© 1995, 2012, and 2016
This story was told to me by a dear friend, a retired gentleman who lives in Columbus, Ohio. Jim is my hillbilly buddy, and cannot read or write. This true story of two generations of English Shepherd heroes was too good to lose, so I wrote it up.
In 1944 I was a young boy of nine, living with my family in Blaine, Kentucky. Our English Shepherd, Taylor, was well known in that part of hardscrabble Appalachia as the best hog and cattle dog to be found. But we’ll get back to him later, for my story actually begins at a farm on Little Laurel Creek with another sheppy, Dixie.
As she did every afternoon, Dixie went out through the pasture to bring the cows in while her master, Monroe Moore, set out to prepare the milking parlor. With just himself and his wife to do all the farm chores, Monroe expected Dixie to earn her keep. He didn’t think of her as a pet; she was there to do a job.
On his way through the barn, Monroe impulsively decided to stop and feed the bull. Careful to latch the stall door behind him, Monroe dumped the grain into the bull’s feed trough. But as he turned to leave, he found himself confronted by a suddenly belligerent bull. As anyone who has worked with cattle well knows, bulls are prone to unpredictable mood swings. This guy had always been docile and its anger caught Monroe off guard.
The bull’s charge caught him in the chest, and Monroe’s breath was knocked out as the blow broke several ribs. Thrown into the wall by the force of the impact, Monroe instinctively crawled beneath the manger. Although the sloping manger did not offer complete protection, it did keep the bull from getting a direct hit. The enraged bull’s shots were still connecting, though, and Monroe knew he wouldn’t last for long like this. Hoping his wife would hear his cries, Monroe began to call for help.
Busily preparing dinner, Monroe’s wife was unaware of the drama taking place in the barn. His shouts were too muffled to reach her ears. Keener ears, however, did hear his cries and Dixie raced to her master’s aid. Reaching the barn, Dixie found her entrance blocked. By so carefully closing the bull’s stall door behind him and not having yet opened the milking parlor, Monroe was a prisoner. Dixie went from door to door and finally got into the barn by jumping through an open window.
Now whenever the bull charged, it was met by Dixie. But the diminutive black-and-white female was not enough to deter the angry bull and he continued to charge. As the long minutes wore on, Monroe continued to scream, and the screams finally reached his wife.
She rushed to the barn, and sizing up the situation, quickly opened the door to the paddock. Out the bull ran. Monroe’s wife later told neighbors that the bull’s head was drenched in blood and Dixie was completely soaked.
After news of her heroics spread throughout the county, my father was honored when Monroe asked to breed Dixie to our big black-and-tan Taylor. From this union came Ole Joe. Joe seemed to inherit the stock sense of both parents and became a legend across the region. He was always in demand to work cattle auctions, and people would empty the hills to attend an auction when they heard he would be there. Even women and children clamored to attend, for Joe was without equal.
For Joe, you see, could throw a bull. After their long, bumpy rides, some cattle arrived at the auction looking for trouble. They were a danger to the auction workers. So a particularly nasty bull was directed into a large ring. In the middle stood a lone English Shepherd. Anxious to make somebody pay, the enraged animal would charge. As it bore down on him, Joe crouched. Then just as the bull planted itself to strike, Joe reached up, grabbed it by the nose, and gave a jerk.
Mister Bull would do airborne, head over heels, and crash to earth on its back. It was a rare bull who tried again, but Joe never had one try a third time. Meek as a kitten, the now humbled bull willingly obliged the auction workers’ bidding.
Joe was slate blue with tan stockings and tan shepherd spots over his eyes. He was a large dog and quite long in the body, as was his sire.
© 1995, 2012, and 2016 Vivian Flynt