The Secret Life of a Sheepdog

People often ask what my sheepdogs do all day.

The dogs would probably answer, "Everything."

I might describe them as highly trained livestock management professionals.

They'd describe themselves as indispensable.

Every morning begins the same way. Meg, Bess and Gyll dogs gather by the door, giving me the unmistakable look that says, The sheep have waited long enough. We should really get moving.

Apparently, coffee is optional. Sheep are not.

The first order of business is a flock check.

Meg takes this very seriously. She's the seasoned professional who has seen it all. If a ewe is acting the least bit suspicious, Meg noticed it five minutes ago.

Bess, on the other hand, believes every morning should begin with predatory grace and a smidgen of enthusiasm. She arrived here from Northern Ireland, and around here she's affectionately known as "the one with the ears." If you've met her, you know exactly why. She approaches every job with confidence—and just a tiny bit of dramatic flair.

Then there's Gyll.

Gyll is young enough to believe every pasture move is the greatest event in recorded history.

"WE'RE MOVING THE SHEEP AGAIN?! THIS IS AMAZING!"

She's learning that a great sheepdog isn't the one who runs the fastest. It's the one who convinces 30 opinionated sheep that walking exactly where you hoped they would was entirely their idea.

Fortunately, she's a quick study.

When it's time to move to fresh grass, something remarkable happens. I work the dogs on the flock individually, most of the time, and they all have very different styles. Meg quietly blocks an escape route. Bess eases a lagging ewe back toward the flock, blocking her route back to the barn. Gyll does her best to remember that sheep are not meant to be herded at the speed of light, and that her teeth are meant to be a last resort.

Meanwhile, the sheep know the drill, they know the dogs. It always amazes me to see how differently the flock behaves with the different dogs.

Visitors often compliment me on how calmly the sheep move, what a beautiful scene it is.

I smile and say thank you.

The dogs know who really deserves the credit. And it’s not the two-legged creature with the shepherd’s crook. I’m merely an accessory to their genius.

After the flock settles into fresh pasture, the dogs conduct one final inspection, making absolutely certain every sheep is exactly where she belongs.

They come to me to say “See? Wasn’t I brilliant? AGAIN?” Pats and praise follow, with a dip in the pond or wading pool to cool off. Then they relax, sort of.

One ear is always listening.

One eye is always open.

If a ewe decides to investigate the electric fence, or a lamb gets separated from the flock, somehow a sheepdog materializes before I've even realized there's a problem.

It's a little like having furry farm managers who work for pats instead of paychecks.

At the end of the day, they'll happily retire to the house, hungry, tired, ready for dinner and bed. Often when they’re sleeping, paws will twitch and they’ll emit little yips—and I know they’re reliving the glorious day they just had, completely convinced they've done all the heavy lifting.

To be fair...

...they're probably right.

And that's why this place is called Lucky Dog Farm.