I've never seen sheepdogs do their job before. I've glimpsed them on occasion, from afar, rounding up sheep on some far hillside, usually accompanied by a farmer on a quadbike. Otherwise my knowledge comes from occasional snatches of One Man and His Dog, and Countryfile, where their work is sanitised into an intellectual puzzle in the rain. Or, at least, that's how it seems to me now after finally getting to see some dogs at their real work.
I was walking Bobby as per usual, when I ran into a load of sheep squished onto the one-track lane from the sewage works to the Hem, about 100 yards of mayhem. Bobby and I were effectively, if accidentally, stood at the bottom of the T Junction guarding them from escaping that way, so we had a great view. Bobby, being half-collie, was half-interested but also definitely a bit scared. Three dogs, three shepherds, maybe three hundred sheep. The sheep were being kept in a holding pattern whilst some blokes pegged out an electric fence in double quick time, one that would enable the sheep to graze on the turnip tops in the field.
It was raining. It was muddy. It was mayhem. The sheep were mardy and frightened and mighty feisty. They had the power of numbers being forced through a small space akin to a large football crowd surging into or out of a ground. Once when I was leaving White Hart Lane I was taken off my feet and carried along for several yards. So it was here with the sheep. Others were leaping and jumping. And the dogs were going bonkers. Not the quiet control of a snoozy Sunday night BBC show. They were filthy dirty, three street kids, Begbies, ducking and diving, barking and biting. Besides themselves. The sheep in their turn were launching themselves into the air and kicking the dogs in the head. The dogs loved it. I once saw a policeman on Putney High Street grab a random Gillingham supporter by the neck, slam him into a shop door, hold him off the ground and bark at him “what you gonna do about it, cunt?” High on it. Loving it. Like a collie to sheep. Apparently...
Painting: William Holman Hunt, Strayed Sheep, Tate Britain (1852)
I was walking Bobby as per usual, when I ran into a load of sheep squished onto the one-track lane from the sewage works to the Hem, about 100 yards of mayhem. Bobby and I were effectively, if accidentally, stood at the bottom of the T Junction guarding them from escaping that way, so we had a great view. Bobby, being half-collie, was half-interested but also definitely a bit scared. Three dogs, three shepherds, maybe three hundred sheep. The sheep were being kept in a holding pattern whilst some blokes pegged out an electric fence in double quick time, one that would enable the sheep to graze on the turnip tops in the field.
It was raining. It was muddy. It was mayhem. The sheep were mardy and frightened and mighty feisty. They had the power of numbers being forced through a small space akin to a large football crowd surging into or out of a ground. Once when I was leaving White Hart Lane I was taken off my feet and carried along for several yards. So it was here with the sheep. Others were leaping and jumping. And the dogs were going bonkers. Not the quiet control of a snoozy Sunday night BBC show. They were filthy dirty, three street kids, Begbies, ducking and diving, barking and biting. Besides themselves. The sheep in their turn were launching themselves into the air and kicking the dogs in the head. The dogs loved it. I once saw a policeman on Putney High Street grab a random Gillingham supporter by the neck, slam him into a shop door, hold him off the ground and bark at him “what you gonna do about it, cunt?” High on it. Loving it. Like a collie to sheep. Apparently...
Painting: William Holman Hunt, Strayed Sheep, Tate Britain (1852)
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