Still Pyrless

Long time readers of the blog will remember the tragic story of Tessa, our Great Pyrenees livestock guardian dog, that was hit by a car earlier this year. For those unfamiliar with these events, the four key posts are listed in chronological order in the right margin of the blog, under the heading "Goodbye to a Great Dog." Those were difficult days, particularly since we'd just lost our beloved Collie on the same stretch of roadway a few months earlier.

Our current dogs, Tabasco and Scooter, are excellent companion animals, very good at herding the sheep, and are wonderful "all around farm dogs." Every farm needs a Tabasco and/or a Scooter. But a farm with this many sheep and other livestock also needs a guardian dog...and neither Tabasco nor Scooter is quite big enough to put the fear of God into a pack of coyotes. We tried importing an adult Great Pyrenees male that another farm no longer needed, but that was a disaster from the get-go; he not only fought with our other dogs, but he wouldn't stay on the property. He'd regularly take off for hours at a time, trotting around miles of the surrounding countryside (and annoying other farmers to no end).

We needed a Great Pyrenees puppy, and those are surprisingly difficult to find. We ended up contacting a breeder in Michigan, near where Mrs. Yeoman Farmer's family is located. They were expecting a litter this summer, and we were among the first to get on their list. Unfortunately, we were the last family to actually get there and pick up their puppy. (More on that later.) We simply weren't able to make it up to MI until this coming weekend, and the breeder said that would be fine. We were all looking forward to a nice trip visiting family, capped off by getting our puppy on the way home.

Until last night, that is. I got a frantic, emotional email from the breeder; our puppy had been running around in the front yard, all was well, and then a visitor had gotten into a car to leave...and backed right over our puppy. She was extremely apologetic, promised to refund our money, and said they hoped to have another litter next summer. I could tell she was very upset by the whole thing; heck, those are emotions that our family has gotten to know pretty well over the last year. I assured her that it was partly our own fault for not getting the puppy sooner, and that we know these kinds of things happen when you're dealing with living creatures.

In fact, that's how Mrs Yeoman Farmer and I decided we should break it to the kids --- by analogy. We sell turkeys at Thanksgiving. Customers reserve these turkeys in advance, but are told we have only a limited number. If they want to absolutely guarantee they'll get a turkey, they need to come earlier rather than later. When there's just one turkey left to butcher, we've had all kinds of bad things happen: they've wandered into traffic, fallen to predators, or done other stupid turkey things. We're going to tell the kids that in this case, we had a reservation for a puppy - but we were the last to actually get their puppy, and "something happened" to that puppy before we could pick her up. (We don't think the kids, particularly Artistic Girl, are in any frame of mind to process details about yet another car flattening yet another dog.)

In talking with Mrs Yeoman Farmer, I did manage one bit of gallows humor to break the obvious distress we were all feeling. "Hey," I told her, "we're now managing to get our dogs hit by cars before we even bring them home."

I laughed, and she laughed. But we're still going to be remaining Pyrless for the foreseeable future.

Still Hanging On. Sort Of.

We've had spectacular weather the last couple of days. The nice thing about homeschooling is that we've been able to juggle our schedule so the kids can take advantage of the 75 degree sunshine. My wife had them knuckle down and do as much work as possible before 11:30 am each day...and then they got to run around and burn off a winter's worth of energy until dinner. Any school work they don't get done, they finish up in the evening after the sun goes down.

This evening, the weather started to turn. We had very strong winds out of the NE, and the temperature dropped. As I was walking in from my office, I noticed something odd: the high winds had blown the ashes off the remains of the fire I'd built to burn Tessa's body --- and there was a whole layer of coals burning bright red in the wind.

It's been three full days since I built that fire, and there's still something left. Amazing. And kind of consoling, in an unexpected way. Not to get too sentimental, but it struck me as a sign that in a small way, Tessa is still here with us. Never thought the sight of glowing embers would give me such comfort, but they did. I don't feel so alone now.

A friend sent a condolence note, and added that he really liked Tessa's "Viking Sendoff." She deserved it, he said. And his "Viking Sendoff" phrase couldn't help but make me smile.

He mentioned how much he still misses some of the dogs he grew up with, and said he still has an image in his head of those dogs running to greet him at the end of this life. I like that image, and can easily imagine Tessa and Cassie coming to meet me at the Pearly Gates.

But will they? My wife and I have worked hard to teach our children the distinction between people and animals --- and the kids are very clear about that. They don't sentimentalize the livestock, and actually look forward to butchering day. "Animals don't get to go to heaven," my wife has told them repeatedly, "because they don't have human souls."

Theologically, she's probably right. But I still like to speculate about something a little different---something a very holy priest once told me, that his mother had told him when he was a boy. When he'd asked her if the family dog would be with them in heaven, she'd given a very sage response: "If it will make you happier."

Part of me likes to picture Tessa and Cassie in heaven with us, making us even happier than we otherwise would have been, even if they with their canine souls never got to appreciate what a wonderful place it is. But, more than that, I like to think that heaven will be so good, and we will be so filled with happiness at seeing God as he is and reuniting with our families...that we won't even notice that the dogs aren't there to join us.

The Tessa Talk

If you haven't yet read the sad news about Tessa, please skip down to the previous post before reading this one.

When we first moved here, and were deciding which animals to get, a friend with more experience gave us some sage advice: Before getting any livestock, decide how you're going to get rid of the dead ones.

Dead chickens, ducks, turkeys and geese are fairly easy to dispose of. When a sheep dies, we have a neighbor who allows us to dump the body deep in an 80 acre field. But it is a lot more difficult to dispose of a 90 pound dog than you might think. Here are the (bad) options:

1) Pay for the incineration service the vet's office uses. It costs at least $30, depending on the size of the dog (thirty bucks was what it would've been for Cassie, and she was less than half Tessa's size), and more if you want the ashes back. Yes, apparently some people really do want the ashes. How they know it's their dog's ashes is anybody's guess.

2) Dig a large grave, somewhere on the property.

3) Dump the body deep in the neighbor's field, and let scavengers take care of it.

We refuse Option 1 on principle. We're not paying that kind of money so someone else can throw our dog's body on a fire.

Option 2 is out because A) our property is currently a mud bog and B) we have a Red Healer dog who excavates anything that smells remotely interesting.

Option 3 is fine for getting rid of dead sheep in the summer time, but A) it sickens me to think of Tessa being left for coyotes and crows and B) our neighbor's field is as much of a mud bog as ours...even a 4x4 would get stuck.

As we mulled these bad options, Tessa's body continued to lay in the back of the pickup truck. With unseasonably warm weather all weekend (but not warm enough to dry the ground for grave digging), the increasing odor told us we had to make a decision. With time running out, that left The Yeoman Farmer with Option 4: DIY Funeral Pyre.

The kids gathered bags of fallen sticks, to use for kindling. My wife contributed boxes of old magazines we'd been meaning to dispose of. I dragged several large logs, too big to fit in the wood stove, to an open area on the property. Together, the kids and I stacked the paper, the kindling, and then all the large logs about 4 feet in the air.

I dragged Tessa's body over from the pickup truck, but then discovered a problem: I couldn't lift 90 pounds of dead dog high enough --- at least not by pulling on her legs. I tried getting a step ladder, but that was too awkward. Finally, I took a deep breath, struggled not to breathe through my nose, grabbed Tessa's body around the middle, and somehow managed to heft it to the top of the logs. I poured four quarts of old motor oil over everything...and then sat down on a rock with the kids. It was time for The Tessa Talk.

I put my arms around them, and asked them why Tessa had been such a good dog. They talked about all the wonderful things Tessa had done: chasing away coyotes, scaring off other bad animals, guarding the house and property while we were gone, taking care of Scooter Puppy, and being with us when we milked the goats. "How long did we have Tessa?" I asked.

"Less than three years," one of them replied.

"Great Pyrenees dogs usually live and work for nine or ten years," I reminded them. "How many more years should we have had Tessa?"

"Six or seven," one said, and I could see tears starting to flow.

"Six or seven years," I said, holding them closer, "that Tessa should have chased coyotes. That Tessa should have taken care of our farm. But now the coyotes will come, and there will be no Tessa. All because Tessa did something very, very foolish. And stupid."

"But Cassie taught her to chase cars!" one objected, as the others began to sob.

"It was still foolish, wasn't it?" I asked.

"Yes," he admitted, sniffling.

I held them closer, and skipped to the conclusion. "And God has lots of things he wants you to do with your life. Lots of friends to make. Lots of work to do. Maybe books to write. Music to play. Kids to teach. If you do something foolish and thoughtless, like Tessa, you won't be there to do all those things. Do you understand?"

Nodding sniffles.

"When Mommy and Daddy tell you to look before you cross the street, or hold somebody's hand, or not race off through a parking lot, you need to think of Tessa. And Cassie. Okay?"

More tears. More nodding sniffles.

I kissed all of them, and got out my butane lighter. "It's time to say goodbye to Tessa," I said, and we all did.

We watched the flames roar high into the sky, and then the kids went off to throw a ball for Tabasco and Scooter. I went inside to prepare dinner. But I couldn't help pausing at the window every few minutes, looking out on the fire, a big empty place in my heart.

I went out a few times that evening to stir the fire, and was amazed at how long it takes to completely consume an animal carcass that large. One of those times, I could hear coyotes howling and screaming not far away. A neighbor's dog offered a few barks in response, but it was nothing like Tessa's bone-chilling baritone.

I sadly stirred the fire, and wondered if we'd ever again find another dog like her.

Tessa, R.I.P.

We lost the world’s best livestock guardian dog Friday evening. I was out doing the afternoon chores, and was nearly finished, when I heard squealing brakes and a loud impact coming from the road. I was only about 50 feet away, feeding ducks in the vineyard, and had a perfect view. Tessa, our enormous Polar Bear-like Great Pyrenees dog, was rolling over and over in front of a car. The driver came to a halt, backed up, and pulled into our driveway.

Tessa, meanwhile, had gotten up and begun jogging down the road as if nothing had happened. I called and whistled to her, but she just kept on jogging toward our neighbor’s driveway. I thought that was a bit odd, as she didn’t even like the neighbor’s dogs, but figured maybe she was afraid of coming back toward the spot where she’d just been hit.

The driver was a very nice lady I recognized from town. She was apologetic about hitting the dog, but I quickly reassured her that “It was Tessa’s own fault. She had it coming.”

And she did. She’d unfortunately picked up car chasing from Cassie, our beloved Collie that had been struck and killed last September. Cassie had always been the ringleader, and Tessa had learned the bad habit as a puppy. I’d hoped that with Cassie gone, Tessa would give it up. Unfortunately, she’d gone right on chasing cars. And when you’re built like a polar bear, you don’t exactly have the speed or agility of a Collie.

I also assured the driver that I’d seen Tessa running down the road, and that she wasn’t even limping, so she was probably alright. I jogged the hundred yards to the neighbor’s driveway, where Tessa was now sitting and looking at me. I called, but she didn’t come. I got closer, and noticed her mouth was bloody. Not terribly bloody, but definitely red. Worse, it didn’t look scraped. I wondered if the blood might be coming from an internal injury.

I sprinted back to the house, and called the vet. They were about to close, but agreed to stick around until I got there. I ran to the pickup truck, gunned the engine, and roared over to the neighbor’s driveway. But by the time I arrived, Tessa had disappeared. I drove further toward the house, scanning their property. Finally, I spotted her in the corn field west of our property. Without even thinking, I tried driving the truck into the field --- but the ground is so soaked with rain and snow melt, I didn’t get far. I whipped the truck around and managed to get on terra firma before losing traction.

Tessa was just sitting in the corn field, looking at me, unresponsive to my call. But she was sitting on her haunches, eyes open, and was clearly conscious. “Good Tessa,” I told her, and tried to lead her by the collar. Ninety pounds of polar bear wouldn't budge. Getting desperate, I straddled her from behind, hefted her up, and carried her as best I could.

And then, as I approached the truck, she went limp in my arms. I shouted at her to stay with me, but her head just slumped against my wrist. I put her into the front seat of the truck, but she didn’t move. I tried pushing her the rest of the way in, but she was unresponsive dead weight. “Tessa!” I shouted, over and over. No response. I cried out, pounded the roof of the truck, and screamed “No!” more times than I can remember.

Somehow, I managed to move Tessa to the bed of the pickup. She drew a few involuntary breaths, but it was clearly just muscle spasms. Her muzzle was quite bloody, and a stream of blood tricked out through her nose. She must have had serious internal injuries, and my picking her up must have only aggravated them. But what makes this especially frustrating is that she’d seemed so well as soon as she’d jumped up from the road. I really allowed myself to believe that we’d dodged a bullet, that my great big enormous Tessa could survive anything, and do anything, and that we’d always have her with us.

Back home, I somehow managed to call the vet and tell them thank you for waiting, but that we wouldn’t be coming in, and that they could take Tessa out of their active files. The young woman who answered the phone was wonderfully empathetic, which was what I needed right then.

No, what I really needed right then was Tessa. I went back to the truck, and sat in the bed with her lifeless body, just staring. I tried to pick her up and hold her, Pieta style, but it was impossible; unless you’ve had a Great Pyrenees, it’s hard to describe just how impossibly large and bulky these dogs are --- and especially when it’s dead weight. So I just sat on the wheel well and stared at her for a long time. And then, as the sun disappeared, some rain drops began to fall. I wondered who was writing that script.

I whistled for Tabasco, and she came running from the barn. I wanted to hug her, but she was soaking wet and muddy. I shouldn’t have cared, because I was covered with mud as well. Whatever. I hugged and petted her as best I could, and pleaded with her to never run off and never chase a car.

The kids, when they got home from a neighbor’s house, were not nearly as broken up as I’d thought they would be. I guess the experience of losing Cassie last fall must have helped. We all cried a lot of tears back then, and even Tessa was out of sorts for a long time. I hate to think we’ve gotten used to losing our companions, but I suppose it does get easier the more times it happens.

I just know that I already miss her a lot. And what I’m going to miss most is the way she used to rouse herself from outside our bedroom window each morning as I got up to do chores, stretch, and then follow me to the barn. I’m going to miss hearing her deep baritone bark responding to howling coyotes. I’m going to miss the way she’d sprawl across my office floor, sleeping, as I did my work. I’m going to miss the way she drooled in the summer heat, and the way she’d seek shade under bushes in the front yard.

I’m going to turn around and look over my shoulder for her a hundred times before I remember that she won’t be there.

Really, Really Cold

Temps here have dropped through the floor, but that's not the worst of it: the wind is blowing across the open prairie at 25+ MPH, sending the wind chills well below zero. The air temps aren't supposed to get back above 20 until Thursday at the earliest. At least it's bright and sunny outside, but we could sure use some global warming right about now.

Time to hunker down and throw another log on the fire. The wife and kids are out of town visiting grandparents, or they'd be bouncing off walls for sure. My plans: pull up a chair in front of the woodstove and read a J. A. Jance mystery novel I've been wanting to get to. No doubt the dogs will follow me in and sprawl out on the kitchen floor. Can't blame them; it sure beats burrowing into straw in the barn, and they've long ago figured out that I'm a softie for letting dogs in the house. Here are Tessa and Scooter, in my office on a recent cold day.

How cold is it? The weekly Saturday night Bingo game at our parish has already been cancelled. Members of our Knights of Columbus council take turns running those games, and this was my week. I've been planning to blog about Bingo, with some thoughts I've had about these events. Maybe tonight, now that I've suddenly got several more hours than I thought I was going to have, and I'll have the house to myself. But for now, I need to go throw another log on the fire.

Home!

It's not just cats; I'm convinced that some dogs have nine lives, too. We have three dogs here on the farm: Tessa, the Great Pyrenees livestock guardian; Scooter, the Australian Shepherd/Border Collie puppy; and Tabasco, the Red Healer. Tessa and Scooter are content to hang out with the livestock; Tabasco's preference is clearly for human companionship. Her coming to join us seemed like Divine Providence: she showed up at the local animal shelter on the same day (September 12th of last year) our beloved Collie, Cassie, was struck and killed by a car. We let it be known that we were looking for a replacement, and a few days later got a call from the animal shelter that they might have a good match for us.

Tabasco and I hit it off in the foyer of the animal shelter. She was scrawny and half-starved, but there was something about her sad eyes, and her whole demeanor, that told me she was the companion dog our family had been looking for. I drove her home in my convertible, her perched on the passenger seat, and I knew we were buddies already.

Back at the farm, without any training, she immediately went to work herding the sheep and other animals. She also proved herself a remarkable "mouser". She had an real knack for sniffing out field mouse nests, digging them up, and then destroying the mice. Although she and Tessa had a few fights, she held her own and seemed to accept her position as "beta dog."

Soon, Tabasco was following me to my office each morning, and loyally curling up on my couch as I worked. When I'd get in the car or truck to go somewhere, she'd jump in and go along as if it was the most natural thing in the world. I grew to love her companionship.

And then, last November, I went to New York City for five days to work as an Election Analyst for CNN. Two days after I'd left, Tabasco disappeared. My wife and the kids were worried sick, and so was I. My wife began researching the Red Healer breed, hoping for some clue as to what Tabasco might have done. It turns out, Red Healers are fiercely loyal to a single family --- and often to a single individual within that family. There was no doubt as to who that person was in our family, and no doubt that she'd left to go look for me. As I walked the streets of New York, I imagined Tabasco coming around a corner with a "there you are, I finally found you!" look on her face.

Miraciously, on election day, Tabasco turned up at a farm a few miles away. My wife and kids retrieved her, and locked her up until I returned. We were all overjoyed. Lesson learned, we put her in a kennel when we went out of town for Christmas.

And then, this morning, without warning, she went AWOL again. At 7:50, I'd driven into town. Both she and Tessa had chased me down the driveway and into the street, but broke off after 50 feet or so. When I returned at 8:45, Tessa greeted me --- but there was no sign of Tabasco. I drove to the neighbor's farm, but she wasn't there. I drove up and down our road, to no avail. All day, I whistled and called for her. I drove all over the country, whistling and calling. No Tabasco. My heart sank. Where could she have possibly gone? Why hadn't I let her ride to town with me?

This evening, as we started saying the Rosary as a family, each of the kids offered a single intention: For Tabasco. Usually, each of them has a slew of intentions; that each of them was thinking only of the dog was almost enough to make me choke up. My wife, for her part, promised St. Anthony that if he could find Tabasco, she'd have nine Masses said in his honor. That's how much this dog had come to mean to all of us. Seeing the kids' pure and simple faith, I wondered how God could not come through for them.

Before dinner, I got out a high powered flashlight and walked a great distance up and down the hedgerow behind our property, calling and hollering. I feared perhaps she'd gotten tangled up in the underbrush, and hadn't been able to free herself. No response. I called and whistled and whistled and called, but at last went into the house. We sat down to dinner, but no one felt much like eating.

And then, after dinner, our oldest son started shouting from upstairs: He saw her through a window! I didn't believe it, but ran to the back door and threw it open. And, sure enough, there she was.

The family all made a huge fuss over her. We fed her two cans of tuna, and all the goat milk she wanted. "Don't let her out of your sight!" my wife said. Once the excitement subsided, and Tabasco had curled up on the kitchen floor, we all gathered in a semicircle and recited the "Te Deum," a traditional prayer of thanksgiving.

One of the kids asked if we could simply keep Tabasco in the house all the time from now on. No, my wife and I reminded them, every animal around here has a job to do. We don't have any animals that are purely pets, and Tabasco is no exception. She digs up mouse and rat nests, she helps herd the sheep, and she barks at predators. We'll keep a closer eye on her in the future, but she can't be a full time house dog.



This incident was a good lesson in detachment. Farm life has been very healthy for our kids, because it's taught them the distinction between animals and people. We need to take care of our animals, and our animals can be good companions, but at the end of the day we must remember that they are not people and shouldn't be confused with human beings. Until she disappeared, I'm not sure we realized just how attached we'd grown to her. Going forward, we'll have to work all the harder to keep all our animals in the proper perspective.