Were you paying attention in 2013?

About a month ago, I found myself trying to write a holiday letter to send out with our Christmas cards. I gave up and wrote a quiz instead, which I thought might be more fun and quirky than the overly formulaic "2013 was quite the year..." type letter.

For the past hour, I've been trying to write a blog post about 2013 in review. An exercise about as formulaic as writing a holiday letter. So I'm giving up and sharing the quiz with you instead. Also, I'm too lazy to be creative because it is Friday night and there is wine to drink.

At any rate, play along and let's see if you were paying attention in 2013!!!

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A Holiday Quiz

How well do you know Jay, Hubby and Fergus? Take their holiday quiz and find out! If you creep them on social media, this should be pretty easy! Answers below!

1.     In Spring 2013, Hubby and Jay embarked on another European adventure. Which of these cities was not featured on their tour?

a.     Vienna,Austria

b.     London,England

c.     Bratislava,Slovakia

d.     Prague, Czech Republic

e.     Munich,Germany

2.     Why did they go to Europe in the first place?

a.     To see Springsteen in concert

b.     Jay had never been to Vienna

c.     Planning for their retirement

d.     To see if there is good wine in Austria

3.     Which musical acts did Hubby and Jay see in concert in 2013?

a.     Pearl Jam

b.     Bruce Springsteen

c.     Imagine Dragons, Mumford and Sons, the Lumineers and the Cure

d.     Patti Smyth and the Avett Brothers

e.     All of the above

4.     In 2013, Fergus took his love of herding to new heights when he chased which big game animal?

a.     Black bear

b.     Our neighbour’s 16-year old

c.     An elk

d.     A deer

5.     Our first road trip in our new car was to see Pearl Jam in…?

a.     Boston

b.     Buffalo

c.     Philadelphia

d.     Brooklyn

6.     Jay and Hubby travelled to which cold prairie city for the Grey Cup this year?

a.     Winnipeg, Manitoba

b.     Calgary, Alberta

c.     Edmonton, Alberta

d.     Regina, Saskatchewan

7.     Who played and who won?

8.     Jay started a new job this year with which department?

a.     Canada Revenue Agency

b.     Parks Canada

c.     Canadian Heritage

d.     Public Health Agency of Canada

9.     Hubby won the lead role in a play at the Ottawa Little Theatre. What was the name of the play?

a.     Lost in Paradise

b.     Still Lost in Paradise

c.     Just Another Day in Paradise

d.     Paradise City

10.  For most of 2013, we welcomed a long-term visitor into our home. Who is she/he?

a.     Sadie the cat

b.     Fritz the cat

c.     Bella the husky

d.     Hobbes the French bulldog

Answers: 1(d); 2(a); 3(e); 4(a); 5(c); 6(d); 7(Saskatchewan beat Hamilton); 8(d); 9(b); 10(a)

Happy (belated) holidays!!!

Love, adrenaline, and a whole lot of barking

Last Thursday, Hubby and I celebrated our 4th wedding anniversary.

(Cue "awwwwwwww" now.)

In the terribly unromantic fashion that only the two of us are capable of getting away with, we did not spend our anniversary together. I went to see the Tragically Hip with some friends, and he stayed home.

Now in fairness, we didn't do this on purpose. It was only after I bought the ticket that I realized that the concert fell on the same day as our wedding anniversary. But admittedly, I was not willing to give up a warm summer's eve at the Bluesfest with Gord Downey and friends. Go ahead and judge me. But before you do, know this: (a) I did ask Hubby to come with us and he chose not to; and (b) we all called him from my cell phone before the concert to toast our anniversary.

Faced with this glaring display of unromanticism, Hubby and I agreed that we should schedule some kind of celebration, lest our marriage disintegrate under the weight of our co-neglect. So we agreed to take Friday off work so that we could spend the day together. 

We mulled over the terribly romantic idea of spending the day being pampered at a local Scandinavian spa. I was, in fact, about to make the reservation, when it occurred to me that it might be nice to do something as a family. As in Hubby, me, and Fergus. I mean, how often do the three of us get to embark on a family outing. And now that we have the car, we can go anywhere!

My boys getting ready for a day together

On this day, "anywhere" consisted of the beautiful trails of  Gatineau Park, a mere 20 minutes from our door. What better way to enjoy a warm, sunny morning than to hike under a canopy of trees. We might even get romantic and hold hands!

And so, we put Fergus' pack on, stuffed it with some water, and set off for our morning adventure.

It was one of those perfect, peaceful summer mornings. When we arrived, there were virtually no cars in the parking lot, and we ended up having the trail to ourselves. Fergus roamed around off leash, sniffing at trees, peeing on bushes, gnawing on sticks, and walking through every mud puddle that he could find. Hubby and I held hands, reminisced about our wedding day, planned out our weekend, and talked about our upcoming trip to Philadelphia to see Pearl Jam in October. All three of us were simply enjoying being in one another's company.

Leading the way

Hey slow pokes, what's taking you so long? 

I'm coming, I'm coming...

After about 4km, the trail came to an end, and we turned around to make our way back to the car. A few short metres later, we bumped into a pair of hikers. Fergus barked excitedly to say hi to the newcomers as we passed them on the trail. Then he went back to sniffing around and we went back to holding hands and chatting.

Another few hundred metres later, Fergus stopped, and his ears perked straight up into the air, a sure sign that someone - or something - is approaching. "Who's coming, buddy," Hubby said. "Maybe it's another hiker with another d...," I tried to say, but before I could finish, Fergus was off like a flash, barking loudly and hurrying through the woods towards an as-of yet-undefined-shape.

"Holy shit!" Hubby explained, followed by "Fergus, COME HERE!" And there was an edge of panic to his voice.

Now allow me a moment for a sidebar here. My husband almost never swears. He almost never raises his voice. And in 11 years, I have only ever seen him panic once - the day that he misplaced tickets to a Montreal Alouettes vs. Winnipeg Blue Bombers game, which was wreaking havoc on his plan to propose marriage to me at that game (an incredibly romantic story for another time). I was quite sure that there was no forthcoming marriage proposal causing him to panic, and at this point, I still thought that the undefined shape was just another dog. In fact, I was still looking around for another human. "What are you getting so excited about, Hubby. It's just another d..."

And then I stopped dead, as the as-of-yet-undefined-shape started to get a little bit more definition.

It was a bear. A black bear. Being chased by Fergus. Up a tree.

(It looked something like this - but this isn't my picture. I wasn't about to stop and take a picture of a damn black bear in a damn tree only a damn twenty feet away from us!!! I'm nuts but I'm not THAT nuts!)

Photo courtesy of CBC, June 10, 2006

"Oh my God! Fergus, HUSTLE!" I screamed.

Fergus, who was by this point a mere 10 feet away from a tree that contained a bear, was torn. On the one hand, he's got an incredibly great recall and knows that he is expected to come when we call, no matter what he is doing. On the other hand, he had never seen a bear before, and was clearly intrigued by this new species. And, I suspect, he felt a little bit proud of himself for cornering one in a tree. Not knowing whether or not this was a lone bear on the trail, or if there was an angry mother somewhere nearby, or even if the tree'd bear would lose patience with Fergus and come down to attack, Hubby and I did not want to leave without the dog. We wanted to get him on a leash and get him the hell out of there.

We started to move away from the tree, because like all good herding dogs, Fergus moves with his flock. When he saw us leaving, he took one last desperate look at the bear in the tree, growled and barked, and came running back to us. Relieved, I grabbed onto his collar and started to run, Hubby right beside me.

As I was running, one hand on Fergus' collar and the other trying to clip on his leash, two thoughts repeated over and over and over again in my head: is there a momma bear? and why the hell can't I stop shaking so that I can get this damn leash on!!!! The first thought practically blinded me with fear. I could not bring myself to look behind me over my shoulder for fear that a giant bear would be ready to take a swipe at me. The second thought caused me to scream out to Hubby, "Hubby, I'm panicking! And I can't stop shaking. I can't get the damn leash on!"

All the while, Fergus, sensing my own mounting panic and freneticism, was frantically looking back towards the his prize, barking in that shrill, loud, hyena-like pitch that only Fergus can hit, and trying to run as fast as he could despite being gripped by the collar. He was about to tear my arm off when Hubby told me to stop, took the leash clip from my hand, snapped it on Fergus' collar, checked behind us to make sure there was no bear, and then yelled at me to run again.

And so I ran. As fast as I could. Down an extremely steep hill. Still too scared to look behind me. With a frantic, barking dog, himself running so fast down this hill that he threatened to pull me down into the dirt and simply drag me behind him.

And then, I heard a sound that made my heart stop. It sounded to me like a scream. A woman's scream. "Hubby, the hikers!" I yelled. "One of them is screaming!" "She's not screaming, Jay. It's a bear whistle. She's okay. She's just making noise to keep the bear away. Keep running." Moments later, we heard an air horn. One after the other, the air horn and the bear whistle rang out and echoed through the trees.

As we approached the clearing leading to the main road up ahead, a lone mountain biker was stopped by the side of path. What a sight we must have been. A woman being literally dragged by a crazed, barking dog, a man trying to keep up as he screamed out to her, "Bear! Bear! Turn around!", and the piercing sound of bark, air horn, bear whistle. With a look of shock on her face, she turned her bike around and followed us out of the forest and onto the main road. Twenty seconds later, the other hikers joined us.

"Holy shit!" I just kept saying, over and over and over again, finally feeling safe enough to look behind me, as I gazed back into the woods out of which we had just stampeded. "Holy shit, Hubby. He chased a bear. He chased a f%&#ing bear!"

Meanwhile, surrounded by so many panting, panicky humans, poor Fergus was having a meltdown of his own - barking at everyone, trying desperately to lunge towards them, fighting Hubby who was trying to make him lie down be still. We led him away and did our best to calm ourselves down so that we could calm him down.

At this point, we were still about 3k - through the woods - from the parking lot. But you could not have paid me to head back into the woods to the trail. Instead, we decided to walk back to the car along the main park road, adding an additional km or so onto our trek. And then, about 10 minutes later, I stopped, looked at Hubby and said, "I think I am going to throw up." With no more adrenaline pumping through my veins, I just wanted to collapse in a heap on the ground. And there, on the side of the road, bent over to fight the rising tide of nausea, I burst into tears. Hubby patted my back and kept repeating, "We're okay. We're all okay. We're safe. We're all safe." Fergus whined and tried to lick my face. We stayed that way, my little family, by the side of the park road, for about five minutes, enough time for my legs to stop shaking enough so that I could keep on going. And then, in relative silence, we walked the last 20 or so minutes back to the car.

Since our little adventure, I've told a handful of people this story, and I've gotten a variety of responses. One friend has rechristened Fergus with a warrior name, He-who-chases-bears. One of my colleagues told me that my dog was a hero, saving our lives by making so much noise that the bear ran away. And my father gave me shit for letting Fergus roam off-leash in a wooded area, lecturing me about "how much bears hate dogs" and "how lucky Fergus is that the bear didn't swing at him". When my father learned so much about dog-bear relations, I'm not really sure, but anyway...

As for me, well, I can't decide if Fergus is brave or stupid. Probably a combination of both. And definitely a whole lot of lucky. I can't allow my mind to go to that place where he would have come across a particularly grouchy bear who was not willing to put up with his shit. Instead, I'm just thankful that we'll all make it to our fifth wedding anniversary.

I think I will go buy an air horn at Mountain Equipment Co-op on the weekend... Or maybe I will just stick to the Arboretum...

Reflecting on the years gone by... Two, in fact.

Happy St. Jean Baptiste Day to all Franco-Canadians!

Happy Anniversary to my sister and brother-in-law, who today celebrate 13 years of marriage.

But most of all, Happy Birthday to the F-Bomb!!!!

That's right - today is Mr. Fergus' birthday! His third birthday, in fact. 

If you are like me, you grew up believing that 1 dog year = 7 human years. Which would make Fergus 21 years old - legal in all 50 states (if there was such a thing as a doggie bar). But in fact, thanks to the magic that is Dr. Google, I've discovered that this formula is overly simple and not-at-all accurate. Evidently, according to people who know dogs, the ratio of dog-to-human-years is much higher at the beginning of life, decreasing with age. Fergus, therefore, is closer to 28 years old. See:

Canine Age	Human Age
2 Months	14 Months
6 Months	5 Years
8 Months	9 Years
1 Year	15 Years
2 Years	24 Years
3 Years	28 Years
4 Years	32 Years
5 Years	37 Years
6 Years	42 Years
7 Years	47 Years
8 Years	52 Years
9 Years	57 Years
10 Years	62 Years
11 Years	67 Years
12 Years	72 Years
13 Years	77 Years
14 Years	82 Years

*Credit: www.dogyears.com

Either way, my little boy is all grown up.  

Sniff Sniff...

Everybody keeps telling me that very soon, Fergus will start to calm down. "Once he's 3," they say, "he won't have all of that crazy energy!" Well, I don't know what "they" are thinking, but he certainly shows no signs of slowing down any time soon. I suspect that he'll keep us hopping until he's 14 or so (82 for those of you counting in human years). Yup... he'll be the Jack LaLanne of the canine world.

At any rate, I'm a crazy enough dog person to write a blog about my dog, but I'm not crazy enough to throw him a party and buy him a doggie birthday cake or make him wear a birthday hat so I can take pictures. But I did wish him happy birthday when we woke up. And I did take him this morning to his favourite spot in the whole world - the Arboretum - for a run and a swim. And I did give him a peanut butter stuffed kong when I left the house. And once it's thawed out a little, I will give him a bone to chew on for the evening. So I guess we are sort of celebrating a little.

I also can't help but wonder where the heck the time has gone! Has it really been over two years since he came to live with us?

Yes. I suppose it has...

And what a fun time it has been. This past year has been no exception. Whether continuing on with old traditions or discovering new adventures, we've enjoyed another year of Mr. F's company.

So Happy birthday, Mr. Fergus. Here's to many more years to come!

"Helping" me house clean by herding the vacuum

More "helping" by lying on the newly mopped floor

Hanging out with his best buddy in the Arboretum on a beautiful spring day

Taking a break from chasing his ball through the Arboretum

No stick is too big for a game of fetch in the Arboretum

Birthday swim in the Arboretum

Hanging out at Dogs at Camp while we were on our European adventure, waiting for his dinner

Cuddling with Monkey

Spooning with Monkey

Hanging out with his cousin, Toby, begging for food

Sleeping on the job when he's supposed to be nursing me back to health post-surgery

Injury time

It happens to the best of us.

A tweaked muscle here... A pulled tendon there... A pinched nerve somewhere else...

Injuries. Those of us who are physically active know that it is only a matter of time before we sustain one. God knows that I have had my fair share. Ankle sprains, muscle tears, strained tendons, popping kneecaps, and my personal favourite, groin pulls (nothing like icing the entre-jambes area, I say...). Years and years of living the sedentary life without one freaking injury. 10 years of keeping fit and active and POW! I run out of massage therapy and physiotherapy insurance coverage by February. Every. single. year.

My most infamous injury is indicative of what a jerk I am when it comes to taking proper care of myself. Picture it: a snowy, icy Sunday morning in small-town New Brunswick, where I have been visiting my in-laws for the past 36 hours. I'm starting to, quite frankly, get a little squirrely. (Try as we do, we just can't seem to stop getting on one another's nerves...) So I decide to go for a 5k run. After 5k, I'm still feeling too stressed to go back, so I decide to do another 5k. About halfway through the second loop, I slip on ice. Innocuous, really - I don't even hit the ground. Just lose balance for half a second before I regain my stride. But after five more minutes, I feel my right glute stiffen. Another 5 minutes later and, with every single strike of my right foot, I feel a stabbing pain rip through my ass cheek. But I've got less than 2k to go, and it's too cold to walk, so I "rimp" (a cross between a run and a limp) all the way back. 

By the time I arrive, I'm in too much pain to be stressed about having another 24 hours to spend with my in-laws. I spend the rest of the day alternating between ice and heat, desperately trying to stop the ass spasms that are preventing me from lying down, sitting, or standing without screaming in pain.

Forty-eight hours later, I'm home. And I'm no longer spasming. Obviously, I'm feeling better. So I go for a run. And running feels great. But then I get home, and my right glute seizes up again, causing me to spend the rest of the day limping around the office. 

But do I stop running and seek professional help? Of course not! What am I? Some kind of wuss? Every other day, I run, and the same scenario plays out. Until Hubby, who is tired of me (a) not taking his advice to rest for a few days and (b) whining about how much post-run pain I am in, insists that I call the doctor. So I drag myself to the sports therapy clinic at the nearby university, get sent for a bone scan (to rule out a fracture) and an ultrasound (when the bone scan reveals nothing), and am finally diagnosed (four months after the original injury) with a torn hip flexor. 

I have been running, every other day, on a torn hip flexor. For four months. Even I know how 'effin dumb that is. 

Dumb enough to make me listen to the doctor, the physiotherapist, the ART specialist, and the massage therapist that I was seeing to rehab me through this injury. Which meant absolutely, unequivocally, without question, NO RUNNING. For at least two weeks. And when I questioned that length of recovery time, I got this: "Well, if you would have taken care of this when it happened, you wouldn't be in this situation," or "It could be worse. If it were a bone fracture, you'd be out for at least 8 weeks." Like patronizing me is going to make me feel better at a time like this...

But I listened. I went to physio/RMT/ART sessions religiously. I started stretching more. I started doing yoga (and you know I am taking it seriously when I do yoga, which I kind-of-sort-of-hate). I did all of my rehab exercises. And most importantly, I did not run once.

Instead, I moped around the house. I felt miserable, unfulfilled, and empty. I filled that empty no-running-void with food. I gained a couple of pounds. I snapped at everyone around me. And I drove everyone mad with my bad attitude. 

I am officially the world's worse rehab patient.

Strike that. I was officially the world's worse rehab patient. The Beast recently lifted that title from me.

It was a small thing, really. As you will surely recall, we recently took Fergus sheep herding. The thing about sheep herding is that you don't do it on nice, level, perfectly groomed landscape. You do it in a pasture. Where there are groundhog holes and uneven turf. Unsurprisingly, mis-steps are possible. And indeed, on the way out of the sheep pen, the trainer asked us if Fergus was limping.  All three of us checked him out thoroughly, looking at all of his paws, poking and prodding him a little to see if anything was tender, but all he did was happily pant. So off we went. And when we got home, he seemed perfectly normal. No limp in sight. 

The following morning, we resumed our regular weekday exercise routine: Monday a.m. run with Mom (we did about 7k), Tuesday a.m. bike ride with Dad (they did about 6k), Wednesday a.m. run with Mom (we did 11k because it was one of those ridiculously beautiful summer mornings), Thursday a.m. bike ri.... Hold the phone. Uncharacteristically, the Beast didn't want to go for a bike ride. After 1k, he stopped dead in his tracks, and refused to go any further. Hubby had to very slowly pedal home. With a very unmotivated dog alongside him. Which we simply chalked up to him being tired from all the physical activity that he does.

That evening, I took Fergus for a walk. And that's when I noticed it. He was limping. Very definitely limping along slowly beside me. And when I picked up one paw at a time to see what was wrong, he pulled away from me when I touched the rear right one. 

Great. So he had done something to himself at the sheep farm after all. But just like his Mom, he faked his way through it for a couple of days, cramming run after run and wrestling-match after wrestling-match into his routine, unwilling to show that something was hurting and that it was time for a break.

Well, a break is just want we knew we had to give him. And on the advice of a friend, Hubby and I agreed that there would be no running for a few days, no off-leash walks, and no dog park. Only slow, controlled walks on a leash, and maybe a little bit of swimming. Until we were sure that he was limp free, for real this time.

Well, Fergus just freaked out. After just one day of not running, I was reminded of why I nicknamed him the Beast. He resumed his frenetic, I-have-too-much-unreleased-energy-pent-up-inside-of-me state almost immediately after our Friday morning walk. As though he was trying to say to me, "WTF, Mom? What's with this slow pace. It's our day to run, lady. Pick up the damn pace, will you?!?!" By the time we got back from work on Friday evening, he was a veritable gong show. Jumping all over us when we walked through the door (which he never does anymore), pacing back and forth until we took him outside, pulling on the leash as though his sole purpose in life was to yank my arm out of its socket, and whimpering and howling when we did not turn into the dog park during our walk. And despite walking him for over an hour on Friday night, he spent the rest of the evening staring at his toy box, demanding that we take something out and throw it around the house for him. Which of course, we would not do, because he could not run.

This went on and on and on for the whole weekend. Constant whining, begging, whimpering, and glancing up at us with his poor-me eyes. 

By Sunday morning, I was desperate to take him out for a roller-blade adventure with me and the girls to let him use up some of his crazy energy. Desperate because he was driving me freaking crazy, and I couldn't take it anymore. But I knew I couldn't. Even though he wasn't limping anymore, I couldn't do to him what I always do to myself: push him to get active too soon and set back his recovery by days and weeks. 

Don't mistake this seemingly altruistic statement for anything other than selfishness. If Fergus would have re-injured himself and required a longer rehab period, I was likely to move out and leave Hubby to deal with this neurotic behaviour. Nope - not taking him was actually all about me. 

But it worked. By Tuesday morning, after being limp-free for over 48 hours, we set off for a leisurely 5k. We took lots of stops to make sure that we weren't rushing it too soon, and I poked and prodded him the whole way through to make sure that he was truly okay and not just faking it. We were even able to go for a bike ride last night along the river, and a run through the Arboretum this morning. And thankfully, he has resumed his calm-as-Fergus-knows-how-to-be state. Peace (or our version of it, at least) has returned to our household.

And now that I know just how overbearing, whiny, and desperately attention-seeking I can be when I am injured and can't do what I love to do, I promise that I will stretch after every single run and listen to my body. Because I don't want to put Hubby through dealing with two injury divas. 

Loyalty

I have a tendency to go overboard. With just about everything in my life.

Take the Beast's recent herding evaluation as a perfect example. We spent one hour testing his ability to herd sheep, made no firm decisions as to when or how often we will come back for lessons, and I've already gone out and ordered the following book: Herding Dogs: Progressive Training. A full-on manual on how to teach dogs to herd. For people whose livelihoods depend on raising livestock.

In other words, not really necessary for the weekend herder/handler combo that is me and the Beast.

The book came in the mail yesterday, and I started flipping through the very intimidating 7-page table of contents to see if I could just find a chapter on "City girls who get the idea in their heads that their dog could be a casual herder". I didn't find that chapter, but I did land upon the following excerpt entitled "Loyalty". I can take no credit for this excerpt. In fact the author is quoted as 'unknown'. But I found it to be a touching description of our beloved pets (minus the slave reference, perhaps). I thought others might too. Enjoy!

God summoned a beast from the fields and He said, "Behold people created in my image. Therefore, adore them. You shall protect them in the wilderness, shepherd their flocks, watch over their children, accompany them wherever they may go - even into civilization.  You shall be a companion, an ally, a slave. 

"To do these things," God said, "I endow you with instincts uncommon to other beasts: faithfulness, devotion and understanding surpassing that of people. Lest it impair your courage you shall never foresee your death. Lest it impair your loyalty, you shall be blind to the faults of people. Lest it impair your understanding, you are denied the power of words. Let no fault of language cleave an accord beyond that of people with any other beast - or even people with other people. Speak to your people only with your mind and through your honest eyes. 

"Walk by their sides; sleep in their doorways; forage for them; ward off their enemies; carry their burdens; share their afflictions; love them and comfort them. And it return for this, people will fulfill your needs and wants - which shall be only food, shelter and affection. 

"So be silent, and be a friend to people. Guide them along the way to this land that I have promised them. This shall be your destiny and your immortality." So spoke the Lord. 

And the dog heard and was content.

- excerpt from Vergil Holland's Herding Dogs 

Fulfilling his genetic destiny

There is something about me that you need to know...

I am a city girl.

It's true that I was born and raised in the country, and that for most of my life, my address was "P.O. Box 2" instead of an actual street name. It's true that I am no stranger to the smell of manure wafting from the barn. It's true that I can identify the grain being grown in a field by sight alone. And it's true that I thought overalls were highly fashionable until my 3rd year of university. (It might also be true that I accidentally dated my 2nd cousin in junior high, but that's the topic for a whole other blog...).

Equally true, however, is the fact that I left behind my humble bumpkin self 18 years ago when I moved to the city. And I haven't exactly felt the urge to move back. Once you've tasted Michael Kors, you can't go back to the General Store on Main Street, you know what I mean?

Yet there I was last Sunday morning, searching for Concession Road #10 in the middle of Glengarry-Prescott-Russell, when I would usually be sipping an over-priced coffee, made by some spoiled-brat-of-a-high-school-barrista at the neighbourhood Starbucks. What gives?

The Beast gives, that's what.

You see, I got it into my head quite a long time ago that Fergus would be an excellent sheep dog. How could he not be? His momma was a border collie, and his poppa was an Australian shepherd. Or maybe it was the other around, I don't really know. The point is, his lineage screams of herding. And sheep live in, well, herds.

All it took was a quick Google search to find Ewenique Farms. Not only is this a sheep farm - a mere 75km outside of Ottawa - but the owner breeds border collies as livestock dogs AND offers both herding evaluations and lessons. Hot-diggity-dawg! Sign me up!

So I sent her an e-mail, which went something like this:

"Hi! I notice that you offer herding evaluations. I have a 2-year old Aussie shepherd/border collie mix, and I'm always looking for new things to do to keep his mind busy so that he doesn't drive us crazy. And since he seems to like to herd all the dogs at the dog park, I thought we could give sheep-herding a try. Do you offer lessons on weekends?"

Part of me wonders if she rolled her eyes as she read it and thought to herself, "Oh great, another one of these spoiled, undisciplined city dogs and its silly human companion who doesn't know a thing about raising animals...." Well, maybe she did think that, but an evaluation is an extra $45 dollars in her pocket, regardless of the dog's ability (or lack thereof), so she very gracefully told me that she would love to meet my boy, and to bring him by on Sunday at 10:00 a.m.

And so on Sunday morning, I found myself loading the Beast into the car so that we could embark upon a little family outing at a sheep farm.

Now Fergus loves, and I mean LOVES, going for a car ride. I mean, look at this face? Doesn't that face say "There is no place that I would rather be than in the backseat of this car RIGHT NOW!!!!" He quite happily jumped into the car, and spent an hour panting, drooling, sniffing the fresh country air, and just being generally happy to be alive as we drove down winding roads to Concession Road #10. 

As we got closer and closer to the farm, some innate sense kicked in within the Beast, because he started whimpering and barking in his "I'm so excited that we're almost where ever it is that you are taking me and I can't wait until you stop this car and let me out RIGHT NOW" voice that words simply cannot describe. 

Of course, I interpreted this excitement as the Beast instinctively knowing that he was about to do what he was bred to do - kick some lamb ass! "Look honey," I said to Hubby. "He just knows where we are. I mean, he's never even seen a sheep and he is super excited to get out there and show us what he is made of!"

(Of course, the Beast makes the exact same noises and shows the exact same level of excitement when we pull into a gas station to fill up, but anyway...)

When we did pull into the driveway, Fergus was ready to bound out of the backseat like a rocket. Further proof that he instinctively knew that he was about to fulfill his genetic destiny by becoming the world's greatest city-dog-sheep-herder, I say. He barely even noticed the trainer when she came out of the house to meet us. He was simply too thrilled to notice anything other than the sheep-farm smells. Plus he was too busy peeing everywhere to mark this new place as his turf.

As we walked over to the sheep pen with the trainer, she sized the Beast up a little bit by asking us all about him. How old is he? How long have we had him? What's his history? Where does he come from? Why did we want to try sheep herding? We chatted for a few minutes, and then she said, "Okay then. Let's see what this boy can do."

She opened the gate, and there stood 7 or 8 ewes, all huddled together in the middle of the pen, being held there by the intense stare of her 4-year old Border collie, Nan. "Nan is here to help us," she explained. "If Fergus can't handle the sheep, or if he disperses the flock, you'll see Nan bring them all back together. Then you'll be able to see how it works with a fully trained working dog."

"As if Fergus isn't going to be able to do this," I thought to myself. 

And so off came the Beast's leash. As soon as I gave him the "Break!" command to release him from his sit, he went tearing off, straight towards the...

... other dog. To play and herd her. Like he was in a freaking dog park.

So the trainer called him towards the sheep. "Fergus, come." He actually listened, and came running toward her, until he got distracted by a great big pile of sheep shit, which he decided that he should taste before deciding to roll around in it. And he just went to the groomer's last week...

For about 2-3 minutes, the trainer tried to get him to focus on the sheep. But there were too many other things to do. Pee on the thorn bush. Try to get Nan to play again. Chew on a stick that he found in the middle of the pen. He was interested in everything except the sheep.

My heart actually began to sink a little. I leaned into Hubby and whispered, "What if our boy isn't any good at this?"

And then the trainer went into the flock, grabbed one of the ewes by the hind leg, and dragged her out. This caught Fergus' attention, and he tentatively came forward to take a sniff. But when the trainer dropped the ewe's leg so that she could go back to the others, the Beast resumed eating sheep shit. So the trainer grabbed at another ewe, and tried again. Only this time, when she let the sheep go, Fergus took off after it at top speed, directing her back to the flock.

And I let out a big "Whoop!!!!" 

As soon as Fergus realized that he was allowed to be interested in the sheep, nothing else mattered. He could not get enough of running circles around the flock, making sure that they all stayed together and, more importantly, that they all went wherever he wanted them to go. This was like the dog park on steroids, because unlike other dogs, these things completely followed his direction. The Beast just couldn't get enough of it!

After about five minutes of watching him run circles around the flock, we called him off for a break, and he literally collapsed in a gigantic, panting heap on the ground. Like this (although this picture wasn't actually taken at the sheep farm, this is exactly what he looked like):

As he rested and caught his breath, the trainer began to explain to us that Fergus definitely had the herding drive. In fact, he had already figured out that his main role was to "balance" the flock by keeping them all together. Many dogs simply went running straight into the middle of the flock to disperse them, but Fergus seemed to know that his job was to keep them together. The next step would be for him to do that without running circles around them, but simply by weaving back and forth behind them. "This," she said, "is the hardest part for most dogs. So watch me use this paddle to stop him from going around the flock and to get him to weave in the opposite direction."

Sure enough, as soon as Fergus was released from the down position, he immediately resumed his clock-wise circle around the sheep. Until the trainer redirected him with the paddle. The first couple of times, the Beast simple tore a wider circle and went around the paddle. But the third time, she tapped him lightly on the shoulder. He looked stunned for all of 2 seconds before he simply took off in the other direction. Just as he was about to circle the flock again, she put her paddle down in front of him, and without even a touch, Fergus weaved in the opposite direction. Within a couple of minutes, he had learned to weave back and forth behind the flock, without running laps around them, and without being redirected by the paddle.

It was incredible.

And I was viciously proud. "Baby!" I said to Hubby. "Look at our boy!!!  Look at how fast he is figuring this out!!! I just knew he was going to be good at this! I just knew it!!!"

(There might have been a tear glistening in the corner of my eye...)

Fergus got another break - and downed about half a litre of water - while the trainer gave us her assessment. "No doubt about it, you've got a good little herder there. When I first saw him, I could have sworn he was more Border collie than Aussie, but he herds like an Aussie. Notice how he runs upright, and how he uses his voice to move the sheep? Border collies slink down low and use their eyes. Whatever he is, he's going to be really good at this. We will work him a little bit more today, but we can definitely give him some lessons if you guys are interested."

So. Very. Proud.

She spent the next fifteen minutes or so teaching Hubby and I how to direct the Beast in the sheep pen. Suffice it to say that Fergus may be a natural, but this city girl is a little rusty when it comes to communing with the livestock. I probably need the lessons more than the Beast does...

And when the hour was over, Hubby and I had one exhausted sheepdog on our hands. Exhausted but completely exhilarated to have been given a "job" to do. So exhilarated that it would be cruel not to bring him back for another round.

So this city girl is probably going to find herself heading out to the country a little bit more often. To breathe in that fresh country air, and to give her dog the chance to satisfy his need to herd. And most importantly, to cheer him on like a ridiculously proud soccer mom.

That's love, baby!

In the meantime, a few snapshots of the Beast.

Not so interested in the sheep just yet. But there is some fresh sheep shit just over there...

Hey... When I get close, they move out of the way...

Woooohoooo! I love this job!!!

Trying desperately to stay awake during the car ride back home after a hard day at the office...

...and failing miserably