Sheep in Wolves' Clothing: Buster Speaks Out on Grandchildren:

I have nothing against children. Other than their infernal howling, they are for the most part benign. Or at least that was my initial assessment. I now find myself engulfed in a world of enticingly smelly poopy diapers, toy-to-toy armed conflict, and an unreasonable frequency of acting-out that I am at the limits of my abilities to contend with. And yet, I prevail.

As a Border Collie bred over generations by soggy Welsh stocksmen, I have always considered myself a member of the Black Ops of the canine world.  A 2000 word vocabulary, an assassin’s stealth, and a frontal lobe of Einsteinian proportions qualify me for duty on the front lines of Sheep Wars. To date however, my massive skill set has been applied to rescuing sticks from lakes, disciplining insolent felines, redirecting the mindless and slobbering beasts at the off-leash, short-circuiting disturbances at Sunday dinners, sounding the alarm at security breaches, and providing sage leadership to my neighborhood pack – such as they are.

Selected by my handlers as a puppy for my endearing chubbiness and mutant extra dew claw, I have few demands placed on me.   In return for board, room, and periods of soulful eye contact, I am required to walk my handlers a minimum of three times a day, act as an empathetic and perceptive therapist in times of stress, and play nurse-maid to Traumatized Rescue Dog and Don't-Give-A-Crap Cats.

Which leaves me with plenty of time to ponder my fate both past and future.  Neutering (a deceivingly benign term) executed without my consent, has robbed me of my legacy. Not for me the joys of a mate and the patter of little paws. My genes, the result of hundreds of years of skillful cross-breeding and selection, will die with me.   

Enter Grandchildren.

With their first appearance it was made abundantly clear that the tightly swaddled mewing bundles were neither food nor toys - a double disappointment.  And while  instinct urged me to deal with the bawling lambs in the way I knew best, a deeply submerged gene indicated that these were not just any sheep, but the forbearers of what would become my very own herd.  

Unable to resist their plaintive calls of distress I stayed close, perhaps too close; an action misinterpreted as hunger. Banished to the Siberia of the backyard, unable to plead my case verbally, I was forced to fret from a distance.

Two years have passed and their numbers have exploded exponentially to 4. The assumption remains that given my possession of flesh-tearing canines and a genetic predisposition to disciplining naughty sheep, I am still not completely above suspicion.  Lambs are still barred from physical contact despite an occasional covert pat while the authorities are distracted.  The arrangement suits me; it appeases the authorities while preventing the ignominy of being mauled by sticky fingers.

What is beyond the pale however, is their increasing use of commanding language and imperiously placed exclamation points reserved until recently for the exclusive use of my handlers.  "Come! Buster, Come!"  The gall of it.  Trained to extend their tiny palms forward and bark "Back Buster! Move!" when contact is imminent, this high-handed and authoritative finger-wagging from the bearer of poopy diapers in nearly intolerable. 

And while the four of them have clearly been placed higher on the totem pole than the lofty perch from which I formerly viewed my domain, I have come to terms with the concept that though they are merely little sheep in wolves’ clothing, they are in fact, My Sheep. 

Having established my position as Keeper of the Herd, negotiations with the authorities have made it crystal clear that typical herding techniques such as heel-nipping, stalking, and knock-downs will not be tolerated. In lieu of these highly effective methods, my responsibilities now fall within the following parameters:

·        Accompanying and protecting the herd on all excursions, including the thorough vetting of all strangers. (Typically this involves approaching the intruder with a wide grin and wagging tail while pawing their leg till they scratch my ears.)
·       Chasing down runaways inside and out (to their shrill delight) and redirecting them back to the herd. Unless a squirrel turns up.

·        Positioning myself as arbitrator of all tantrums and serious altercations with the authorities.

·        Protecting the herd vociferously from the North Korean spy masquerading as our letter carrier.

·        Remaining within arm’s reach and eye contact as they wander river trails, visit the playground, throw ravioli at each other, refuse to nap, wrestle each other to the ground, and dream the night away at Baba Grampa House sleepovers.
·       Restraining myself while cheese treats are allocated to those with tiny voice boxes that permit verbalization of please and thank you. 

My prediction is that the two new arrivals, yet unable to mobilize independently, will follow the same trajectory, resulting in a synergy that is multiplicative rather than additive.  And while I find this prospect terrifying, I am, for the moment, content.  Having purpose and meaningful work for which I am imminently suited, I have created my own herd, a legacy for which I will be remembered.