This is part of a story about a sheep rancher and his daughter. 

Rachel giggled as the eager, happy puppy licked her fingers and wiggled his tail so hard that his whole body swayed back and forth with it. “Are you happy to see me?” she cooed to her friend. She had just come from the house out to the sheds, and as she came into sight her puppy, Critter, had run out from the shed and jumped and tumbled around her legs. Finally she could walk no more—every step she took he was there, sticking so close to her she was afraid she’d trip and fall. She sat right down in the dusty farmyard and succumbed to the licking and wriggling, her giggles turning into laughs and squeals as his enthusiasm never let up. Finally Critter’s mama, their best sheepdog named Bette, came out from the barn to see what the noise was about. As she trotted nearer Critter got up and ran to his mama, showering his enthusiasm on a new target. Bette’s reaction was a slight wag of the tail and a nudge from her wet, black nose. Soon Critter’s two brothers and three sisters were trailing out of the shed, too, coming to find where their dinner had gone. Bette turned and went to lay in the shade of the haystack, six puppies following after her and finally settling down for some milk.

                Rachel’s father had heard her squeals, and as she got up from the ground and brushed the dust off her overalls, she saw him leaning in the opening of the shed. She smiled and came over to him.

                “Oh, daddy, isn’t Critter the best puppy ever?” she gleamed. “I think he’ll be the best sheepdog we’ve ever had.”

                “Only if you don’t spoil him, and you get his training started soon,” he said flatly. With a glance up at his steel gray eyes she could tell he wasn’t too pleased with her.

                “I’m not spoiling him, Dad. I’m just letting him get to know me. He won’t listen to my commands if he doesn’t know me.”

                “What about the milk? And the leftover bacon? You know that pup’s got enough food from just his mama right now.”

                “Well, okay Dad. I guess you’re right,” she conceded. After a pause she rushed on. “You know I just love him so much! He’s so cute!”

                Dad turned and went to the back of the shed where he was trying to work some broken bolts out of the hay mower. “Rachel, get to your chores,” he said, then picked up his hammer. “Those lambs won’t wait.” Rachel nodded and went directly to the barn. Her day was starting out great.

By 10:00 am her chores were nearly done, both on the farm and in the house. She’d fed the lambs their milk replacer, thrown hay to the rams, filled the water troughs, then went to see what Momma had for her to do. After sweeping the kitchen and taking the slop to the pigs, she carried a basket of laundry out to the clothesline. Even though they had an electric dryer now, Momma insisted they hang the laundry in the good weather. It smelled better, she insisted, and cost less too. Rachel thought that the laundry hung on the line just smelled like hay and dust, but she didn’t say anything. She’d do whatever she was asked so long as she got to go play with her puppy afterward. After the last pillowcase was pinned to the line she ran the basket to the back porch, tossed it next to the door, and pivoted again, running straight to the barn. She paused for a moment to let her eyes adjust to the dim light. She decided to look for the puppies near the horse stalls first, and not finding them, climbed into the loft to take a look around. As she sat with her legs swinging off the edge of the loft, she took in the sights. Their barn was not as big as some. It had only one loft, at one side of the barn, instead of two lofts like their neighbors, the Petersens. It had four horse stalls but only two horses, Dan and Gray. They could pull a wagon if they had to, but they were more used for riding nowadays. The horse stalls were along the opposite wall. The big barn door was between where Rachel sat and the stalls, facing into the farm yard. The backside of the barn was actually one side of their corral, where they kept three milk cows. A trough was built into that wall, where the horses could reach it from inside the barn, and the cows could reach it outside. And in the middle of the barn were hay and straw bales, stacked taller than her father’s head, and room for the tractor in the winter. As she studied the barn she looked for signs of the puppies, and listened for the rustle of hay. Not seeing anything, she climbed halfway down the ladder then jumped to the floor. She jogged over to the sheds where her Dad had been working this morning, which stood just off to the right of the barn, opposite the house. Haystacks were also stacked along the back of the sheds, two stacks across, five and six stacks deep, making a hay-lined road between the sheds and the end of the barn, going all the way to the pasture gate.

                Rachel walked across the farmyard to the lamb pen, watching for a moment as they bucked and jumped over mounds of straw and manure. She smiled—lambs always had so much energy! Even though she was only nine, she had raised at least 20 bum lambs for the last three summers. This year there were 27, and it took a lot of work to feed them each morning and night. But she knew that in the fall, they’d be nice and fat and would bring a good price when they were sold at the auction. She didn’t necessarily like the thought of her lambs becoming meat in three or four months, but that was what their breed was best for, Dad said. They had other kinds of sheep that were for wool—over 1000 of them. They’d already been sheared that spring, and looked pretty scraggly and skinny now. After they spent all summer on the range, however, they’d be looking much better.

                Not seeing her puppy anywhere, she wandered to the row of haystacks, where she’d seen Bette lay down that morning. She poked along, bending over now and then to peer into the dark avenues between individual stacks, and into the small caves where two bales of hay didn’t sit quite right next to each other. She knew that the kittens were usually born in one of these convenient hiding places, far down a tight passage of hay where little girls and dogs couldn’t reach them. She wondered if the puppies liked playing in the hay, too, and wished she could be so small as to wander through the cracks and mazes in between haystacks like an explorer in an ancient stone temple filled with traps and mysteries. Her wondering was brought to a halt as she heard her dad calling out commands as he motioned with his arms: “Now around! Cut them out! Ok, bring them in, Bette.”

                She ran to the pasture gate and found her dad just inside, giving Bette orders to cut out a few old sheep and bring them into a holding pen built into the corner of the pasture. Bette obeyed and soon the sheep were standing in the pen, bleating and quivering from their quick jog.

                “What are you doing with these sheep, Dad?” Rachel piped up. She stood with her arms hugging the bars of the wide, green metal gate, her blonde head squeezed between the top two bars of the gate. He turned and saw her there for the first time, head cocked to the side, long braids dangled over the bar and into the pen.

                “I’m showing the pups how to be real sheepdogs,” he said. He called Bette to his side with a quick whistle.

                “The pups?” Rachel turned and only then saw two or three of the puppies sitting in the shade of the haystack a few feet back from the gate. “Oh, Critter!” she called, and the puppy recognized her voice and came trotting out of the shade and up to her legs. He wagged and wiggled and she picked him up and put his nose up to hers, cooing and ahhing over his cuteness. “I’ve been looking for you, you little cutey.”

                “Bring Critter over to me,” Dad said. Rachel looked up quickly. Dad held out his hand and motioned to her. She tucked Critter under her arm like a sack of potatoes and bent over to squeeze through the gate, pulling Critter gently through as well. She placed him at her father’s feet and then looked up.

                “Dad, are you sure he’s big enough? He’s just a couple months old, you know.”

                “Yes, girl, he’s big enough. He’s got to learn before we go on our drive to the summer range and Bette will be gone for a couple of weeks. The sooner we get some sheep sense into him, the better.” He patted his leg and Bette stood alert at his side. He bent over and set Critter next to Bette, quietly saying, “Now you show this pup what to do.” Then he straightened and pointed out to the sheep.

                “Bette, out this way!” he called loudly and motioned to the right. She jolted into a run and headed towards a group of about 20 sheep grazing in the pasture. Critter trotted after her at first, then slowed down as the older dog quickly was out of sight behind the sheep. “Critter, around!” Dad called, and the puppy turned to come back to him. “No, Critter. Around!” He pointed repeatedly to the direction the older dog went. By this time Bette had the sheep gathered into a tight bunch and was waiting for her next command, ears up and alert, legs stiff and ready. “Alright, Bette, come!” Bette started the sheep moving with a little leap and pretend nip at their heels. The sheep bleated and darted forwarded, soon trotting toward the pen. Being older sheep, they knew the routine. Critter saw the sheep coming, and froze. Perhaps realizing how much bigger they were, he began backing up slowly, then ran back to the gate and hid behind Rachel’s legs.

                “Rachel, get that pup back out here!’ Dad yelled.

                “But Daddy, he’s scared! He doesn’t want to!” Rachel picked him up and held him protectively.

                “That pup’s got to learn!” he said angrily, and stomped toward Rachel, taking Critter from her arms. The sheep were just passing them now, and he placed Critter near his mother as she continued herding. He pushed Critter towards the sheep.

                With a couple of hesitant steps, Critter began following his mom and soon was close to the rear sheep. After a few more steps he began to bounce and yip, playfully darting closer to the animals.

                Rachel felt the nervous tension melt from her arms and shoulders. She could see that he was a compliment to his breed—almost like second nature, he was learning to herd sheep. The sheep were nearing the pen now, and Dad strode forward to catch the smaller wooden gate and swing it shut. Bette worked at the sheep, who didn’t like the idea of being penned up so early in the day. They began to balk and turn to the side, but each time were met by Bette. Rachel watched until only three sheep were left to walk through the gate. Then one old black-faced sheep saw Critter out of the corner of her eye. The old ewe turned and without a second’s hesitation, charged forward and butted the puppy, running back out to the pasture. Rachel heard the sickening thud as Critter was knocked into the air, then flopped onto the ground.

                “No!” she cried, and ran to him. Dad was quickly kneeling next to her as she tried to gently lift him up. He just flopped around, head hanging loosely to the side. “Oh, Dad, he’s hurt!” she sobbed.

                Dad held the puppy’s head in his rough, calloused hands, and pulled up his velvety eyelid with his thumb. Rachel’s sobs came harder and quicker. “No, Rachel. He’s dead. That old ewe killed him.” He took the pup out of her hands, slowly stood up, and began walking toward the pasture gate. “Bette, come,” he called.

                Rachel’s sobs were loud and jagged and she smeared the tears from her eyes and stumbled after her father. Once she crawled through the gate, she broke into a run, going straight through the back door and up to her room where she cried until her pillowcase was completely wet.