The skies were clear as the sun flirted with the idea of peeking over the mountains to the east. Despite the cool of the early spring morning, it promised to be a beautiful day. As I stepped out of the pickup next to the loading chute, I could see the breath of the cattle in the adjacent pen hanging in the air as they began to mill about, eagerly anticipating the arrival of the feed truck. I sensed their slight disappointment that the only activity outside of the pens was me, just a guy in a pickup, and the two dogs that sauntered up to greet me, tails half-wagging and semi-trusting side-eyed dog smiles on their faces. I casually greeted the dogs and reached down to scratch their ears. One of them mostly ignored me as he turned and nonchalantly walked off. The dog who remained – the one I didn’t recognize – stuck around, tail wagging as he practically begged for more attention and affection.
I’d arrived at the feedlot to weigh the last load of heifers bound for slaughter. The truck was scheduled to arrive within the hour, and I expected Ken, the owner of the little feedyard where my cattle were, to show up any time to supervise the weighing and loading. I went about setting gates and balancing the scales as I waited for Ken. I wasn’t too concerned. I had arrived uncharacteristically early, and Ken, a soft-spoken and dry-witted cowman and farmer, was as reliable as the sunrise. As I opened the gate and entered the pen to gently persuade the cattle to head up the alley, and the heifers consequently and somewhat surprisingly began to file through the open gate, I noticed Ken casually walking around the corner, both of the aforementioned dogs in tow.
We got the cattle weighed without incident. I texted the dispatcher just to make sure the truck driver knew the correct address, and we leaned on the fence and enjoyed the rare idle moment and casual conversation. The dogs meandered up to where we were. I again almost subconsciously greeted them with whatever it is that I say to critters from whom I expect no answer. I reached down to scratch the ears of the apparent new dog and wondered aloud to Ken about the origins of this new member of the feedyard family.
“Hey, don’t give that mutt any encouragement,” Ken chided. “He’s not my dog and he doesn’t belong here.”
I stated the obvious when I mentioned that the friendly canine surely didn’t seem like an outcast or a stranger to the outfit. With a scoff and a strong dose of faux disgust and disdain, Ken relayed the story of the dog.
It seems a month or two earlier, this dog showed up at the yard one day. Ken, in his oddly lovable, irascible way, explained in detail of how he’d hollered at the dog to drive him away. He didn’t need or want a stray dog hanging around. When the verbal abuse proved ineffective, he offered some more incentive in the way of a shotgun blast fired in the dog’s general direction. The beast trotted off, and Ken gave the matter little thought. The next day, however, the dog showed up again. This time, with cautious confidence, he ventured close enough to be well within shotgun range. Ken warned him off with a greeting similar to the previous day. Again, the dog trotted off. On the third day, when the dog showed up again, Ken, for all his boastful machismo, thought it not quite sporting to shoot a dog at such close range, especially one who showed such moxie. When the dog, ever in search of some sign of affection from Ken, got too close, Ken would holler at him and shoo him away.
The dance continued on for several days, Ken discouraging the mutt from hanging around, the dog returning every day with a sad, hopeful and somehow cheerful gleam in his eye. Ken made sure to offer no encouragement, food or water to the dog, yet the dog persisted with his insistence that he’d found a new home. Eventually Ken softened, but only insomuch as he tolerated the dog. He certainly didn’t want the vagrant canine to think in any way that he had won this battle of wills – still, he admitted that he reluctantly admired the dog’s gentle tenacity. I assured Ken that his reputation was still intact. I never for one second believed that there was any tolerance or softness in his heart for a freeloading stranger.
The truck finally arrived and we got the cattle loaded and on their way without incident. We went to the office where I settled up with Ken on my sizable feed bill. Despite the sting of writing out a check for what to me was a grand chunk of cash, I was pleased with how the cattle had performed and was satisfied that I’d made enough money to try it all again.
As I got in my pickup and drove away, I glanced in my rearview mirror as Ken casually made his way to check the feedbunks, his erstwhile canine adversary following a few metres behind, not so close as to be a real nuisance but close enough to suggest that he belonged. I can’t be sure, but I’m pretty sure I noticed Ken glance behind him with a slight smile on his face, not to drive the dog away but just to make sure he was there.
