Last November, I kept a pup from Bard and Avon’s English shepherd litter. In keeping with the names Avon, Bard, and Daisy, this dog needed a poetic name that starts with C. My daughter (Daisy’s human) suggested Caine. I asked the significance. She said, “Michael Caine.”

I said, “Michael Caine is an actor. Not a poet.” She said all the C names I picked out were weird. By that, she meant Celtic. Anyway, the name Caine stuck.

When he was seven months old, the instinct switch in Caine’s brain flicked on, and he became a master cowdog. Well, an apprentice cowdog. His unwilling boss and mentor has a love-hate relationship with Caine. Bard, Caine’s sire, resents having an apprentice because he has to share the petting. He loves having an apprentice because now the arthritic old guy can trot alongside me and let the “kid” do the legwork. It should be noted that when I’m on foot, Bard’s head is just the right altitude for absent-minded petting.

Yesterday, an hour after I embarked on chores, I stepped out of the tractor to open a gate. Caine ran past me. His white ruff (the hair on his neck) was red! On closer inspection—but not too close because I didn’t want blood all over my new jeans—I saw his ear was split. Apparently “Dad” administered a little hot gospel that rendered Caine’s blood bath, but Caine was jubilant as ever. The blood loss wasn’t significant; it just looked like a lot because it landed on a white backdrop.

A couple hours after that, we were pushing the calves out of the feed pen. Caine went after a recalcitrant weanling bull and somehow got tangled in the calf’s feet. Yipe, yipe, yipe, yipe. He finished the job while packing a front foot. It was on the same side as his bleeding ear.

You know you’re in the right line of work when you can finish the day, bloody and limping, and still be enthusiastic about the job.