Dirty Blue Heeler

THIRTY MINUTES BEFORE sunset – the golden hour for photos and exercising cow-dogs. The plan was to take the Jeep to Bobcat Landing and let Dirt swim in the swampy black river and practice herding alligators. “Jeep,” I say to Dirt. He lets out a screeching bark, runs out back, and jumps in the passenger seat. We crank the CJ and the Allman Brothers and just when I eased out the clutch, I realized I forgot the road beers. I threw it in neutral and cranked the volume so I could keep listening to Gregg while I stocked up. “You’re my blue sky, you’re my sunny day…” I hummed along, kept the front door open, and reached in the back of the fridge to grab two, mountain blue, Coors Lights. “Dirt! That’s enough!” I hollered, while I stared at a piece of old fried chicken on the top shelf in the fridge. I could hear he was messing with something. A lizard, I assumed. But he quickly went into his half-growl, half-high-pitched screeching bark, typically only reserved for herding armadillos or nipping ex-girlfriends. SUBSCRIBE TO OUR WEEKLY STORIES HERE: dirtyblueheeler.com

TINYA HAS SAVED, watched, trained, put-down, and raised more dogs than most of us will ever come into contact with in our lifetime. Her dogs are her family. And the dogs she lets stay with her become part of that family, too.  I texted her, “6min.” I know I shouldn’t have since I was driving, but I hadn’t seen the boys in two weeks and I was giddy. Yea, I get giddy.  When you give her the proper heads up, she’ll have all their “stuff” (food, leashes, etc.) waiting at the gate.  I whipped into the entrance and dang near hit the gate with my bumper. Their “stuff” is waiting, just as expected, along with eight to ten other dogs, but Dirt and Mud are still in the house—a hundred yards or so up the drive.

I SAT IN his lap as he drove down the dirt driveway in the opposite direction of the only house I’d ever known. I watched from the window of his truck as the place I spent my first eight weeks of life faded out of view. It hit me, that I better imprint this guy’s face to my tiny little brain since he was my only connection back to the only place I’d ever known. So I jumped from the passenger seat into his lap. As I sat under his stretched out arms that led to the steering wheel, I turned my head towards his face and stared in his eyes. I noted all the features of his face. The shape of his head. His incredibly gorgeous hair and his terrible attempt at a confident smile. I didn’t take my eyes off him until I was positive, I would not soon forget his face.

DOG PARKS ARE fascinating. Little plots of abandoned real estate lined by a fence all thanks to yours truly, the taxpayer. In theory, they sound like a great idea, but Dirt is not a big fan, and neither is his dad. To a herding dog like Dirt, anything deemed as un-organized is chaotic and overwhelming, and a dog park is pretty much nothing more than a designated place for unorganized canine chaos. It wasn’t long before Dirt and I got sick of the doodlers being all up in our business and we decided to find other places to exercise. Without giving away all our secrets, public schools tend to have some of the best-kept soccer and baseball fields around, not to mention phenomenal jungle gyms.