In  my book Strait Arrow, Gabe Strait is a good ‘ole boy with a “passel of mutts”. As the story progresses, the reader learns that there is always more to a person or situation than first appears on the surface. However, the focus of this essay is the dogs.

Every member of Gabe’s “passel” represents a dog I know—past or present. Currently residing at various locations of our ranch, we have an ancient, tumor-laden yellow lab who has lived at least four lifetimes and still loves everybody, a rotund Corgi who spends most of the year with our daughters at Kansas State University, three English shepherds who excel at moving livestock and ridding the place of varmints, a breeding pair of rat terriers (known locally as rat terriorists), and a giant Great Pyrenees who prevents theft of tools and keeps away stray dogs, coyotes, raccoons, possums, rodents, skunks, and any other uninvited critters.

Gabe also has a miniature dachshund who is modeled after Gus. Along with Velda the Cat, Gus formed the welcoming committee at my veterinary clinic years ago.

Other dogs who have played a large role in my life are the Australian shepherd who replaced me when I moved away to graduate school. To hear my parents tell it, Tex worked livestock, patrolled for varmints, peeled vegetables, played the violin, drove the tractor, and calculated seeding rates. Every time they called me on the phone, it was to report on the newest, latest, greatest feat Tex had accomplished. I wasn’t sure they even needed me to come visit anymore. The first-ever livestock encounter Tex accomplished was to bring back a dozen steers who wandered out of the feedlot under the cloak of darkness. The dog drove them back to the barn and held them by the gate, barking all night. In the morning, Dad went out to reprimand the dog for barking. Instead, he ended up giving him lots of petting and ear rubs and probably a T-bone steak and a pound of butter.

The only downfall Tex had was that he liked to bite spinning things. He loved to run past the riding lawnmower and nip the tires. Same with the tires on the feed wagon. One day, Dad was taxiing his beloved Cessna up to the hangar when he saw Tex barreling toward him. He killed the engine, but the prop was still turning fast enough to cause irreparable damage. There was a very sad dog funeral at the KO Ranch that day.

Tex was replaced by Sox. Like Tex, Sox slept in the house, rode in the pickup, napped at the shop, ate what Dad ate, went where Dad went, and loved nothing more than to heel a cow that was trying to quit the herd. And, also like Tex, Sox thought that Mom and I were perfectly good substitutes for Dad because we were approved as members of the Ace Cowdog Petting Committee.

Sox was replaced by Poppa. Poppa outlived Dad and died just a month before our first litter of English shepherds was born. I asked Mom to hold off getting a new dog until the puppies were ready. She had pick of the litter, and she picked the “barkiest” one. She explained that my cousin had recently pulled into the driveway with a semi-truck, unloaded a tractor, opened the big doors on the machine shed, parked the tractor inside, closed the big doors, walked up to the house, knocked on the door, and scared the liver out of her because she didn’t even know he was there! She said she needed a dog alarm to keep her abreast of arrivals and departures on the place. Sophie has been a perfect alarm dog and was joined two years later by her full sister from another litter.

We acquired our Corgi years ago thinking he would be a great cattle dog with a low-maintenance coat. Turned out we were wrong on the first point. He sat and watched us ride away from the barn and seemed to wave a paw as to say, “See you when you get back. I’ll guard the food dish while you’re out working cattle.” My research for a dog breed like a Corgi with a full complement of legs yielded English shepherds. At first glance, their coat appears to be high-maintenance, but English shepherds actually have an amazing self-cleaning feature. Bard the Poet Laureate of the Giefer Ranch (usually known simply as Bard) can race through a mud hole to turn a cow. Five minutes later, he looks like he just came from the beauty parlor. He rarely barks unless the train comes through. Both of our female English shepherds came equipped with alarm features. Nobody gets on the place without showing credentials, travel orders, and a passport. After the girls clear strangers, Bard makes sure the newcomers know how to properly pet a cow dog.