Her name is Gabby. She is loosely named after the antagonist-turned-respectable doll in Toy Story 4. Before I had kids, a co-worker offhandedly told me that all their pets came “pre-named.” She never let her kids choose the name of any kitten, dog, hamster or fish that graced their household. Otherwise, the kitten would be Oreo Cookie and the golden retriever would be Taco.
I’ve taken that comment as a cherished piece of parenting advice. Our pets are pre-named, and I do the naming. But then I don’t stick to my advice. Our border collie is Gabby, but she has a lot of names – Gabby for every day, Gabby-Gabby for formal occasions, Princess Gabriella when I’m feeling fancy, and The Gabster when I want to be funny. My 7-year-old girl hates my nicknames for her precious Gabby. “Mom, don’t call her that,” she whines, stomping her foot. “Her name is Gabby.”
Gabby is a good girl. True to her breed, she is whip-smart, but we’ve failed to help her reach her potential. She has taken to our half-hearted attempts to train her like a cow to the pasture – though, like any intelligent dog with a lick of training and a lazy master, she listens only when she pleases. She is just coming on 2, and I’m again trying to give her some manners.
She has all the best instincts of a cow dog. She has that border collie eye that will intimidate the cows into behavior – just not always the behavior we want from them. She will crouch near the front of the squeeze chute at the right angle to catch the cow's eye. They will freeze, and under no motivation will they enter that chute with Gabby staring them down. Then we, the higher creatures of the trio, are working against the instincts of two primitives, neither willing to budge. She needs some instruction, or I will have to bar her from the cows altogether.
I’ve started cow dog training – but she needs to know the basics better. She does “sit” fine and knows “stay” but isn’t disciplined with it. I’m struggling with “down.” There is some confusion about the wording. She seems to believe that it means roll over. When I say “down,” she takes it as permission to roll onto her back and show me her belly, hoping for some belly rubs. I think this comes from the kids doting on Gabby and rubbing her belly to see her back paw paddle the air.
Her favorite command, by far, is “load up.” I’m trying to distinguish between “load up” and “get in,” but again, she is confused. I want “load up" to mean jump in the truck bed and “get in” as permission to get in the cab of the truck or trunk of my hatchback. I think she knows the difference but overwhelmingly prefers to be in the cab, so she ignores it as it pleases her. The girl loves going for a ride. She now believes she doesn’t need permission or the command to take it upon herself to “load up.” A truck door is open; she is in. The hatchback is up – she is there, as stealthy as can be.
It’s gotten bad. No car, truck or SUV is safe near Gabby, regardless of the driver. A couple of weeks ago, a friend came by to pick up some chicks she’d bought from a bunch we’d hatched out. She lifted the hatchback of her SUV, and without anybody noticing, Gabby loaded up, jumped over the back seat and took up residence on the floor.
The friend finished her business with us and headed home. Nobody noticed anything was amiss until her daughter, asleep in the backseat, started crying because a dog was licking her face – and not her dog – our dog, sweet Gabby-Gabby, who only knows a friend. Our friend called us to break the news of the stowaway, and my husband ran over to their place to pick up Gabby. When he pulled into their driveway, Gabby was so happy to see him she came running right up, wagging her tail and looking just like Princess Gabriella.
Cow dogs. Too smart for their own good.
