Farm Dog Changes

Note: This is a fictional story about the kinds of changes all of us face.

Two other farmers, my Granddaddy and my Daddy, spent their summers in this hayfield. With them, dozens of dogs came and went. Now the field has me. My only boy, Po’Jo’, grew up with me. We played and hunted in this field, these woods, ‘til I was about 15. Then came Lucy, the huntin’est dog you ever saw. Now there’s Sweetie Pie, a collie-chow-shepherd-mix, the biggest, fuzziest dog I’ve ever had. Sometimes I think about dog years. And mouse years, too. Each dog knew, saw and hunted generations of mice and bunnies right in this field. Cedar trees look across the Bermuda grass to see new okra plants every summer. I understand lots of farm cycles. But not all. I sure wasn’t ready for this part of the cycle. 

When Lucy got old, her hind legs stiff, I’d carry her to the farm cart. It’s a farm cart—beat-up, forest green, with a plywood platform for hauling hay bales. In a past life, it was a golf cart at somewhere fancier than here. But it’s chugging along and seems content to carry hay and old dogs.  Lucy, a Snoopy-looking tan dog with a white saddle, would cross her little white paws like a queen on her carriage. 

I’d creep along, not bouncing her, then park her in the shade by the pasture gate. Then I’d walk back to the barn, fetch the tractor, and get to work cutting hay in the same hayfield my Granddaddy planted, Daddy cut, and where I learned to drive. First, I used the now-old golf cart, then an orange Alice Chalmers tractor so old it had a hand crank. When cousin Clayton got that tiny rusted-out Yugo, a car not much bigger or sturdier than our farm cart, we taught ourselves to drive a stick shift in this field. Even at 14, he was too big of a fella for either vehicle. The orange tractor and the tiny car rust out behind the cedars now. 

Two generations taught me driving, dog care, and okra planting. And how to cut hay. Follow the fence line. Set the pattern. That’s how it all works. But I always wanted to make up my own pattern, to start in the middle, cut a paisley center, then an ever-expanding swath out. “Lord, have mercy, Son. Accept the cycle. Stick to the pattern. Get it done before the rain.” 

Round the outside, then. First, a long straight cut along the cedar woods. Look up, sharp left. Long straightaway along the dirt road. Turn. Cow pasture. Turn. Okra patch. Turn. Over and over. Round and round an ever-shrinking world. There was even a pattern to the smells. Dust, cow poop, cedar, and I don’t know why, but the veggie garden smells like roasted peanuts.

When Lucy was a pup, she’d sit by the veggie garden gate close to Momma. Tiny tan Lucy, olive green okra, and that blue hat floating through head-high okra. But Lucy watched me. One morning, I saw it happen. I saw Lucy change. Her hunting instinct kicked in. I was looking back. (You have to look back when you cut hay.) A big rabbit darted out of the hayfield, into the okra. Little ones scampered helter-skelter all around reclining Lucy. In a flash, dormant beagle genes hidden inside Lucy fired, and she took off like a heat-seeking rocket.  Lucy emerged with the bunny and looked me in the eye. She knew. She trotted toward me, finishing her snack as she ran, and then took her place behind my mower. 

Left flank. Every pass. Every time. 

That rotund half-breed could be lying under the dining room table with George-frigging-Clooney giving her a belly rub with his toes, feeding her biscuits, but none of that mattered when she heard the tractor crank up. Lucy's little white paws would start running before she stood up. Bacon stuck on her lip. She’d push through the screen door, beeline to position, and fall into formation, about ten feet back. She knew that I settle into a pattern. She knew that I always sit on the tractor seat and turn my body to the left.

Some guys cut right, some left. No matter which, you end up looking back more than forward. Don’t look ahead. Lucy knew my position. My style. I kept my right hand on the steering wheel, but my torso twisted left, eye on the cut line behind me. Every once in a while, she’d catch my eye. 

Cutting hay isn’t the same as cutting grass. It takes a totally different set of driving skills. More rewarding, too. For one thing, the pasture grass is high and thick, so when it lays out cut, you feel like you’ve done more. After the cut, you get to look into a hidden world–little tunnels, dens, and hallways of the rodent warrens. Their short lives revealed. Normally, mice live a year. But not when this unimaginable force takes the entire roof off their world and Lucy pounces. Over the years, she’s known a lot of mice and rabbits. In dog years, Lucy is 72. How old is she in mouse years?

When I’m on this ‘89 John Deere, moving in a slow straight line for hours, alone, I think about things. Nothing too deep or distracting. Hum of the tractor, sun on skin, round and round. I get into a zone. I make up stories about the dog, mice, the cousins who’ll descend in a few days to help get the hay baled, moved, and stacked in the barn. Endless stories. My zone. Comforting occasional glimpses of Momma’s blue hat and whichever dog ‘till they’re gone. Then it’s just me, my story, the cut line, and the heat. 

I never asked anybody else what they think about. I’ve seen guys cut in all different ways. Shirtless, just jeans and boots. Some wrap their head in a t-shirt turban. Lazy cousin Clayton laid his cell phone on the seat between his thick thighs and watched videos. He never liked the hot work, the dirty work. Everyone was relieved when he went on to work at the hospital. Jimmy, back in high school, would take a leak right from the tractor seat. These days, girls cut too. Chelsea, on the next farm over, cuts wearing a full-head covering bug hat with Bluetooth earbuds. The only detail that matters, though, is that you sit a little crooked and look backward. Ahead is gonna be alright. Round and round. 

Laser beam Lucy didn’t care what anybody was thinking about. Stalking. Gluttonous. She’d hunt. Eat. Hunt. She’d eat so many mice she’d have to waddle over to the shade of the okra and wait for me. She got fat. Slow. Something happened that made her ear flop and her hind left leg drag. That’s when I’d bring her on the golf cart. She left me early, 90 in dog years. Me almost 30 and no son to teach how to cut this field. NO chance I’ll meet another guy like me who wants to join me way out here. Clayton’s moved on, too. Not far though.  He’s got a good job now and a family. He’s got a whole slew of little ones, and we all have hope one of them will fit in on the farm.