N o 95. One man and his dog.

David on Whitehall Farm in Stronsay, Orkney, of our childhood on a working farm in the 1930s before we lost our innocence.

No 95. One man and his dog.

My first friend was Spot, father’s old dog, a bowfert on the old style with shaggy coat, brown and white, heavy and capable of dealing with sheep or cattle without fear or favour. Not many of these hardy old-style dogs around now, the sleek nervy Border Collie has taken over.
Spot was coming on a bit and you could teach him nothing. But he was big enough that when we were still small we tried to ride on his back. Very patient. We tried to make and put a harness on him to pull our sledge but not too effective. He would lie patiently at the back door until father came out, then off they went. Trim was his younger companion, a more traditional dog but chained up when not working. I think our father did not trust him too much, but it is also a truism that two dogs can get up to mischief if allowed loose together that neither would do on their own.

I had little to do with dogs then for many years until working at Greenland Mains. Donald Nicholson was our shepherd then and I was in my very early years of learning a trade which you never cease to learn, i.e. farming.

Donald had a Beardie, I forget his name or where he came from. Possibly I think from his Coghill relatives at Kirk, Bower. Lets call him Beardie. Again not many left. Hair down over his eyes like a Romney sheep. Quiet, but when we were going out of Dickies lambing field heading for our 3 o’clock cup of tea at Donald’s nearby house, we would find the dog no longer at our heels.
Maybe three hundred ewes or more in the lambing field. But out of that number Beardie would appear gently moving a ewe towards us, picked out by himself I know not how.
If Donald said ”Leave it and come here”, Beardie ignored him. He knew better. And sure enough when he had taken the ewe up to us it was in the process of lambing. We had not seen it, but he had. And knew what to do. Take the ewe to us for assistance, even if it was a perfectly normal lambing with no distress. No hurry. And he was always right. Quite uncanny, we could only marvel.
He would catch any lamb we wanted by nosing it over on the run, then lying on top of the lamb and holding it down gently with his fore paws until we came up. That was sometimes needed when we saw what we called a “Stuck Lamb” out in the field, a few days old, a euphemism for a lamb that badly needed it’s bottom cleaned. Not attended to that lamb would die. Beardie knew it, and again would take appropriate action even on his own. Beardies had a great reputation for brains, and no way am I going to dispute it.

Donald had various dogs but had one bitch who produced a litter to Beardie, though none of them were Beardies. I was usually working at the Square in winter with the cattle and brother David was working out doors. But going down to the lambing field in the evenings was our normal practice.
We each got a pup from Donald, I think David’s was white, mine was the traditional black with a very little bit of white under his throat.
We were introduced by Donald to the choosing of a pup, six weeks old and time to wean them. Donald told us to pick one and lift him by the tail. If he squealed or struggled, reject him. If he had a wall eye, reject him. If the pup neither squealed nor struggled but just looked at you, put him on one side as a possible. Such stoicism was desirable.
I am sure today that process would be banned if the Welfare people knew of it, but we were picking a working dog to share the hard vicissitudes of life with us and that method of choosing had a long history. Then final choosing. Which one did we fancy. Which one met your eye without looking away. Look at the pup’s feet - big feet, big dog. Even at six weeks they would show very positive individuality, a foretaste of what they would become when grown up working dogs. I called my pick an unimaginative Ben. He was a good friend of mine for many long years.
We had a few milking cows at Greenland Mains that in summer went out to the field to graze, to be brought in at milking time morning and evening. The gate of the 36 acre field of New Hansel was left open, the cows found their own way there after milking.
Came 4.30 pm, and, whatever we were doing, and in a quiet conversational voice I could talk to Ben. But if I said the words “Fetch the Cows, Ben” off he would go, take the cows out of the field entirely on his own and gently and without any chasing or fuss up the road and round to the milking byre door. If I forgot to send him off he went anyway at the appointed hour. A great time keeper. The cows were pretty well trained too, each went into their own stall and waited to be milked, often without tying the neck chain. They knew their names and their places.

Ben had another characteristic. About 4 o’clock in the afternoon he would disappear. The mystery was solved when Danny Morrison, who drove his bus up to Barrock and then back down to go to Wick, told me Ben waited for him to go up, raced alongside him in the field, waited for Danny’s return to race him back. Then, honour satisfied, he came home. He never went onto the road, just had a good chase with the bus. Not interested in cars.
Time went on. I bought Lower Dounreay and Nettie Dunnet from Keiss and I married on 23rd Nov. 1953 and went to our first home, the excellent farmhouse of Lower Dounreay, built 1860, demolished by UKAEA Oct. 2003. We left it unwillingly in May 1956 for Isauld, but had no choice in the matter. Ben came too.
Ben had the most useful trait of his father of knocking down any lamb we wanted, but as gentle as could be. To see him nudge the lamb over with his nose was a treat. Just say “Catch the lamb” and he did. No biting or nipping at all, just that nudge under it’s backside.
He would catch a ewe for us when asked, gripping it under the throat by the wool but never biting, holding it for us to take over. Very good at it too. Though the ewe would be much heavier than Ben, it seemed mesmerised by his grip and would stand still. Made lambing outdoors feasable but now we are long moved on to indoor lambing, and could do no other.
I went to Aberdeen late one October to buy some Leicester Ram Lambs. Borrowed father’s Ford Consul car as the Ford 5 cwt I had then was mighty cold with no heating. Went to Aberdeen late one day, sale next day, home third day. I forgot that I had transferred Ben from my van into the boot of father’s car.
Home again at Isauld I opened the boot. Ben regarded me with his usual patient charm, jumped out and relieved himself for what seemed a long hour, though that was I think impossible. All the long way to Aberdeen and back he had not uttered a sound, and his manners had been impeccable !!!.
He lived to be 16 years old, died peacefully one night. He lies buried at Isauld under an apple tree in the walled garden.