Vagneur: Dog days

He was born on Dec. 4, 2019, so he’ll soon be four. How fast time flies, but it’s not that simple, and looking back always reminds one of the metronome’s insatiable beat, escorting us to the final curtain.

By not that easy, it’s that my Wyoming rancher friend Jody Bagley knew of some pups, and although I really wanted to go up there, I wasn’t quite ready to pull the trigger. Then a few weeks later the word came from Hotchkiss about other pups, and I figured maybe a look wouldn’t hurt. That’s a lot closer than Wyoming.

Mat Turnbull’s beautiful ranch, his foreman, Mick Cotton, and my friend, head wrangler Matt Westerman – kinda like old home week. Great looking pups with impressive lineage, papered, all of them, and how the hell is one supposed to make a selection? They milled around my feet, not very impressed, until finally I picked one that looked much like my last dog, Topper. Westerman quickly snapped a photo, mostly of his head and front feet. “I’ll be back to get him when he’s old enough.”

Strange, making a decision like that, on a cold winter day, knowing it’s what you want but totally unknowing of what the future holds. My family has had border collies for generations, so that wasn’t much of a consideration, but color is important, and although there was a choice, black and white or merle, as usual, it was black and white. And an overriding sense, with my being older now, which of us will outlast the other?

On Feb. 5, 2020, he was ensconced on the front seat, next to my leg, comfy and snug, with one of my vests loosely covering him, as we headed for home. I’ve hauled a few pups home for people when it was pre-arranged, usually when picking up cows or delivering bulls. Without incident.

My new dog and I didn’t get off to a good start. Going up McClure Pass, he threw up on my leg. Car sick, I reckoned, so reaching the summit, pit stop. From watching him earlier, he didn’t appear to be one to run off, so he was put on the ground without a lease. Almost immediately, he crawled under the truck like I figured he would and refused to move. He felt safe there, apparently, and no amount of coaxing could get him out. No choice, I lay down on the freshly fallen snow, covering an inch or two of slush, and slid under the truck to get him. How sweet. My fault.

Surrounding my house is a large deck, a perfect place to keep a puppy while he’s learning the ropes. Fresh air, sunshine, and a place to relieve himself outside the house, but that took a bit of educating. He would come in the dog door to wet the floor, rather than stay outside. For days, a large owl took up residence on a power pole across the way – I swear he had an eye on my small pup, but we outsmarted him.

Anyway, if you’ve ever house-trained a dog, the surprises and puddles take a little patience and effort. Soon, an escape-proof yard on the adjoining grass was constructed for his pleasure, and almost immediately, tensions lifted, and everyone was happier. He still had access to the deck and house, but the world opened up to him.

At first, I didn’t walk him, due to his youth, but soon our strolls became the stuff of entertainment and legend. My 100-yard driveway was the perfect beginner’s slope, which led me to believe he would stay close to my side and not run off. He was turned loose to sniff, cavort, and wonder. And it worked very well. But once we expanded our terrain, a few problems developed, such as his natural and instinctive desire to chase the deer we came across. He couldn’t run as fast, but once they spooked would follow the trail of their retreat, which led me on a couple escapades through people’s backyards until a proper training collar could be found. In the meantime, he didn’t like the leash, but that’s how it goes, big boy.

That was Tux’s first winter, the beginning, a long time ago. He’ll be four in a month, and I’m guessing (hoping) he’ll be putting the finishing touches on being a puppy. He’s already great, in my mind and, with my steadying voice, has quit chasing deer and mountain lions, although he’s still a little unsure about some dogs.

Each afternoon, a large buck has been coming into our yard, lying down, soaking up the last of the afternoon rays. Tux sits at attention, the same rays glistening off his beautiful black coat, intently watching, not chasing.

And he’s protective, especially with my grandkids. Truth be told, in reality, he probably belongs to my granddaughter, Charli.

Tony Vagneur writes here on Saturdays and welcomes your comments at ajv@sopris.net.