Analog SFF, July-August 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Alphie one of my best friends. Helmrick farm seriously fun place; spent considerable time there. Got to know Border Collies well; formed favorable impression.

  Confession (don't tell Terry): But for potential risk to featherheaded twin posed by sharing abode with 45 pounds of spring-steel- and sinew-powered, obsessive-compulsive canine with herding instincts generally operating at Warp Nine, might well have worked on Daddy to get me BC puppy of my own.

  Or, more likely, grownup rescuee. Weldon repeatedly told me would have given us Really Good Deal: his cost for one of his own pups—but free, if chose rescuee.

  Weldon had much in common with beloved breed: unreasoning, monomaniacal focus on joys of pursuit of one's passion. In his case, Border Collie ownership. In BCs’ case, monitoring/ controlling movement of any-/everything nonstationary, heading off any single critter departing from group, gathering scattered components of whatever description together in one place, sorted by related subgroups, etc.

  Weldon oblivious to demands in time, training, personal attention (beyond what most people could begin to devote) required to keep intrinsically hyperactive breed happily, constructively—i.e., nondestructively—occupied. Felt no one should be without BC of her very own; several would be better....

  True, without qualification, BCs are most intelligent quadrupeds have ever encountered. Not just my opinion; according to literature (as well as Weldon), dogs from good working bloodlines (as opposed to ruined, bred-for-pretty-only breedring types) have IQs comparable to five-year-old human children (mind-bogglingly focused five-year-old human children): capable of abstract reasoning, deducing answers from indirect evidence, operating independently once assigned projects. From own observations, never doubted assertion for a moment.

  However.

  Have also listened to many of Weldon's horror stories—"hilarious anecdotes,” in Weldonspeak—of consequences of permitting Border Collies to succumb to ennui; each tale delivered howling with laughter at inventiveness, originality—sheer scope of mischief involved...

  Narratives of owners who, upon waking from naps, found every single ball in entire house arranged in neat circle at feet. Or every kid in neighborhood tightly huddled in group at geometric center of front yard, most crying, all afraid to move. Or cats all clustered in living room corner, looking really outraged (yes, cats can be herded—by BCs).

  Another dog, who turned out to be outstanding herding prospect, ended up in Rescue shortly after purchase by misguided housewife-lady owner, who only wanted nice, quiet house pet, but had heard BCs were “really smart.” Two weeks after bringing home nice, quiet (really smart) house pet, at last having been worn down by dog's nonstop unblinking do-something-now stare (referred to by proud Border Collie cognoscente as The Eye—used by BCs to intimidate, work their will upon [i.e., bully] cows, sheep, goats, livestock generally [as well as cats, neighborhood children]), misguided owner put dog out in fenced backyard.

  Alone. In empty yard. With no toys.

  Nothing to do; nothing to hold interest—but especially no company; no one to play with...

  Owner returned hours later to find vinyl siding all removed from house's rear wall to uniform height of six feet. Apart from pulled-through nail-head holes, siding undamaged; just removed. And stacked.

  Likewise, bark stripped to same height from every tree within enclosure; found in separate pile next to stacked siding.

  Another farmer returned home to find barn completely jammed full of cows, with Border Collie still determinedly working to pack last few in.

  On one occasion Weldon offered absolutely straight-faced opinion: Crop circles actually product of BCs relieving boredom.

  And, of course, standard response to “How many Border Collies does it take to change a light bulb?”

  “Only one; but while he's at it, he'll take out the garbage, empty the vacuum, defrost the freezer, repaint your house, upgrade your wiring, and defrag your hard-drive.”

  * * * *

  This Border Collie regarded me with almost sapiently aware, analytical expression, hyperalert intensity, joyous expectation of Good Things to Come typical of sound working bloodlines.

  Reached out hand, allowed dog to sniff knuckles. Then offered caress followed by scritch.

  At first touch, dog trembled momentarily. Then moved forward, pressed against me. Lowered head into lap. Trembled again. Sighed.

  Then whimpered.

  Well...

  No one who knows Yours Truly could have any doubt what happened next: Plucky Girl Adventurer dissolved; dog and I shared good cry together over her long-lost family. Held close, scritched, stroked her all over. (Her status confirmed during tummy rubs.)

  Presently managed to get self together sufficiently to grope for, locate big, six-cell Maglight. Reset 38,000-candlepower beam from spot to flood.

  Inspected collar detected during snuggle session. Unsurprisingly, proved to be high-quality (i.e., expensive) leather, with brass plate, reading...

  Fairwinds’ Bagpipe

  Supercharged Magneto

  Ch OTCh, HCh, MAX, ATCh, TDX, TD

  “Well, look at you,” I snuffled damply into dog's ear, reveling in sensation of marvelously soft coat against cheek. “A celebrity overachiever: Breedring, obedience, herding—well, duh about that!—agility, tracking, even therapy, and, surprise, a champion at everything you do. So what's your calling name, sweetie? Magneto—did they call you ‘Maggie'?”

  “Maggie” lifted head; focused The Eye upon me with unblinking, suddenly mounting intensity. Opened mouth slightly, uttered soft, almost unvocalized bark.

  “Ah-hah,"I replied; “'Maggie’ it is.”

  BC stood, The Eye intensifying further.

  “So what have you been eating all this time, Maggie? Are you hungry? I feel ribs, but there's some meat on them, so obviously you're not starving. To stay even that well fed, I'll bet you're a terrific mouser and death on rabbits. Let's see what we can find in the canned, not-running-for-its-life section...”

  Took Frisbee from lap, set to one side; stood. Maggie snatched it up, backed up one step, watched intently. Began to drool.

  Rummaged through supplies; dug out can of turkey Spam (no sneering, please; turkey variety actually pretty tasty). Removed lid, extracted contents onto paper plate, set on ground before her.

  Maggie sat; directed The Eye up at me expectantly. Then more intently. Expression grew concerned, then acquired overtones of outright worry.

  Suddenly light dawned: Sometimes Weldon trained dogs to wait for permission; sometimes not. Individual decisions generally based upon dogs’ intensity levels; in particular, whether setting down dishes involved risk of fingers being swallowed along with first mouthfuls of food. Other breeder/trainers merely considered it investment in canine good manners.

  Stroked head, said, “Okay, Maggie; take it.” Though a guess, must have been right words, or at least combination included enough of them to appease hungry dog's conscience. She offered single appreciative wave of tail, carefully set Frisbee down next to plate—then didn't so much eat as inhaled contents.

  Improvised water dish for her from Frisbee. She drank gratefully. Then glanced up at me, picked up Frisbee, dumping remaining few drops. Walked back to my side, lay down. Set down Frisbee. Then watched me.

  Eyed her thoughtfully in return. Clearly Maggie brilliant, superlatively trained dog. Could be significant asset on sortie like this—though figuring out what cues original owner used in training could prove challenge, given fact that BCs routinely learned upward of 75 individual commands, verbal as well as hand signals.

  But also presented complications. For instance, air travel—on longer legs, with autopilot engaged, Intrepid Girl Flying Ace could use onboard potty located in tiny lavatory at extreme rear. Maggie could not. Her endurance levels might well cap flight durations. Plus would need to add appropriate canine food supplies to larder.

  Not to mention worrying about her when on ground, lest she get in trouble with local
wildlife—or even inadvertently betray me to Khraniteli once we get there...

  Decided to give it a shot in morning, using some of Weldon's standard commands: come, sit, down, heel, stay, go out, to me, etc., along with usual related hand signals.

  Then could decide whether to keep her.

  Was on point of inviting her inside plane for night when it occurred to me: Didn't even know if new four-legged friend housebroken—having just eaten, drunk, might well, as Terry so colorfully expresses it, perform icky-pooh or piddle during night. Given physical perfection, obvious training levels, seemed unlikely in extreme; but if by-products managed to seep below deck, where couldn't be reached for cleanup, would not improve plane's ambiance during balance of trip.

  Glanced around; noted weather: lovely cool, clear night. Decided would sleep outside with her under wing. If still around come morning, would get serious about making up mind.

  Pulled out sleeping bag, unrolled, slid inside, cushioned head on pair of folded jeans.

  Glanced at BC. Seemingly before “Maggie, here,” cleared lips, dog already in motion: Glided over, moving in that marvelously slinky, head-low, feral gait characteristic of breed.

  She lay down close, leaned against me. Put arm over her. She sighed.

  Briefly got all teary-eyed again, thinking about how long pup had been on her own, missing her people, after humanity vanished. Poor baby.

  Maggie pressed against me, closed eyes, whimpered briefly, sighed again.

  * * * *

  Indescribably frightful chorus of growls yanked me unceremoniously from dream-free depths of soundest sleep. Found self sitting bolt upright; eyes wide, staring, trying to focus; head snapping right, left, mentally scrambling to collect widely dispersed wits.

  Slightly bloated half-moon had set long since; even darker now—but could make out half-circle of black silhouettes made somehow darker-looking by faint infrared glow highlighting noses, triangles of almost bare skin along edges of pricked ears, eyelids outlining occasional baleful, greenish-yellow flicker. Beasties, whatever they were, glided back, forth some 20, 30 feet away.

  And between them and me—Maggie: head down, shoulders hunched, looking twice actual size; shifting slightly back, forth; always between closest marauder and me—and making even worse noises than they were.

  Eased Glock from low-slung, tied-down, special-ops (personally, regard it as “Lara Croft-style"), carbon-fiber holster as slid out of sleeping bag, mentally apologizing to weapon for earlier uncomplimentary sentiments regarding discomfort intrinsic to wearing heavy, lumpy thing to bed.

  (Yes, small-frame Model 23 is better fit for 11-year-old's hand than Grownups’ Gun, but even small pistol conclusively bars sleeping on that side, and not much more helpful turning over that direction. Not that silencer in fitted scabbard on other side likely to be mistaken for comfy improvement...)

  Groped for Maglight with left hand, gratefully recalling hadn't reset from wide-beam—much more useful at close quarters than spot. Flipped switch as rose to feet.

  Dazzlingly white quartz-xenon flood bloomed out, picking out scene's every detail in starkest contrast: Five Big Bads, eyes glowing bright yellow-green in light—even smallest wolf twice Maggie's size, but she never wavered, never retreated single step toward me.

  One round in chamber, 15 in extended clip. Decided to risk single warning shot, in hopes flash, bang, sudden explosion of soil beneath leader's nose would disconcert, inspire her/him to lead pack away, seek more cooperative larder.

  Because really preferred not to kill wolves if could avoid. Exemplary, mating-for-life, environmentally beneficial species. Excellent parents; take equally good care of own, each others’ children.

  And not withstanding childhood lore, not wanton mass murderers of grandmothers or red-hooded children. Generally cull herds; take older, sicker, weaker specimens, or less-well-cared-for babies. (Hello, wolves!—do we look like any of above?) Actually, primary diet consists of mice.

  Had no intentions, however, of participating in menu variation. Nor permitting Maggie to.

  Seemed words barely forming on lips—"Maggie, here!"—before felt BC pressing against leg; simultaneously squeezed off shot at dirt just below leader's nose.

  Hydra-Shok 40-caliber slug drilled into soil, expanded in mere inches’ penetration to nearly ten times original diameter. Only direction energy could go at that point was straight up.

  Dirt exploded into wolf's face, traveling at many tens of feet per second. Undoubtedly broke skin dozens of places; no doubt burned like dickens.

  Regardless, whether because of muzzle flash, pistol's roar, or landmine effect under nose, leader yelped, leaped back.

  Instantly I jumped forward to capitalize on broken concentration, yelling universally recognized sound of maternal disapproval—"Aaaah!"—and squeezed off two more earth-boring rounds under noses of next largest and/or most aggressive specimens.

  Success: Attack terminated. Wolves broke off; retreated back across airfield toward woods on far side.

  Dropped to knees, gathered Maggie in arms. Hugged trembling form; scritched The Place; rubbed/stroked head, ears, tummy; generally praised her to high heavens for saving skin. Was rewarded by appreciative slurp up cheek, happily wagging tail.

  * * * *

  Well, all righty then ... One-woman Eurasian supercontinent invasion force may learn slowly, but not complete dunce. Gathered up camping gear, tossed into plane. Threw sleeping bag in through door.

  Turned back toward Maggie, intending to lift her aboard (door sill easily four feet off ground), only to watch her soar effortlessly over my shoulder, in through opening, carrying Frisbee. By the time managed to swing self aboard, Maggie sitting smugly in midst of tumbled sleeping bag, tongue lolling in doggie grin.

  Closed, secured door. Checked time. Only two a.m.; lots of quality sleeping time ahead.

  Pulled bag from under Maggie; BC heroine thought procedure quite funny: Briefly crouched, pounced, tail wagging.

  Only belatedly did happy thought occur to me: Maggie not gun-shy; warm pressure against leg never so much as twitched in reaction to Glock's repeated thunderclaps.

  However, first things first: Before climbing into sleeping bag, popped out weapon's magazine. Used cute little Glock-supplied, patented pry-tool to squeeze in replacement rounds. Slapped magazine back up into gun butt.

  Debated briefly. Only three rounds used. With any luck, would be half past forever before needed to fire weapon again. However, combustion products, barrel deposits should not be allowed to fester. Decided to field-strip, clean in morning. Slid weapon back into holster.

  Then dug out M-1 carbine. Older weapon, but fits me better than more modern AR family. And for normal shooting (i.e., targets this side of horizon), prefer it to giant, much heavier, Barrett 50-caliber super sniper rifle.

  Duct-taped two 30-round magazines together side-by-side, ends reversed, overlapping. Slid one end up into receiver. Yanked slide to charge chamber. Set safety. Placed weapon next to sleeping bag. Close.

  Then slid in—and suddenly, without seeming to have moved, somehow Maggie lying next to me again, pressed close, chin resting on shoulder. Put arm over her. So close, could feel quivering, panting from residual fear, excitement, adrenaline.

  Which pretty much summed up own feelings. Quite some time before fell back to sleep, holding My Dog....

  * * * *

  Day II (Officially)

  Felt all cozy and not-alone this morning as drifted up from slumber. Noted that, though Maggie still snuggled against side, under arm, dog's chin no longer rested on shoulder.

  Suppressed smile. From Weldon farm experience, knew where chin was; knew what awaited me upon opening eyes.

  Tried to get away with squinty cheat-peek, but didn't work. Very instant eyelids quivered—busted: Maggie kissed me squarely on nose; prevented from expanding attentions only by quick head-turn, deployment of blocking/ scritching hand.

  Opened eyes fully to meet spooky, pale-blue, del
ighted canine gaze regarding me from six inches away. Unblinkingly. Intensely. Just short of manically.

  Classic example of The Eye, trying to get me to get up! Do something! Visible over BC's shoulder, happy tail waved gracefully.

  Maggie definitely morning person.

  (Though if anything like Border Collies of previous acquaintance, also afternoon person, evening person, night person...)

  Before opening door, retrieved M-1. Told Maggie “Wait"; exited first. Performed quick 360-degree scan to make sure wolves not having second thoughts about breakfast. Heard Maggie's feet hit ground behind me as got to ohk point in “okay"—and marveled: BC's response time nothing less than incredible.

  We adjourned to adjacent bushes. Smiled over Maggie's uncaninely modesty. Then realized: Following wolf encounter, had completely forgotten housebreaking issue. Nice to know would not be issue.

  Shared some more turkey Spam for breakfast: One can for new mommy, one for no-doubt-soon-to-be-spoiled-rotten kid sister. (Yes, human/dog familial references do tend to be confusing—or, if one thinks about them too deeply, downright disturbing.)

  Used Maggie's Frisbee for water dish again. She drank, but quickly snatched up when done, dumping balance.

  Eyed her thoughtfully. “You're really attached to that thing, aren't you.”

  BC spun, fixed me intensely with The Eye, projecting: Do it! Debated; seemed likely object of stare was she hoped big sister would throw Frisbee for her. Began, “Would you—”

  Only to find dog already had executed perfectly aligned front-and-center, “tucked” sit (resembling four-legged version of stiffly “braced” ten-hutttt! posture so beloved by dearly departed military establishments), front toenails barely six inches from Reeboks. Arrival comprised of single, eye-blurring, twisting bound.

  Nudged me in leg with Frisbee. The Eye intensified, sparkled. Tail wagged.

  Grinned down at her. “I'll interpret that as a ‘yes.'”

  Accepted proffered disk. Then wondered about her usual Frisbee drill. Did previous owner start her from heel—

  Another blur; Maggie now sitting at right side, again perfectly lined up, but also leaning forward, almost quivering in anticipation.