Passages: A Dog Story of the Black and White Persuasion

by Mari Gayatri Stein

My border collie life began twenty years ago on a quiet eucalyptus-lined street in Pacific Palisades, California. Our first dogs were Megan and Moss. It was my husband’s idea to get border collies, a breed unknown to me at the time. Named for their origin of birth—the border country in the north of England—these dogs are regaled for their superb intelligence, focus and irresistible demeanor.

In the beginning, Robert brought home two tricolor bitches. They were predominately black and white with a dash of brown on their socks. From the first emergence of their puppy personalities, it was obvious that Megan would be a diva and Moss a devil.

I have learned that in life’s equation, the more annoying you are, the more adorable you need to be in order to reach maturity without becoming a casualty. Moss was too cute to punish, but she could drive you crazy with her escapades. She’s the only dog I’ve ever known to be expelled from obedience school.
“Tant pis,” my husband would say, implying the instructor was undoubtedly to blame (his dogs were never at fault). My dog Megan, on the other paw, got straight A’s, as did I when I was an over zealous student. She aimed to please but was never obsequious.

Megan and I loved our lessons in the park. “Sit! Heel! Down! Come!” and “Staaay!” held new thrills in the company of my keen companion. In those days we went everywhere together. Our profiles were notable as we zoomed along the Pacific Coast Highway in a 1973 racing green XKE. We loved to stroll along the shore and watch the seagulls. The other dogs would have exalted in scattering the flock, but not Megie. She would have considered such behavior a frivolous expenditure of energy. Her border collie traits had been subverted into an obsession for creature comforts. Meg was Mistress of the divine sprawl on the divan, and although she was more of a gourmand than a gourmet, she ate her dinner with dainty and dignified civility.

Against her will, there were still times when her dog-birth asserted itself. It always surprised me when I discovered her lolling on the chaise lounge indulging in a squeaky frenzy with the purple fuzzy bone, or when in a state of dismay and embarrassment, she was forced to appeal for my help in getting an empty carton of Hagan Daz unstuck from her nose.

In contrast, her sister Moss was a piece of work. Mossbags was loud, impatient and the reason for the word, “dogged.” She was relentless in her desire to play and be the star. If ignored, Moss would yell at you with a shrill manic bark, then press the ball in your crouch and fix you with her piercing border collie stare until you succumbed and threw the ball... and threw the ball... and threw the ball again. But she was cute.

When our family moved north, we stopped along the way—only a true dog lover would exhibit such folly—to pick up a six week old border collie male. Morgan slept in my lap as we pressed up the Interstate 5. We were about to trade our well appointed city life for one of rural obscurity in the Oregon mountains—only a dreamer would embark on an adventure of such folly.

In due time, Morgan and I attended a meeting of border collie enthusiasts who had gathered to test their young dogs’ herding skills amidst a flock of tame ducklings. When Morgie’s turn came, we entered the pen with calm concentration. As the flock slowly waddled toward us, Morgan’s eyebrows peaked and with an appalled and somewhat hurt expression, he did an about face and anxiously dragged me back to the truck.

Morgan knew who he was and who he was not, more than I could have boasted at the time. He commanded respect and was above reproach, not an intimate dog, but a love from nose to tail.

Pioneer life was exciting for a Hollywood girl, but hard work and unnerving. I had no frame of reference. Trees with snow looked flocked to me. I thought a raccoon would make a cute pet. I had no idea how to approach a horse, climb over a fence, escape a ram racing perilously in pursuit or negotiate snow and ice without going splat. But I learned. Soon you would find me squatting on straw in the barn with my pet ram, Trebor. We spent hours together content to watch the snow fall. At two a.m. I was just as likely to be assisting a worn out ewe in the delivery of her lamb. More than once, my Toyota pick up slid into the side of the snowy mountain highway. Shivering but stalwart, I hitched a ride back home. Can you imagine me doing that in LA?

In the same way ranch life made the movie of my life real, my dogs shifted the concept of love from my head to my heart. They taught me how to be true.

Next came Moon. She was a classic beauty and born to herd. We attended dog trial classes one summer, but when we tried to put “Way to me” and “Come by” into action with our flock of Romney sheep at home, they just stood there staring at us, then resumed grazing. This was very frustrating for Moon who was ambitious and driven to achieve. Consequently, she cunningly turned her talents to becoming a ball fetcher extraordinaire. In this, she excelled and would have been a gold medal contender.

Muse was the next puppy to join the pack. She had an endearing white patch around her left eye and an inclination to cuddle. She loved to rest her entire muzzle snugly under my chin and smile broadly. Muse’s heart was as big as the sky. Two years later, her daughter Mulph joined the crew. Mulph was a dog’s dog and dedicated her life to annoying and delighting her mom, in the true spirit of mother and daughter teams throughout the ages.

All of our rooms had hardwood floors, and as I traversed the house you could hear the percussion section of my entourage in full force. All twenty-four paws tap danced in tempo. This was amusing to me, but not to my husband, especially when I got up at midnight to go to the bathroom and became the Pied Piper of Dogdom.

Through the years the chorus line diminished until this last year when Muse and I became the solo team. At sixteen, Muse was deaf and arthritic, her world composed of amorphous shapes, but her nose and her mind were keener than ever. Muse’s loving ways could transform my tears into laughter and renew my faith. In her hearing days, she would purse her Clara Bow lips, point her nose skyward and sing Aum at our Sunday meditation gatherings. Muse adored her carrots and she adored me. Wherever I was, so was my Muse. She was my inspiration. When she died last month it was the end of an era.

When we lose someone we love, it rips our seams asunder. All the endless polite interactions of daily life become grotesque through the eyes of grief. But death also unites us. Our mourning is universal and if embraced, offers us succor. When our hearts break open, it hollows us out so we may love more deeply and completely the next time.

Now as I pad from room to room, there is only silence and I am sad. But Muse’s love echoes in the stillness, and I imagine all my guardian angel dogs trailing along behind me. They will remain forever, a part of my heart... ears, nose and wagging tail.

Mari Gayatri Stein is a writer and artist living on a bamboo nursery in southern Oregon. Her last two books were Unleashing Your Inner Dog: Your Best Friend’s Guide to Life (New World Library) and The Buddha Smiles (White Cloud Press). She has just completed a children’s book; she loves dogs and has many dog-like traits. www.marigayatri.com.