It’s been two months, so I’m fairly certain Grizz is gone. The Australian Shepherd that has been my loyal and constant companion for the past several years disappeared one Saturday back in April of this year.
My first thought was that Grizz might have been hit by an automobile up on the road. Even though we live at the end of a dead-end lane about a quarter mile from a lightly traveled county road, Grizz did like to get out and socialize during the evening hours if we hadn’t had too busy of a day. For a week, I drove the back roads in all directions for several miles looking for my friend, but to no avail.
Over the next few weeks, I contacted every neighbor within a hefty radius of home. Most of them knew Grizz quite well, but none had seen him since he disappeared. One of the closest neighbors did provide me with some disturbing news, however. His own Aussie had contracted some type of fatal parasite at about the same time Grizz left, and had gone from healthy to dead in just three days… not what I had wanted to hear.
I’ve processed all sorts of scenarios in my mind since that fateful April day. All of them seemed to end unhappily. So, I’m left to face the inevitable and hope that he didn’t suffer.
Grizz was a good stock dog. I would even have classified him as a great stock dog, except for the fact that he just never quite got the hang of the command, “Whoa.” On the other hand, I could sic him onto any animal, any place, at any time. He would simply follow all my other commands, taking the cattle wherever I wanted him to and beyond. He would stop when HE concluded he was through. I can’t even count the number of times Grizz has broken up bull fights on my places and taken the bull right back through the hole he created in the fence. Grizz would always return a few minutes later with the “OK, I’m through” expression on his face. The past few years I’d even quit hollering “Whoa” since it was a waste of my breath.
Checking the woods for newborns each spring can be dangerous for a rancher, but with Grizz constantly by my side, I was never afraid. He would have happily sacrificed his own life to make sure none of the surly mommas ever got closer than 20 yards to me. And speaking of the 20-yard rule, I think most all of the cows here at the home place are missing the switch of their tail because they once forgot that rule in getting too close to the yard fence. That’s the only time Grizz took it upon himself to make the decision to chase cows and, once again, there was no need to say “Whoa.” Grizz was finished with them when they were far enough away from the fence.
Grizz was a great friend. I couldn’t start the truck without him running to it, waiting for the command to, “Load up.” Yet, not once in his life did he ever jump on to the flat-bed without me telling him to do so. When he was a pup, I had to install a chain on the truck bed, because Grizz liked to ride with his two front feet on the four-inch metal rail of the bed and would fall off if I made a sharp turn. I always used the safety chain the rest of his life. The paint is worn off the railing where he always stood and I see it every time I get in the truck.
This past winter, Grizz put on a little extra weight and couldn’t jump on the truck bed anymore, so, every morning when I’d tell him to, “load up,” he’d put his front feet on the back of the truck and I’d have to lift him up before we started the daily chores. I’m getting old and fat, too, so I didn’t mind.
I’d also never let him ride in the cab before last winter, but on a couple of the coldest days, I opened the cab door and loaded him up front with me and the heater. Don’t tell my wife, because she’ll think I’m getting sentimental and soft in my old age. I wish I’d have let him ride in the cab more often.
I don’t know whether there is a heaven for dogs or not. I hope there is, for Grizz had surely earned a place there. And if there is, I would have paid anything to see St. Peter welcome him and turn him out for the first time with a herd of cattle or flock of sheep. I’ll bet St. Peter was pretty impressed with the dog’s skill and ability for the first few minutes – until he hollered, “Whoa, Grizz!”
Grizz 2003-2011
Jerry Crownover is a farmer and former professor of Agriculture Education at Missouri State University. He is a native of Baxter County, Arkansas, and an author and professional speaker. To contact Jerry about his books, or to arrange speaking engagements, you may contact him by calling 1-866-532-1960 or visiting ozarksfn.com and clicking on ‘Contact Us.’
