be a problem sometimes. They get lost or
hurt and sometimes they get shot by people who come from other places and don’t
like seeing dogs on their deer leases.
Something along those lines occurred a few months back or at least
that’s what one of my neighbors believes happened to her dogs. Cisco and Bell were loving dogs and I enjoyed
seeing them. But they roamed. One day they disappeared and rumor has it
that some folks from the city shot them.
Maybe, maybe not. I miss Cisco
and Bell even though they didn’t belong to me.
They were good singers and could keep up with any coyote virtuoso.
Most ranch dogs belong to the mutt class. Some are well fed while others look
emaciated. It all depends on who owns
them. Some dogs get a lot of petting and
others never get paid any attention.
When I drive into the little town four miles south of here I pass by a
house with five scrawny, underfed mutts that run out into the caliche road
barking at my pickup truck. I feel sorry
for those dogs. But there are three other
dogs at another house I always like to greet.
Well-fed and obviously loved they’ll dash out barking as if ready to
chew off one of my legs. When they get
to the gate I start talking to them. “How
is it going Alley Boy, Pepper, Shiner?”
The two males christen my pickup truck’s tires while the female circles
me panting. I started carrying treats in
my truck and now when they see the truck they know snacks are at hand.
Maggie and Oy
This is thorn and sticker country so dogs need to have short
coats. A friend visited my cabin a
couple of months back and brought his cocker spaniel with its long floppy ears
and thick fur around its paws. A
beautiful dog but after a walk in the brush that poor animal was covered with
burrs.
I love blue heelers but there are other breeds suitable for
Southwestern ranchos. A relative of mine
just got a Catahoula Cur. That breed
comes in all sorts of different colors ranging from brindle to bluish to red to
black and white. It’s supposed to be a
roaming dog and should be exercised. My
relative is not into exercising so I worried the dog would get itself into
trouble. But this Catahoula seems to
hate walking as much as its owner so things look good. I know a fellow who owns a couple of
Rhodesian ridgebacks but I’m not very familiar with that breed. I haven’t seen any Rottweiler’s, Dobermans or
Pit Bulls around these parts. Perhaps
that’s a mindset not common to this region—at least not with the old timers who
grew up in these parts. Just like you’ll
see more Winchester 94s than AR15s. And
more Colt single actions than you’d run into in other places. You’ll see more slipjoint pocket knives too and
dust-covered blue jeans, scruffy low-cut boots, sweat-brimmed hats and heavy
cotton long-sleeved shirts. And houses as
well that aren’t built to impress as much as they are to be a home. The dogs follow that line of thinking as
well, or at least the types of dogs I’ve seen reflect that mindset. Nobody feels the need to impress anyone
else. That ideation belongs in the city
and folks out here don’t much care for cities.
Besides, those that want the city end up moving or they’re miserable
which makes no sense because cities are always looking for more people.
The other day my son and I went woods roaming and the dogs stayed
back at the cabin finishing their evening meals. We’d hiked about half a mile when we turned
and saw a spot in the distance coming towards us. “It’s a dog,” my son said. Sure enough, Oy had tracked us down and was
running full speed. When he got to us he
was obviously excited. We gave him some
water and looked around to see if any of the other dogs had followed but it was
only Oy. He looked at us with this
expression of “What’s going on guys?”
The next day I took Oy and Maggie walking and Maggie, as
usual, had to explore the surrounding area.
But Oy stayed close by my side.
It was hot and as we headed back to the cabin Maggie decided to push
ahead and was soon out of sight. But not
Oy. Even as the light faded and the
gloaming receded into darkness Oy stayed next to me. When we got to the cabin the other dogs came
out to greet us. “Go get water,” I told
Oy. Afterward we sat on the front porch
looking at the super moon rising above the eastern horizon. I reached down and petted Oy and thought
about how much he means to me. As do all
my dogs. We’ve got a new addition to the
pack named Little Boo. We keep her
inside because this land can pose real
dangers to small dogs. My friends Benito
and Toni Treviño lost their Maltese-Poodle mix not long ago when they let it
out for a few minutes at their ranchito and a rattlesnake struck. You’ve got to be careful.
Little Boo
Now and then a wild hog or two will venture too close to the
cabin and Maggie lets us know from her station on the back porch. Oy will swing around and the barking gets
fierce. Pita will start barking
too. Sometimes long-distance-travelers
get too close and the dogs go wild. You
see, ultimately that’s what a ranch dog does.
That’s their main job. They
protect the human component of the pack.
Fearless and brave and loving and a host of other things ranging from
rambunctious to stubborn to patient and forgiving. When one of them passes as did Chucha after
being bit by a rattler or Chula and then Dingo after old age crept up on them
there was a lot of sadness and even some tears.
You see a ranch dog is the quintessence of what a dog should be. It is the truest expression of a dog. Not to demean the perritos living in city houses or apartments. They are loving and watchful and worthy of
the best care. But take those animals to
the ranch and watch the metamorphosis occur before your eyes. An instant connection to its lupine
past. Then your dog turns to you and you
see true love in its eyes and you know you will never be abandoned. The world might be falling apart around you
with crazies and other assorted fanatics on the loose. But when you’re with your dog all is good
with the world. That’s what a dog
does. Someone told me that a dog helps
lower your blood pressure. That’s true,
I guess, sometimes, maybe. Most of all a
dog just lets you know you’re number one.
And hell, that’s good enough in my book.
Little Boo and Pita
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