The Butterfly

WTCH Casa de Carillo Stalker

December 8, 1987 to December 28, 2001

I wanted a Kelpie. I vowed that when I finally had the place to keep enough livestock to entertain one that I would get a Kelpie Dog. I had become involved in the sport of herding with my Australian Cattle Dogs. Wonderful as they were, they were hardheaded, tenacious and self-serving. When it came to competitive herding competition this attitude was not the answer. In my naiveté I was sure a Kelpie was an easy fix. Obviously I had a lot to learn and the lessons were about to begin.

At last the day came when I had a place to have some sheep. I had already contacted Bob Carillo whose Kelpies I had fallen in love with and told him exactly the kind of pup I was looking for. A male, big boned and confident and hopefully a red and tan. Bob called me shortly there after and said he had just the pup and had saved him for me. The pup was eight weeks old and sired by Casa de Carillo Cody and out of a bitch called Petrowsky’s Sadie. The pedigree was a combination of some very old Karrawara and Elfinvale bloodlines. I was over the edge with excitement. I was about to get my first Kelpie Dog. I will never forget the day I picked Stalker up. I was showing my Australian Cattle Dogs at a bench show at Cow Palace in San Francisco CA and after showing I drove to Sebastapool to Bob’s ranch. As Bob let the pups out of the pen, out stomped this chunky, big boned male pup with drop ears who looked me straight in the eye and said "boof, boof who do you think you are? ". He looked more like a rottweiler puppy then a Kelpie, and as I found out over the years the stomping was a trait that always told me he was right and I was an ignorant human that should just sit in the house and mind my own business. It was love at first site.

It soon became very apparent that this bold Kelpie pup had no fear of anything, had his own opinions on how things should be done and at least in his mind knew more about livestock at the tender age of three months then I could ever hope to know. Thus the battle begun. My thoughts about how easy it would be to work a Kelpie went right out the window with my dreams of having a competitive trial dog.

We argued ,we fought. He stomped his feet, I yelled. He barked at me, I cried. And neither one of us two stubborn redheads gave in. My first trial was a disaster. The sheep were let out at one end of the arena. I walked in with Stalker and they jumped the fence with him standing at my side. The stock handlers tried to let them out again and the performance repeated itself. The stock wanted no part of this big bold dog standing 200 feet away. I did not understand the power and presence this dog had at the time and how it would make him one of the most powerful dogs on stock I had ever seen. The second trial was not much better. As Stalker was doing his lift one ewe foolishly turned around and stomped at him, then struck at him with her foot and caught him on the top of her head. And just as quickly Stalker took her by the nose and flipped her on the ground. He never hung on…just flipped her over. "Thank you" said the judge and I left the arena chagrined, with my dog who had blood dripping down his head.

Stalker was now two years old and our working relationship was not a happy one. Most sessions ended in frustration with my crying and going into the house and Stalker stomping his feet at me and doing exactly as he pleased. This was not what I had pictured at all. One of us had to adjust our attitude and I had a feeling it was not going to be that Kelpie Dog. Kelpies were not that common back then and most of the trainers I talked to had worked Border Collies but did not know what to tell me about this Kelpies attitude.

Knowing that I had something in this dog I decided to step back and rethink the whole herding thing. All I had been taught by the instructors I had worked with was not working with this dog and Stalker was telling me that loud and clear. So I started to listen to what he was saying.

I stopped yelling, I stopped trying to keep him off the stock and I stopped fighting him. In short I observed that he did truly know more about stock then I did. So I shut up and let him teach me. The transformation was amazing. He relaxed, I relaxed. He stopped barking at me and I stopped crying. We were a team at last and we were now the best of friends. I applied the same techniques to my Cattle Dogs and watched the transformation in their attitude. There was no stopping us now.

The next trial was a success. It was our first time on cattle and Rick Pinney, a well respected Kelpie breeder, was judging. Stalker was amazing and won it!!! The compliments on Stalker from Rick meant more to me then all the blue ribbons in the world.

Over the course of his lifetime Stalker won more High in Trials on Cattle, Sheep and Ducks then I can even remember. He won more belt buckles then I can ever wear and won the respect of more people then I ever realized until after his death. He won the Silver Bullet, Rancho Murrieta, early cow dog trials in Plymouth and elsewhere. I was usually the only woman competing on cattle and always the only Kelpie. We certainly did not blend into the crowd

The memories of the trials are not what stand out in my mind over the years. What stands out is how this honest dog never let me down, never quit, never had a sick day in his life. The countless puppies of all breeds that he introduced to stock. He would patiently keep the sheep together while puppies would hang on his tail or jump on him. When they tried to lick his face he would only lift his big handsome head higher and patiently carry on with a resigned sigh. The times he helped me round up loose stock for animal control. Swimming in a pond to help round up a hundred geese that had to be moved. His pulling a drowning sheep out of a river to drag it to shore and safety. The cattle he moved out of brush. His gentleness with lambs at lambing time, standing over them and worrying about every one that lagged behind. The times that he blatantly told me if he had opposing digits he could run the ranch and I would be the one locked in the kennel. The time he was mad at me and ran two hundred sheep over the top of me as I lay face first in the mud and then back again just to prove a point. The cattle he loaded in trailers when no one else could. How he hated working ducks and closed his eyes and then won the High duck award at the Silver Bullet Trial. How no other dog was allowed to block his vision of the livestock and were severely disciplined for it. How he made up for my inadequacies as a human and continued to teach me over the years how to become a better dog handler. I could not have asked for a better mentor.

Stalker was thirteen when he really started to slow down and enjoyed sleeping in a favorite spot he dug in the dirt. He didn’t come down to the sheep corrals much anymore content to let the young foolish dogs take over his chores. One afternoon in the summer of his thirteenth year I was very despondent over some personal issues. A summer storm had hit that morning and Stalker and I walked down to the sheep pens. A miracle had occurred there. Thousands of Monarch butterflies had appeared out of nowhere. They landed on me and I knew things would be okay.

Stalker turned fourteen on December 8 and was really having a hard time getting around. He rarely left his spot in the warehouse and his legs were crippled with arthritis. He had not gone down to the corrals with me since the summer and had shown no interest in working the sheep at all. Two days after Christmas I was using Burr one of Stalkers grandkids to bring in the sheep. Burr is a foolish seven month old and as only youngsters do was making a mess of things. I was at the top of the hill with the pup and sheep when to my surprise I saw Stalker making the 400 or so yard climb up the hill to me. His tired old legs showed renewed vigor in his determination to make the climb. Without question or command he took over for the pup and helped to take the sheep to the barn. When we reached the barn and the sheep were put away he walked off and turned around to look at me. What passed between us at that instant I shall always remember and I knew at that moment it was the last time we would work as a team.

The next morning Stalker did not eat and he could barely get up. We both knew it was time. I had to allow this proud dog to die with dignity as he lived. Choking back tears I called the vet and made the arrangements. As I helped my friend in the pouring rain from the warehouse to the car to make the drive to the vet, a single Monarch butterfly landed on my shoulder. I was reminded of the gift I had been given from God of the last fourteen years with this noble animal. I knew we would someday meet again.

KELPIES

by Will Ogilvie (1869-1963)

Out where the scrubs stand dark and dense
And the great plains blaze in the sun
Where the wide sheep-paddocks, unmapped, immense
Reach out to the Queensland border fence -
It is there where the kelpies run.

Where the dustclouds spin on the dry dustpans,
Where the dancing brolgas play,
Where the dingo fashions his furtive plans -
It is there that the little black and tans
Toil on in the heat all day.

There is the kingdom of Nip and Nell,
Of Tweed and Swallow and sweep,
Of the racing beauties I loved so well;
And many a tale I yet could tell
Of what they could do with sheep.

Hustling their mob through the barley grass
Or turning a wing inside;
Often in fancy I see them pass
Leaping to answer the call 'Here, Lass!'
And the caution, 'Wide, go wide!'

Many a time I see them lie
In the shade of a kurrajong,
Chester, or Connie, or Flip, or Fly,
Searching a foot for a bindi-eye
That has lain in the pad too long.

When the sun goes down in a crimson glow
And a wave of golden foam
I can see them snatched to a saddle-bow
With a 'Come along, pup, you're tired, I know',
And given a free ride home.

We have dogs in the North of world-wide fame,
And champions not a few
Of grander coat and stouter frame,
But none more gallant anf none more game
than the kelpie friends I knew.

The next two stories are from Angela Goode's wonderful books 'Great Working Dog Stories'. The books are filled with fascinating stories about life and dogs in the Australian outback and can often be found on the internet in second-hand bookshops in Australia or on e bay.

OLD BILL
Gladys Maddison, Macksville, New South Wales

Old Bill, a black and tan kelpie, was about sixteen years old at the time of this incident.
I was bringing in a flock of young ewes with their first lambs and it was close to dusk. The gate was awkwardly placed, and Rover, an untrained puppy, was overenthusiastic and separated one ewe from the flock. It careered down the paddock with rover in full pursuit.
Meanwhile the ewes and lambs went quickly through the gateway with a little encouragement from Bill. I fastened the gate. Rover had returned, but when I looked around for Bill, he had disappeared, so I went off to look for the errant ewe.
It was nearly dark by now. I tried to get Rover to guide me to the ewe, but he didn't understand. The paddock was rough and boulder strewn, so it wasn't easy to find the missing ewe.

However, I heard a distant barking at intervals, then silence. I went down the gully in the direction of the barks. Rover left me and I followed him quickly, knowing he would lead me to Bill and, I hoped, the ewe.
Imagine my surprise when I reached the two dogs to find the ewe up to her neck in a waterhole that was only her length in diameter. She couldn't get out but there was old Bill at the side of the pool, hanging onto her wool with his teeth, letting go, barking to attract my attention, and grabbing her again so she wouldn't sink.
I t was quite an effort to haul her out as she was in full wool and waterlogged. But all was well and after a short rest she went back up the hill to her baaing lamb.
It was all in a day's work for Bill. He retired a few years later as he was becoming deaf, but he lived to be 22 years old!

Copyright; Graham Fredriksen

Well I'm down among the stubble
an' havin' bloody trouble
'coz these cattle from the scrub'll
take some catchin'. First they double

back around across the clover,
an' they nilly run me over.
It's enough to give a cove a
bloody headache - yes by jove!! A -

nother look they're through the river
an' I yell out: "Well, I nivva!!"
Bloody cattle!! They don't give a
stuff!! So flamin' bloody clivva!!

So I calls out to me kelpie:
“C'mon!! Gi' down here an' help me
or I'll tan yer bloody scalp!” He
runs on down an' gives a yelp. He

brings on back those bloody trouble
makin' cattle through the rubble
at the river on the double
(past me standin' in the stubble)

an' he wheels them bloody fizzers
like nobody's bloody business,
He's a good dog! Yes, b' Jissus!!
Cross the clover patch they whizz as

he has won that bloody battle
with those mongrel bloody cattle,
an' he turns 'em on the flat till
they're all buggered. I yells: “That'll

do, ya silly bloody ninny!!
We don't wanna run 'em skinny!”
So he slowly brings 'em in. He
yards 'em up. I has a tinny

as I sits down to recuper...ate
...says: “Don't fergit the bloody...gate!
Good dog.”

Graham Fredriksen

Thankyou to www.funnypoets.com for giving permission to print this poem