The Trefoil Muse

Many people like to romanticize the good old days – truth is times were hard back then.  When my Mother was a little girl, her family lived on the CC Ranch southwest of Nanton, Alberta.  The Ranch, situated on Willow Creek was silhouetted by the wild and beautiful Rocky Mountains. The land was filled with bush and farther in towards the mountain was thick timber.  Visitors to the ranch were a rarity. Her writing tells of a time not so long ago when many people still relied on horsepower, grit and man’s best friend to survive.  With that being said, I hope you enjoy the following story based in the wild and untamed Alberta Foothills that she loved:

Dawg

By: J.V. Andrus  

Slowly across the top of a hazy hill came a weary rider pushing along a small, shaggy herd of long horns.  A white dog followed on the heels of the rider. Occasionally from behind, the white dog eased up alongside the long horns to press curious calves back into the herd then he’d fall back into line with the dozing rider.  The little group descended the hill down into a small valley lush with a carpet of thick green grass. 

This was as good a place as any to spend a hot afternoon, the rider thought as he eased himself out of the saddle.  He loosened the cinch, dropped the bridle reins and leaned back against the trunk of a huge tree whose branches draped low over the mouth of a stream that bubbled around a rock bank nearby. 

Through half closed eyes he surveyed his herd. 

After drinking from the stream the long horns began to graze from the thick green grass of the flat valley and began picking their way along the low lying hills.

A few feet away, the white dog lay panting; his long tongue lulled out from the side of his mouth and from the end of it dripped saliva.  His huge soft brown eyes held the man’s gaze; ever so gently, his tail swayed back and forth.

Without uttering a word, the puncher butted a cigarette which had been hanging from the corner of his lips and eased down into the warm sunshine.  With the heat of the sun now on him, he slept.

The dog’s quick glance around took him to the top of the hill where a red and white bull was heading for the timber just beyond the rise.  One short bark brought the bull to a skidding halt. He had tangled with this dog many times in his two years and the bark set him trembling with fear.  The rest of the herd bunched quickly; the cows diving for their half grown calves while throwing quick glances here and there to catch sight of the vicious dog who’d bit at their heels with razor sharp teeth until he drew blood. He’d even brought down the most disobedient of them who dared fight back by latching onto their tender noses with a vice like grip until they bent to their knees and bawled in pain.  The bull had learned the hard way not to tangle with the vicious white dog.

The afternoon wore on and the cattle grazed watchfully staying close together while the dog moved about them sharp-eyed and alert.

Stretching his full length, the tall cowboy whistled for his grazing horse.  He jerked up the cinch, drug his long frame into the saddle and fell in behind the herd once more moving them out without effort.  He would return to his cabin several miles away, corral the animals for the night and light out again the next morning herding them with the help of the dog each day.

To his surprise though, he was suddenly in the center of ranch buildings and a friendly voice was calling to him from the house.

“Get down off your horse and come in.  Supper’s on the table.”

Stepping down from his horse, he gripped the outstretched hand.

“Slim Sonnie,”

“Andrew Fox,” answered the puncher in his slightly English accent.

The two men entered the house while the dog dropped down behind the rider’s horse.

The dog was six years old and for those six years the puncher had been his only human companion.

The man fed the dog but never had he stroked its long fur. He spoke to the dog only to order him to work.  He referred to him only as, “Dawg.”

Half an hour later, the dog leaped to his feet.  Strange sounds brought the hair bristling along his back and down his tail.

Little children bubbled out of the house and spilled into the yard.  Their happy voices ringing through the air like the tinkling of little bells.  In one bound, the dog was among them to the horror of Andy Fox.  This dog had never seen children before.  He was a vicious cattle dog.  What should he do?

The white cattle dog was seized with sudden joy.  He jumped and barked and bounded amongst them trembling and wagging his tail so violently that his whole body shook.

“Damn fool dog,” the puncher muttered, “never seen him act so!”

Once again astride of his big bay horse, Andy made a sweeping motion with his arm indicating the grazing cattle which had crossed the swift flowing Willow Creek and were picking their way through the scrub willows on the far side.

The surprised family and ranch hands watched as the dog sailed over the high yard fence, crossed the creek and with one short bark began gathering the already bunching cattle.  Cows, calves and bull hit the clearing together.  With a farewell salute, the rider and his herd disappeared over the hill with the white dog.

Before long, hot lazy days of summer faded into the cool, crispness of fall and then to winter; Andrew Fox no longer herded his rangy long horns to greener pastures on the other side of the mountain having returned to his own home ranch as the first snow of winter began fluttering to the ground.  Dawg’s work was done until the winter thaw. From where he lay beside the shack, Dawg became restless and shifted his position many times.  Soft whimpers escaped from the blunt little nose. His huge brown eyes were deep with sorrow.  His long ears drooped down.  Little evidence of his collie breeding showed through for among his ancestors was a huge and loveable Saint Bernard sire.

Moved by a sudden compulsion, Dawg leaped up, bounded amongst the timber and disappeared.

Andy never set eyes on Dawg again.  He figured the dog had gone into the woods to die.  The old dog’s cattle instincts had vanished and he’d been sick since summer – gone soft.  Andy scratched his head, suddenly deep in thought.  Them damned ranch kids had probably infected the dog with something or another; he’d never been the same since.  The dog was better off dead.  He had no use for a dog that couldn’t work cattle.

Big flakes of snow caked the white dog’s fur as he broke through the timber and onto the valley floor. He bounded through drifts chest deep to get to the place longing and instinct drove him toward.  It was a place with warmth and laughter. He could see the house ahead.  A yellow glow illuminated the frosty windows. He bounded up the steps and scratched viciously at the door.

When it opened he leapt on to a small warm body knocking it backward.  He started by first burying his ice cold nose into its neck and then furiously licking its face. Overjoyed, he attempted not to wriggle out of his white shaggy, snow-caked skin as he now bounced around the accompanying children who’d entered the room.

“Why it’s old Andy…,” a little girl giggled unable to finish her sentence as Dawg’s pink tongue slathered across her face.  It didn’t matter to Dawg that she was trying to say he was old Andy’s dog.  He had already decided these people were his family and it would be his choice to stay.  They fed him a heap of pancakes with bacon drenched in fresh milk for breakfast.  The food warmed his cold body. They dubbed him Old Andy.  It made no mind to him what he was called. He had traveled over a hundred cold, miserable miles to make it back home to this family.

After breakfast, they got him a blanket and placed it in front of the fireplace.  There Old Andy laid, quietly moving his tail back and forth as he watched his family with alert, gentle brown eyes. It was Christmas Day, 1938.

Merry Christmas and all the best in 2023!

Thank-you for following, reading, sharing and commenting – The Trefoil Muse