Ty is my first really masculine dog since my wonderful corgi Geordie died in 1997 at nearly fifteen years of age. Already at five months he has a deep warning bark and a developing silver and black ruff. He is poised to pass Bonnie's 19" in height already; he will be a sizeable and impressive adult.

Own enough dogs, and you eventually realize that while every dog has some charm, there are not so many truly special ones. Ty is a special one. He has a particularly endearing personality, outgoing without being effusive, snuggly without being demanding, sensible, stable, and willing to please without being obsessive about it.

Just before school started, we made our annual pilgrimage to a river in the Los Padres National Forest, which flows through a deep gorge on the parched inland side of the Santa Lucia range. It's a journey of some rigor, since after a couple of hours of driving we emerge from the car into 100 degree heat, climb on our bikes, ride a few miles on a rocky dust road in blazing sun, then abandon our bikes and slide and clamber down a trail so steep there is a rope to help you in one place, then inflate the raft we have hauled all this way, load all our gear on it, and swim it upstream. Luke the Corgi can't keep up with any of this, and he stays at home; Bonnie hates to swim but since she is as agile as an antelope, she can clamber along mousetrails on the cliff faces much of the time.

Ty was kind of amazing. He had no trouble keeping up with the bikes or sliding down cliffs. And instead of moaning with anxiety like Bonnie does when we swim, he just took to the water along with us, as comfortable as a duck.

A few weeks later, I was in a hurry and forgot to close my car door when I got the mail, and he hopped out behind my back. This is utterly forbidden to my dogs, but what did he know? He's a puppy. My mailbox is a mile from my house, and right next to a busy fast road. I didn't miss him until I parked my car downtown half an hour later. Naturally, I became completely hysterical, sped back to my house where I hoped he had gotten out when I closed the deer gate. No Ty. Now I really lost it. I drove to the mailbox and prepared to search the whole area on foot. But at my first whistle, Ty came climbing out of the bushes behind the mailbox, where he had evidently holed up for more than an hour, waiting patiently to be found.

Ty has been carefully observing Bonnie and I work sheep, goats, and chickens all this while, but only recently has he decided that he really wants to help. I had to secure the bottom of the goat corral fence so he wouldn't skootch under it, and several times, when I needed a dog to stop livestock from escaping through an open gate, it was Ty who raced to the rescue. I thought, why not put him on a few easy sheep in a round pen and see what he does? For the first time I experienced the temptation of hoping to glimpse a little of what is in that upopened box of stockdog material, even though it really isn't Christmas yet.

What happened surprised me, although I guess it shouldn't have. Half-scared and totally excited, Ty at first looked as if he was going to get control of the sheep, but very quickly the boldest sheep decided he was nothing but a punk and challenged him, even butting him once. This was the last thing I wanted to happen. I brought Bonnie in to help, so he could have a successful first attempt.

 

That was the good idea I had. She immediately gained control, did all the work, and Ty happily joined in. Then I quit! It was foolish of me to risk giving my pup a bad scare that could set him back a long time. He was far from old and strong enough to intimidate these sheep.

I vowed then to be much more careful, and to not make the mistake of trying to start my raw pup out without supervision from a real trainer. I have heard so many sad stories of promising dogs spoiled by neophytes that way.

I want my Ty to have the best chance at being all the stockdog he could be, that I can give him. So I better watch my step.