I am at my desk early this morning but not because of new-found writing discipline. No, it’s the new first-light barking outbreaks of the guy in the office doorway, Cowboy 2, a heeler-Aussie cross who formerly let me sleep in and enjoy morning peace and quiet.
I don’t know whether his deal is hormones, circadian rhythm or yipping by a distant canine only he can hear.
I have seen a young coyote drift across our hillside like he owns the place several mornings in a row but that’s business as usual around here. Rabbits eat breakfast outside the bedroom windows. I have seen no evidence of mice and I’ve been careful to keep lizards out of the house. I haven’t changed the rescue fellow’s twice-a-day feeding schedule and he doesn’t expect treats. He chases birds and squirrels from his walled-in yard. But the last week of uncontrollable barking from 6 to 8 am has me confounded and kept me from any extra sleep.
This is one of those morning when I tried to sleep past dawn. I slept through part of the World Cup final Sunday, possibly exhausted from trying to figure out the rules, and dozed off before “Grantchester” after pasta for dinner. I ended up taking another crack at an annoyingly clever Sunday New York Times crossword at 3 am — I still don’t get the central clue, “Raising Capital” — and finally climbed into bed just before 5. I probably could have slept a little past the first light, about an hour later, when Cowboy 2 bolted for the dog door like a middle linebacker charging a lonely quarterback.
I acknowledge I have been waking regularly right around 6 this summer. I suppose it could be circadian rhythm and MST. But since retirement I like to have a couple of cups of coffee, watch the birds and read the papers online before I launch into my office or the outer world.
Cowboy 2, having nothing else to herd, bursts toward the wall at the sight of house finches or canyon towhees, the most predictable of early morning visitors, but ordinarily I can calm him down and keep him quiet. It’s been different for about the last week with my guy exploding through his dog door at first light, then yipping incessantly, nose to the ground, trailing around the yard or house if I shut him in.
I have a feeling it’s a phase, maybe the circadian thing. I don’t think he’s crazy, though heelers in my experience certainly have minds of their own.
When I say Cowboy 2 has nothing but imaginary — or so I think — antagonists or charges to herd, I am in part referring to the different traits of my last three dogs, either heelers or Aussie. I am different too as I near 77 of age and 34 years at Dream Ranch.
Cowboy 2 is the most gentle and formerly was the quietest dog I’ve ever had but recently seems to feel what I sometimes suspect is coyote heritage. Cooper, the Aussie guy, taught me about walkabouts and had terrible panics over thunder and lightning. Nothing bothered Cowboy 1 except me sitting around. He dragged my ass all over these hills from the day a veterinarian friend, who thought I needed to keep moving after Cooper’s passing, said with a wink, “I think I have a dog for you.” I am fortunate to have 197 acres of BLM land just out my front door and with the first four dogs here, when I was more spry, I would hit the trail with them first thing in the morning, usually at night too.
Above, left to right: Cooper shading up on a walk; Cowboy 1 telling me it’s time to go; and Cowboy 2 quiet this morning after being shut in the office with me, though he does have his own chair.
It was much different story with my first two dogs in this place, Sadie and Molly. There were few houses and not many people around then. I let them run free. Nearby creeks ran then too. Sadie and Molly would take dips whenever they wanted to cool off. The only people they chased were a neighbor who drove a white pickup with stake sides for her own two dogs and the ER doctor husband of the local dentist, who sometimes rode by on a white horse, bareheaded of course.
dream ranch 