We lost a dog this week. Mo was clearly reaching the end a few weeks back, but his stubborn cow dog spirit hung on. I think the right call was made about his home hospice treatment. We certainly don’t believe in allowing animals to suffer. He would have been taken him in if we thought that to be the case. But, it also seemed unkind to take the dog of unknown age to vet to add whatever extension to his already full life.
Nobody knows how old Mo was. I came home one day in 2010 to very excited young boys bursting to tell me that Dad got a cow dog. (Side note, this is dog #1 in a series of four that entered our life without my involvement in the plan at all *heavy sigh). I expected a puppy, but was met with a fully grown character already set in his ways. Brian had talked to a person who’d had a dog. He went to see the dog. The dog promptly walked up to Brian, hiked his leg, and pissed on him. Thus, Mo became ours. Or, rather, we became his.
To be clear; though Mo’s resume said he was a great working dog, we didn’t see that.
Cow dogs are incredibly smart, so it’s most likely that his failure to be effective was on the humans. I’m pretty sure that if Mo had come with a Mo Owner’s Manual, things would have been better. There were a couple of clues that Mo had cheat codes that were just unknown to his keepers. One day Brian was working on something that was vexing him. He yelled out “Son of a Bitch!” Out of nowhere the largely antisocial Mo appeared at his side, sitting at attention with his tail wagging. Hmmm, MAYbe this is how his last human’s got him engaged (?)
He came on scene at a time chapter books were read aloud to and with the boys. Hank the Cow Dog was a favorite. Hank was the self proclaimed head of ranch security. Mo fit that mold. He was efficient at herding children. Barking, and nipping if he could. He was terribly fast. I yelled at him A LOT to leave kids alone. So that was cool. Nothing accompanies the soothing sounds of a barking dog quite like the gossamer winged screech of a worried mother.
It was learned the hard way that he was afraid of guns. He went on a redneck excursion. When the guns came out, he quietly and quickly ran several miles down Vestal Road. Vestal is remote to say the least. But Mo ran and ran and ran. I thought he was gone forever. There he was, in the middle of the dirt road, so far from where he’d left. Given just a little more time and he’d have hooked a right on 36 and took it east bound all the way back to Red Bluff.
He was pretty crotchety. He was mostly indifferent to the humans, unless he determined any needed herding. And he seemed generally irritated to be paired with the last chocolate, Dozer. He outlived that dog, then a few years back he got to be cranky about two new cow dogs (that also don’t work for shit). Maximus completed the crowd. You could almost see Mo sigh, shake his head, and roll his eyes at each new addition. It’s tough being the alpha. Gotta keep setting the pecking order in place. It’ll wear on a guy. Especially given that he was already “get off my lawn” years old when he came to live with us.
His short tolerance for frustration led to a pack inadvertently trained to bark like demon dogs at passer-bys (sorry neighbors, for real!). He was also responsible for there being a special plan in place to get the propane guy to agree to keep coming. It was all annoying as fuck, but I choose to believe that he did it because he thought it was his job. Cow dogs need jobs.
As he came up on short time, I would try not to act surprised to find him still with us when I’d let the dogs out each morning. I’d give him love. He was probably mad that he didn’t have the stamina to run away from me. I’d thank him for all that he’d done. I’d tell him that he’d done good work for us, and let him know it was okay to go. He never did give up. This week, he took the trip to the vet so that he could pass on. He was buried under an oak in with other veteran working dogs and companions. Even though he could take me or leave me, I will miss him.
Bifocals and Barbells 