The Collie's Comeuppance

The collie had been herding the rancher’s sheep on a little spread in Texas for most of his seven years. He was proud of his job and took it seriously. He was also brash, arrogant, and unlikable. If even one sheep looked like it was about to stray, the collie was on it in a flash, nipping at the sheep’s legs. All the sheep on the ranch bore nasty scars on their ankles, and they resented the collie and his guilty-until-forced-to-be-innocent approach to herding.

Image by Teece Aronin

“Y'all get back to the pack!” the collie would arrogantly command. “Get back to the pack!” He was frequently heard chanting this phrase as he trotted about the pastures, looking for any excuse to nip a sheep. 

“Back to the pack, my rack,” grumbled Mr. Ram at the barnyard’s summer flock party. "And besides, no sheep would be caught dead runnin' with a pack." He and his wife, Mrs. Ram were chatting with their friends, Mr. and Mrs. Goose, Mr. and Mrs. Bull, and Miss Pig.

“I feel so sorry for you poor sheep,” said Mrs. Bull. “Your little legs must be worn to the bone with that awful collie nippin' away at them!”

“I was just thinkin' the same thing,” said Miss Pig, gazing at Mr. Ram's scarred and spindly legs. “Those legs don't have a scrap of fat to spare, poor things.”

“And the way he pokes that big honker of his between your feet to trip y'all on purpose,” said Mrs. Goose. “That's just bullying! Oh, sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Bull! I meant that’s just mean.”

Mrs. Bull had always complained to her husband that Mrs. Goose was just as mean as that old collie but that at least the collie wasn't sneaky. Here was another example, taking a poke at them and pretending it was a mistake. 

“I know what I’d do if I was you sheep,” said Mr. Goose.

“What?” asked Mr. Ram.

“I’d beat him at his own game, and those guys are the ones I'd get to help me." He nodded toward the barn cats. There were four of them, lined up against a fence, one of them lazily picking his teeth with a splinter. They were known for being lean and mean and fast. Meanwhile, on a gate nearby lounged the ranch dogs - two terrier mixes, a bloodhound, a beagle, and the collie. The dogs and the cats always called a truce during flock parties, but never would they mix. 

Mr. Goose looked over at the collie. “Someday that dog is gonna get his.”

“From your lips to God’s ears,” said Mrs. Bull, smiling when she saw that she had infuriated Mrs. Goose.

"Oops, I'm sorry," said Mrs. Bull. "I forgot - y'all don't have lips - or ears either!"  

As the flock party was breaking up, Mr. Goose could be seen chatting quietly with Mr. Ram, his wing draped over the ram's shoulder. Mr. Ram was nodding, looking grave. Then Mr. Goose waved the barn cats over. After a few more minutes of quiet talk, the group burst out laughing. 

The next night at midnight, Mr. Ram, Mr. Goose, and the cats met up behind some hay bales. 

"Did you bring the stuff?" Mr. Goose asked the ram. 

"Yeah. Got the net wrapped up in the blanket." 

"Do you think your wife'll miss it?"

"What, the blanket?"

"Yeah."

"Nah, it's wool - we've got dozens of 'em."

"Okay," said Mr. Goose. "Hey, cats, gather 'round." The cats leaned in, listened attentively, and grinned.  

Within seconds, two of the cats had climbed a tree near the barn and jumped onto the roof. Then they unrolled more than 30 feet of netting and dangled it between them. The other cats eased the barn door open then slipped into the shadows. Mr. Ram stood about 50 feet from the doorway, spread his hind legs wide, and planted his feet in the dirt. Screwing up his courage, he cupped his hooves around his mouth and yelled.

"Hey, Ankle Biter! Your mama was Chewbacca, and your daddy was Big Bird!"

The collie sat bolt upright, blinking and trying to get his bearings. The sheep yelled again.

"Hey - Pencil Puss!"

The collie got a bead on the sheep and shot from his bed like a rocket. As soon as he crossed the barn's threshold, the cats dropped the net and the collie was trapped, kicking and snapping at the rope. The cats who had been waiting near the doorway, sprang into action, rolling the collie over a few times to ensure he was wrapped up tight. Then they threw the blanket over the portion of netting that covered his head to make sure he couldn't bite.

"We got him!" they yelled.

At that point, all the animals gathered around and took turns nipping at the collie's legs while he barked and growled, immobilized. But he did shake the blanket off long enough to shout at the other dogs. 

"Don't just stand there!" 

The dogs rushed over and nipped at him too."

"No!" the collie bellowed. "I meant do somethin' to help me!" At that point, the dogs just stepped back to stare at him stupidly.

When everyone who wanted a nip had gotten one, the cats rolled the collie roughly out of the net, dumping him at the feet of the other dogs.

The collie spent the next week propped up in the barn, his legs wrapped in gauze and a cone circling his head. The perplexed rancher could only scratch his head wondering what had happened.

And whenever they knew the rancher wouldn’t hear, the happy animals chorused these words: "Back to the pack!"

As for his part, the collie learned that arrogance and bullying were no way to herd sheep, and he began asking them politely to move this way and that whenever he tended them. And he couldn't be sure, but he was pretty well convinced that the sheep appreciated the way he treated them these days. 

But just in case, he started sleeping on top of the net.   

Never Depend on a Goose

One of the saddest things I can think of is an animal lying dead by the road.

However, an animal which is probably dead, lying in the grass near the road is worse. There's the possibility that instead of being dead and dragged there by a driver or pedestrian, it dragged itself there and is alive and in pain. Or someone else might have dragged it there assuming that if it wasn't dead yet, it soon would be.

Throw in the misery of a cold, rainy day and someone who doesn't have the sense to just keep driving, and you have the makings of a truly rotten experience.

I had been on the road all day, it was close to 7 p.m., and I desperately wanted to get home to my kids. Suddenly, there was no missing it: about 10 feet from the curb on the lawns of a church was a black goose sprawled on its belly. Other geese trundled by as the rain poured down on all of them. 

I pulled into the church parking lot and thought about calling Animal Control. If it were dead, the goose needed to be disposed of and if it were alive, it needed to be tended to. It took four calls before I got a hold of someone. He said they didn't have anyone on duty at the moment but could tell me who to call, a woman who volunteered for things like that. Her name was Lillian Plentworth. I called the number. 

Ms. Plentworth answered the phone after two rings and within seconds my mental picture was clear: seventy-ish, no nonsense but pleasant, sensible haircut, short fingernails, no polish, and a rain slicker with a pair of waders in the hall closet.

Me: Hello, Ms. Plentworth. I was just driving down Raleigh Drive in Birktown and saw a goose lying on the lawn in front of First Presbyterian Church. I think it's dead but I can't be sure. 

Ms. Plentworth: Well, is it breathing?

Me: I don't know. I got out of my car and tried to check a few minutes ago but I couldn't get close enough. 

I didn't mention to Ms. Plentworth that I couldn't get close enough due to a years-long bird phobia, and having the birds be dead and soaking in the rain just makes it worse. 

Ms. Plentworth: Well, run over there and look again and call me back.

She hung up before I could so much as whimper. After she hung up, I whimpered anyway. 

I got out of the car and walked back to the goose. I'd forgotten my umbrella that day and was already soaked from my first failed mission to assess the goose's condition. 

Looking closer, the goose was probably dead, but I couldn't shake the notion that it was shallowly breathing. And since I'd gotten as close as I could without hyperventilating, I scurried back to the car and called Ms. Plentworth. 

Me: I can't tell if it's breathing or not. 

Ms. Plentworth (sighing): Well, ordinarily I'd come out there, but I just rescued a turkey and now I'm about to take some soup off the stove. I'd rather not come out there if it's dead.

Me: Then I don't know what to do. I mean, someone needs to come get it either way, right? 

Ms. Plentworth: That's true. But if it's dead, that would be someone else's job. I collect them when they're injured, not when they're dead. If I told you where to take it, would you go pick it up?

Me: I'd rather not. 

Ms. Plentworth: Well, let's just assume this one's dead. I'll let Animal Control know to send someone out in the morning. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to my soup. Have a good night!

I peered through the downpour, over the shining wet blacktop of the parking lot, and across the expanse of grass, vividly green from the rain. There lay the goose. It's brother and sister geese seemed unmoved. Shouldn't they perform CPR, or if the goose was religious, scratch together some kind of a service? Shouldn't they be conferring over a place to bury him or her?

I had the sudden realization that one should never depend on a goose to hand one an emergency bottle of nitroglycerin tablets. On the other hand, it also seemed sensible that one could use a goose as a model for how to stay calm in a crisis. 

'Okay,' I thought. 'That goose is in no condition to attack me so there's no reason I can't get close enough to it to make sure it's dead. If it's not, I call Ms. Plentworth back and tell her I don't care if her soup gets fried; she needs to come out here and collect that goose. If it's alive, it must be dying and at least a vet could put the poor thing out of its misery.

I approached the goose one more time.

It had probably been a good 20 minutes since I'd first spotted the goose from the road. I took a deep breath and stood a little closer this time. Clearly, it wasn't breathing. If it wasn't dead before, it was now.

Geese can't count on us either.