“Get a Border Collie,” they said.
“It will be fun,” they said.
It was - and it has been - for the most part.
She was sweet and small and rotund - a rambunctious roly-poly with a cream and copper coat, fuzzy britches and an attitude. Even then, she had a signature half-moon mark on her hindquarters. I should have realized it was a foreshadowing of guaranteed mischief. Out of the litter of puppies we were fostering, my siblings and I wanted to adopt the Rottweiler with the handsome fur. Our parents vetoed the option for a dog with “distinct personality.”
Rhubarb was only a few months old and already had an opinion on everything. On a quiet day, she was an endless kazoo. There was a monologue for watch glare, and a filibuster for the suspicious, crimped ends of the mop. Newspaper training pads were shredded six-hundred-and-sixty-six times to ongoing complaints about the typeface. The grand finale was a round up, her chase motivation and herding instincts activated by the sheep-like shuffling of our feet. My parents were determined. Rhuby was certainly one of a kind.
Similar to the sentinels of her breed, Rhubarb was an excellent watch dog. Attentive and able to withstand long hours outdoors, she was regularly on the heel. With a task, she was occupied and generally immune to wanderitis. It didn’t take many years to figure out that Rhubarb had one peculiar and niche interest, however. She was, regrettably, enamored with the dead past.
It was spring. Thaw held the mirrored daylight, but freeze continued to meet the lifting dark. Drifts melted incrementally, shrinking the hardpack along the treelines and driveway. As winter dispersed, less fortunate remains slowly emerged from beneath the snow. Whatever did not survive the harsh season, however it lingered, Rhubarb located and sneakily tucked aside for her own, personal inspection.
It was not unusual in our rural area to find the wings of an unlucky bird or the tail of a field mouse. Even the occasional rabbit failed to raise hairs. This particular year, a neighbour culled a portion of his goat herd. The result piqued Rhuby’s interest keenly. Before the situation was fully contained, it was displayed across the acreage with an artisanal canine flair.
At first, it seemed innocent. A hoof here, an ankle there. She meant well. She was a dog in her prime. There was no way she was reading “Frankenstein” or considering practicing reanimation. Then the speckled and spotted legs began to appear, stacked at odd angles from their muddy safety deposit spot. When the stash appeared to grow in groups of five rather than four, I became increasingly concerned for my neighbour. Certainly his herd had serious genetic issues!
As the season progressed, Rhubarb’s greed intensified. Skulls were strewn about recklessly, an ongoing laboratory experiment. Unidentifiable bits and bobs stuck to her collar on the regular, convincing us that innards would never be suitable replacements for scented candles. Knowing this, it won’t take sweeping imagination to understand the nickname Cyclops. It was The Great Goatpocalypse! We were convinced Rhuby had struck a deal with the underworld. All she needed to complete the picture was a p-e-n-t-a-g-r—
Needless to say, the evidence was discarded.
When it seemed that all was calm on the central Canadian prairie, Rhubarb unearthed the deadstock pile. I had heard rumors of puppy denture thieves, but never truly knew the terror. That is, until our untamed four-legged beast returned home wearing the lower jaw of a decomposing ruminant.
The goat’s teeth were fit snugly over her own. Sinew and bone became a sticking place. The molars mortified as she opened her mouth and proudly smiled in petulant proclamation. Donning the thickest garden gloves I owned and holding my breath, I reached into her mouth, gripped behind the eye teeth and pulled to an unsatisfactory end. Rhuby yanked backwards sharply, wagging her tail in anticipation. “Come on little human, whatchya got?” The game was afoot! She did not plan to lose.
Still hanging on to the front incisors, I planted one rubber boot firmly into the soil and pressed the other against the corner of her mouth for leverage. Oh, how we danced our cruel and unusual arrangement of Toofy Tug of War! My one-legged and uneven sproings were accompanied by pathetic, aggravated howling and Rhubarb’s incessant chatter. At some tipping point I no longer possess the sanity to recall, the jaw broke loose, and teeth scattered across the ground. The yard was now a crime scene. Scrambling to escape, I called her bluff. The sentence for the guilty party was a full body rinse by watering hose.
Rhubarb is fourteen now. She is still the smartest herding dog I’ve ever owned. She continues to share her wide and varied opinions on whatever strikes her fancy. And while there has never been a repeat of the Year of the Goat, she has been known to bring home a stray chicken foot from the nearby farmer’s lot. A token of golden days in her elder years. It is part of the family folklore, a rite of passage for springtime and her inarguable huzzah.
Whenever people ask me if it’s “worth it” to own a border collie, I laugh fondly in remembrance of the season our garden sanctuary transformed into a cemetery. They say the dog is man’s best friend. Relationships with animals require fierce love and commitment. A heaping dose of radical acceptance is also needed. Knowing the cycles of life and death, and bearing witness to them, is consecrated work. Caring for a four-legged friend throughout the years, with their idiosyncrasies and foibles, is no different. The memories? Messy and divine, and worth every moment. If given a choice, would I accept this chaotic and unpredictable life? With ease. These nonsensical adventures are pawprints on the heart.
Spring has come again. I’m curious what this year’s investigations might reveal. I turn towards the wild earth, content in knowing that good work, spelled simply, is d-o-g.