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SANDY, THE WORKING DOG by B.J. Cassady "DeWayne, DeWayne!" my uncle would shout from his room at 5am every morning.
"Yes," replied his son.
"Time to get up," countered my uncle.
"Melissa..." The process would repeat itself.
"Bobby!" It was my turn. I was called Bobby as a child even though my legal full name is B.J. I guess my uncle called me Bobby because my father's name was Bob.
So started each and every morning on the farm. DeWayne would fire up the propane heater in the living room where we would huddle around it warming our clothes and ourselves. My job, as the youngest, would entail going to the front door and shouting, "Sandy, Sandy, fetch the cattle!"
While we were getting our warm work clothes on, Sandy -- the mixed breed medium sized dog -- would run t! owards the barn and jump over the corral fence, head off to the pasture and walk the cattle in to the corral.
DeWayne would go to the barn first and open the gate from the pasture to the corral. Melissa would gather the buckets used for milking, and I would gather the milk can and put the filters in it after I pumped the "holding can" full of water to keep the milk can cool.
My aunt would be starting breakfast while my uncle and the rest of us would be feeding the hens, doing small work and waiting on Sandy to bring the cattle in. The cattle would lumber into the corral while Sandy herded them gently nipping at their feet.
My uncle would bring in four cattle at a time into the barn to milk. Their heads would be constrained while the milking was being done. The splat of the milk hitting the bottom of the milk buckets is a sound I will not forget! . If the cats got to close a quick kick sent them out of! the way.
After a short while, the cows would be milked and the bucket would be poured into the larger milk can. The filter would separate off the crud from the milk.
After washing our hands we would hit the breakfast table and eat our sausages, oatmeal and chase it down with a still warm glass of milk. If you've ever done this and tasted the bitter taste of cows that have eaten what we called "milk weed," you know what I'm talking about.
I was always impressed with Sandy. How did she know how to walk the cattle? She basically took care of herself, and enjoyed playing with me. She craved a person's touch.
I guess about 12 summers had passed when I asked my uncle, "Where's Sandy?"
"Did you check her bed?" he replied.
Her bed was just a pile of rags on the warmer side of the garage. I found her there. She had died during the night. Old age, I guess.
I remember the last couple of years she couldn't jump over the fence anymore, but had to crawl under it. But she still did her job.
Rest well, Sandy. Here's hoping I will see you one day in heaven.

B.J. Cassady <bj.cassady @ af-group.com>
 

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