Jock was an old farm dog. His only work was to lay in front of the chicken house, guarding the hens from sly foxes. He slept in the barn at night, fed a morning meal after which he slowly walked to the chicken house where he flopped onto a bed of thick straw. It wasn’t unusual at all to see a hen or two standing on Jock, clucking away all the barnyard gossip in his ear. He didn’t care. It was warm in the sunshine, his tummy was full, his humans were nice to him. Life was good.

The only drawback was the pesky noisy rooster. Jock taught him the rules of the barnyard. Simply, I am bigger than you, so get your tail feathers out of my corner. After being chased a time or two by the big lump of a dog, the cocky rooster was happy to oblige.

Spring had arrived with green grass, lambs and calves running in the pasture, bugs galore for the chickens to eat. It would turn out to be a season that Jock would never forget, if dogs indeed have memories of such things.

He had taken his usual place in front of the chicken house on his bed of straw. The sun was hot, a good time to snooze. His sleep was interrupted several times by a loud peeping noise. His nose had an itch, he felt small bumps against his body. Crankily he lifted his head, and found himself looking at a baby chick. Not just one, several were gathered around his body. He stood up, walked to the shade of a tree, the chicks followed. The second he lowered his bulk to the ground, the baby’s gathered ’round him.

Jock tried growling, that didn’t work. He worked up enough energy to bark. The chicks continued to peep, pushing under his shaggy coat, gathered in a fluffy bundle. As they warmed, they nodded off. Jock gave up. If the noisy things wanted to be near him, it was okay. At least they had the smarts to sleep.

For whatever reason, the chicks didn’t seem to have mother around when they hatched. It was a classic case of imprinting. The first thing the chicks saw when they hatched, was Jock. He became ‘mama.’

The farmers wife was a bit astonished to see Jock with his new family. She never expected any of the chicks to survive. At night when Jock hauled himself out to the warm barn, his babies followed, peeping, tripping over each other in their hurry to keep ‘mama’ in sight.

Jock was a patient old dog. Nothing much bothered him. After his first growl, then barking didn’t scare the tiny balls of fluff away, he placidly accepted the chicks. They huddled under his long shaggy coat druing the night. When one chick seemed to be lost, the old boy nudged it with his nose to join the rest.

And so it went. The babies stayed close to the dog. If he took a walk around the farm, they toddled right behing him. As they grew their pin feathers, the birds started to venture further away. By the time summer had reached a peak, they were full fledged hens. Even so, they wanted to be with Jock. He didn’t sleep as much, being too busy watching his feathered family.

Jock used to watch his human’s children. When he was no longer needed, he had nothing to do but sleep. Until he became a ‘mama.’ He had a purpose again. It felt good to be the protector of something small and helpless. What a grand way for an old dog to live!

We had been warned so many times. Don’t try and make an igloo or it might cave in on you. As kids, our thinking was, if the Eskimo’s did it, why can’t we? My huge army of cousins and myself had all been sent out to play, while the adults visited. Being kids, the first thing we were told not to do, we did. We also had Gertie, some sort of small dog that had very short legs, lots of fur, and was in costant motion.

Outside we trouped, went around the corner of the big old barn, with the idea of making a igloo. As we worked we talked about how anyone could possible live in a snow house during the winter. The older boys used a shovel to cut out blocks of snow. It didn’t take long before we had the walls up over our heads. Gertie was barking, running in circles, biting snowballs, in her own way having as much fun as we were.

The tricky part came when we had to put the curved roof on. It kept falling in. No problem, we dug into the snow and found some old boards that we lay across the walls, then piled the snow blocks on top. Inside it was dark, but surprisingly warm. With seven of my cousins, Gertie and myself the snow house was full. We stuffed the tiny opnings in the wall with soft snow, now it was airtight. We talked for a bit, told stories, however we began to feel sleepy.

Gertie was making a real pest of herself, jumping from one kid to another, barking, yanking on our clothes. The smallest kids had fallen asleep. My older cousin Ed was starting to slur his words. We were warm, one by one, we dropped off to sleep.

The small dog sensing that something was very wrong, began to dig. She put those short legs of hers to work, scrapping enough snow in a wall so that she could finally squeeze out through a tiny opening. She ran back to the house, barking, pawing at the door. She was ignored. The adults were playing cards on a table near a window. Gertie began to jump, hitting the window with her paws. Someone yelled at her to stop. It was my mom who noticed that the dog was leaving bloody streaks from her paws, when she hit the window.

Alarmed, they opened the door. Gertie barked, then took off at a dead run. They grabbed their coats and followed. When they reached the snow house, they could hear Gertie inside barking. It didn’t take long for the men to pull the blocks of snow down. They grabbed the old boards used for the roof, threw them aside, then began to drag us out into the fresh air. We ended back at the house with pounding headaches. Gertie’s paws were torn from digging. The women very gently put salve on them.

When we were fully awake my father roared at us, “I told you not to build a snowhouse.” In a softer voice, he explained that we had used all the oxygn in the air, so we passed out. As children we didn’t have the foggiest idea of what he was talking about. All that mattered was no one was going to be punished. Gertie had saved our lives. When we had supper that night, Gertie’s dish was full of good meat. Her small paws had stopped bleeding. My cousins and their dog Gertie were bundled up to leave for home.

At bedtime my mom suggested I say a thank you in my prayers, for Gertie. She had tears in her eyes, stroking my head softly, saying to herself , “It was just too close for comfort, I don’t know what I would do if I lost you.” I thanked the Good Lord for Gertie, and drifted off to sleep.

**Note What really happened in that tight little snow house? People breathe back in the same air they just expired or carbon dioxide. Eventually there is more carbon dioxide than oxygen in the air, causing one to faint. We had been in the snow house for over three hours. It is a mystery why that little dog Gertie was able to stay alert enough to dig a tiny hole to escape from, in order to bring help. The next weekend, my dad and uncles took us outside, where they taught us how to build a proper igloo. I still have to grin to this day, no matter how hard they tried, it wouldn’t stand up.

A small plane had landed on the frozen lake, bringing in supplies for a Trading Post in northern British Columbia. The pilot along with his two German Shepherd dogs jumped out. The weather was perfect for a sleigh ride. He allowed his dogs to jump onto the sleigh with a small boy. The draft horses pulling the sled were pawing the snow, eager to run, waiting for people to get on.The big dogs were excited, everyone was getting ready to get on the sleigh. A child threw a snowball, unintentionaly hitting one of the horses on the rump. Startled, they bolted, the reins flying, dragging the huge sled behind them.

Crying in fear, the small boy called out for his mother. The panicked horses crashed over the narrow sled trail, went up a bank and onto the frozen lake. The child on the sleigh was being tossed around like straw in the wind.

The two dogs managed to get close to the boy. When the horses turned in a sharp circle, the dogs grabbed the boy by his coat as he was rolling dangerously close to the edge of speeding sleigh. The Shepherds did this several times, bracing with their feet and bodies, yanking on the childs clothes to keep him between them.

This happened in the days before snowmobiles were popular. On the shore the horrified adults watchd helplessly. A Cree Indian was on the far side of the lake when he spotted the runaway team. He had been out checking his traplines with his Huskies pulling his light sled. He called an order to his lead dog, all the dogs in their harnesses’ turned as one, running flat out. They had one advantage. The draft horses were not used to running, they were working horses used to pull logs out of the bush. The dog’s spent part of the winter at races, they loved to run. Chasing something made it all the more fun!

Looking back, the boy spotted the dogs catching up to the runaway sled. He stood up. The German Shepherd’s pulled him down. By now his coat was in shreds from the dogs using their teeth to hold him.

The musher knew his Huskies. They were strong, fit and fast. With little urging they were able to catch up and run beside the horses. The Cree native reached out, grabbed a rein bringing the horses came to a standstill. They were blowing heavily, exhausted, but safe. When the onlookers caught up, the boy threw himself into his mother’s arms. Everyone praised the dogs. If it hadn’t been for their intelligence and courage the small boy might have been tossed onto the ice. The outcome could have been tragic.

I was the child who had thrown the snowball, hitting the horse causing them to dash away. The boy on the sleigh was my younger brother. I was only five years old, barely able to realize the seriousness of what had happened. I do clearly remember those German Shepherd dogs who saved my brother.

Someone lifted me onto the sleigh where I hugged those dogs. My grandfather walked the team back to the log barn. The only scolding I received came from my mother as I stubbornly refused to be parted from the beautiful dogs. I sat between them, absorbing their smell, loving the way they panted, plus enjoying sloppy dog kisses. I was in love. I wanted to keep them. My mother finally came to the barn, threatning a good spanking if I didn’t leave the dogs, behave myself and go to the house for supper.

Even at five years old, I can remember being angry with her. She was wrong. I was acting sensibly. I was doing the most natural thing for me, hanging out with dog friends. It was the start of a love affair that has deepend with every dog that has crossed my path. To this day, when I see German Shepherds my heart quickens at their dignity and beauty. They are indeed, my friends.

A cougar is a wild cat that has been known to attack people. I have friends who make a living ranching in the same territory as these golden cats. Cougars will often take a calf, sheep, even a dog for a meal. It’s not uncommon for ranchers to hunt for a big cat when they find the remains of a calf or sheep. I heard this story from a man who was working on the ranch where a cougar had taken a calf. The men returned from a hunt, having seen cat paw prints, but the cat must have left the area.

They came home tired, cold and darn hungry. Chores were done, supper laid on the table, when the ranchers wife, glancing out the kitchen window screamed, “It’s that cat, it’s right outside the house in my rose bushes, looking at me.”

Those men dashed for their guns, making enough racket to scare the bark off trees. Outside they tramped, with powerful flashlights and sure enough, hunkered down in the bush was a cream face looking calmly at them, eyes glowing. The animal backed off slowly, the men followed. There was something not quite right, a mountain cat would never behave this way. They were extremely cautious and puzzled when the amimal waited for them to catch up. Someone directed a beam of light right at the critter, what they saw, was not a cougar.

It was a dog, cream face, small triangular eyes, pointed ears with a thick bushy tail that curved over its back. The woman came out, wanting to see the ‘cat’ the men had almost knocked over a dinner table to get to. She took one look and said, “Oh my gosh, that’s a Shiba Inu.” They craned their necks to get a closer look at the dog standing quietly. One of the men commented, “Look at her belly, she’s nursing pups somewhere.”

He was right. The dog had led them to an old shed a good mile from the house. They could hear squalling pups. The youngsters were down in a hole. A rotted beam from the ceiling
had fallen over the opening, preventing the mother from getting to her pups. They could see where she had bloodied her paws, trying to move the heavy piece of wood. They moved it, the female darted into the hole where her pups tried to suck the fur right off her body. They were crazed with hunger.

The men returned to eat. The woman stayed with the dog, patting her. She went back to the house bringing food, water and a thick blanket. She used snow to to block up the holes around the old shed, checked on the dog, then left.

Why was a valuable dog out in the middle of nowhere, so far from all towns? The story circulated the town, people passed that tale along until finally, a phone call came to the ranch, asking about the found dog. It turned out she had been stolen from Vancouver, B.C., just after being bred to a Champion Shiba Inu. How she came to be in northern Alberta no one will ever know. Her owner flew in the next day. The dog heard her voice and exploded out of the hole. It was a glorious reunion. The pups and mom were loaded up and taken away.

The woman who had first spotted what she thought was a cougar was sad to see them leave. She had grown to love the beautiful dog and the pups. Her husband stated it loud and clear, “You’ll just have to forget her, we sure can’t afford a dog like that!” They didn’t have to. Three months later a pickup drove into the yard. The owner of the Shiba Inu got out, carrying a large male pup in her arms. “You should have him,” she grinned, “You saved his life when you helped his mother.

She placed the puppy into the arms of the rancher. He had to clear his throat several times before he could talk. “My wife has really been blue since you took your dog home.” Today is her birthday, this pup will make a mighty fine present.”

There would be another fine reunion.

In the early 1940’s, my family lived in in a remote northern part of British Columbia. My playground was the wonderful freedom of the great outdoors. There were no other children to play with other than my bossy older sister. My best friend was an old dog called Bishop. He was an outside dog, slept in the barn at night but first thing in the morning would find him waiting for me to come out and play.

Bishop was a big ole’ black curly coated dog. When he was happy, which was all the time, he wagged his tail so hard it could knock over my baby brother. He drooled. When he ran his feet hit the dirt so hard it raised dust. There wasn’t a graceful hair on his body, even in his prime he bumbled around like a puppy. He refused to obey commands, even when told to sit. He’d just wag that heavy tail, grin, and drool. I asked my grandfather why the dog had spit hanging out of his mouth all the time. He said he had no idea, but that Bishop was a good dog, then he showed me how to grab a bit of grass to wipe the slobber away.

In the hot summer days, that dog and I spend most of our time playing in the lake. I liked that. The water washed his face. He smelled better then. I grew tired of the water, took Bishop and decided to go for a walk in the bush. Bishop had killed several wolves the past winter, without any harm to himself. I was allowed to wander as long as I had the dog with me. In the bush I found a rotted log, Bishop started digging right away. The top popped off, and there was a cat! I was delighted. I picked up the kitty to haul home to my mother.

I was almost at the door when my mother came around the corner of the house. She took one look at me and screamed, “Put that thing down!” She meant my new cat. It had been content in my arms, but at the shrieking of my mother it struggled to get down. I wanted this pretty puss, so I hung on. I let go really fast, when it peed on me, stinging my eyes, making me choke from the fumes. When I dropped it like a hot coal, it peed on Bishop as well. He hit the ground rubbing his face in my mother’s flower bed.

By now all the adults were standing in a ring around me, I heard the work skunk for the first time. I was bathed in tomatoe juice, all sorts of soap, my grandmother’s prized canned tomatoes. I still smelled rotten. It’s a family joke now, but at the time I was so hurt. Bishop and I had to sleep in the barn. They made me a nice bed, I was allowed a flashlight to keep the dragons at bay, but there that dog and I slept. Bishop was in doggy heaven. He had his favourite person to share his nights with. I didn’t mind.

When I was allowed back into the family circle again, my grandfather gave me a present. A kitten. Of course I loved her, but that other black and while cat had been so very beautiful. Until it peed.