Country Living – Forever Bonnie

I was ill-prepared for the profound sorrow I felt with the death of my husband’s main heading dog. In her last hours, lying next to her alone on the floor of the vets, waiting for my husband, I saw the fragility of her life and the importance it had to mine rip apart our steely resolve – exposing the raw flesh of mutual admiration and respect.

Like most sheep farmers, we had many a working dog, but none ever came close to the magnitude of Bonnie, who held court as top dog on this farm while others came and went. She knew no other home but ours – every crest, every creek, every low and every steep. Bonnie was a command dog void of command or whistle, a rare and unique instinct that seemed to connect with her boss’s thoughts. At the height of her stellar working career, she could eye-out a single flyblown ewe from a mob of hundreds in a big paddock, catch it and hold it until her boss came to collect it – incredible to watch. She was achingly methodical in her thought processes, and she rarely barked. Of course, the respect she bestowed upon my husband during her life was never extended to his “other woman”. That woman who also vied for his affections and trust.

Lying next to her exhausted body on the vet floor, my mascara mixed with my tears, and scribbled poignant paragraphs flashed across my mind. It was my calligraphy for the detailed script outlining the precious intertwining moments we shared in life. One day, when I was left alone to yard up a mob of ewes and expecting her help, she decided to sideline her incredible skills, preferring to watch me aimlessly run and scream. With ewes breaking out all around, I surrendered my knees to the dirt, a blithering broken mess, as she peered at me through the wooden rails with a grin on her face – you bitch!

She intrinsically seemed to know when I was wearing white and going out. A sneaky slither past, a cheeky swish of her muddy tail, a backward glance and pert grin and suddenly she had another cunning win. Unlike most dogs, Bonnie had an entire farm at her disposal, so why in God’s name did she choose to poo directly under my washing line? There is no doubt in my mind she knew this made me irate! She was “argy bargy” when it came to my husband’s affections and pushy and growly if I ever had the audacity to sit on the right-hand side behind my husband on the quad.

It was not until we sold the last of our ewes, leased out the farm and the new dogs moved in that I realised the importance of her being. Something died inside her that day. A deep sense of devastation – a soldier without an army, a working dog without her purpose.

Initially, my chooks replaced her desperate need to “eye-out”. Hours a day spent creeping back and forth watching them, but this failed to fill her void. She started to wander, miserable and lost. She was twice picked up on Highway 16, her paws ripped up from the bitumen trying to get to her boss in Auckland. My husband then resorted to taking her to his office in the city, but a construction mascot she did not want to be. Tethered on the back of his ute, her new concrete world did not replace her natural one, and the unrelenting innocent affections from passersby  did not mend her broken heart.

On the floor of the vets, I lay down next to her, tenderly rubbing my hands along her back – a bridge that once carried the responsibility of our livelihood. Her breathing was shallow, but my thoughts were deep. We were never in each other’s shadows but merely part of them. Two beings carrying a different burden for our family. Leaning over I whispered “goodbye” and “thank you” in her ear. She slowly raised her head and opened one eye. She knew, and I knew. I touched her once more and closed the door. The next morning, we placed her on the quad wrapped in my husband’s farm jacket. One final ride to her resting place, high on a hill, overlooking her farm. Bonnie was buried with full family honours and forever will she be rounding up the stock on her farm. Good girl, Bonnie, good girl.

Julie Cotton
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