Just Another Tuesday Leo Alpha of Anecdotes: Fence? No Comment.

Story by Heather McShea

I should probably begin by explaining something. Humans have a habit of giving ordinary days very dramatic names.

“Miracle.” “Rescue.” “Hero.”

Out here, we have simpler definitions. Sometimes you just notice someone who needs you. And then you stay.

Now, before anyone starts spreading rumors about me being a “working dog,” I would like to remind everyone that I have spent years developing a very respectable reputation as a large, fluffy piece of porch furniture with exceptional hearing.

It’s an important job.

The shade must be monitored. The breeze must be evaluated. The occasional suspicious chicken activity must be reported.

People think lying around is easy. It isn’t.

You have to be alert to the possibility of being disturbed. A guardian cannot simply abandon these responsibilities. Well…Unless the night presents an opportunity.

There is a small detail my humans do not know. The fence has always worked exactly as intended. Beyond that, I decline to comment.

Every guardian deserves a hobby. Mine happens to involve the occasional midnight inspection of the neighboring farms and ranches. Okay – snooping. Strictly professional, of course.

I walk. I sniff. I observe. I make sure everyone is exactly where they should be.

Jax knows. Of course Jax knows.

Jax knows everything. He is an Australian Shepherd. It is physically impossible for him not to know everything. He thinks he’s a theoretical philosophy professor. He has theories about everything. None of them are particularly useful, but he is extremely confident.

Most nights, my adventures are uneventful. A rabbit pretending she’s invisible. A coyote who thinks he is far more intimidating than he actually is.

The cattle, of course.

They still give me the side eye after that little incident when they decided the grass was greener on the other side of absolutely everything. Jax and I were merely assisting with their return home.

They seemed less appreciative than expected. Cattle are like that.

Then one night, my nose found something different. A tiny human. Alone.

Now, humans have many words for this situation. I have only one. “Unacceptable.”

A tiny human should be with its own kind. The small ones are never supposed to be alone. That is how it works.

When the tiny human saw me, he reached for my fur. Not cautiously. Not like he was unsure. Like he already knew. That was the interesting part.

The little one was tired. Very tired. The kind of tired that reaches deeper than a long walk.

I know fear. Every creature does. But sometimes fear has already spent itself, leaving only the need for someone to stand beside you.

He didn’t know my name.

He didn’t know where we were going.

He only knew one thing.

He was no longer alone.

Humans like to think trust is something they grant us. They forget we’re assessing them, too, and we tend to figure them out fairly quickly.

This tiny human had already decided.

I was safe.

He held on. I walked. Very carefully, because tiny humans are surprisingly determined but not especially equipped for long-distance travel. They also seem to have remarkably few survival instincts.

Honestly, I don’t know how they make it through a day. Unlike Great Pyrenees, who are built for endurance and the occasional dramatic sigh.

I considered returning through my private entrance. Unfortunately, tiny humans are not designed for secret fence negotiations. Mostly, I didn’t want to give away my secret. So we took the longer route. By the time we reached the homestead, the night was quiet. The front porch seemed like the obvious choice. Humans eventually come out of front doors. Usually carrying coffee. Sometimes food. Either way, they emerge.

The tiny human curled up beside me. I stayed. Not because I was brave. Not because I expected praise. Because that is what guardians do. Well, a small statue, perhaps. Nothing excessive.

The next thing I knew, morning had arrived.

The door opened. Humans staggered out and stopped dead. They stared at me. I stared back.

Their expressions went through several stages: confusion, disbelief, and what I can only assume was the sudden realization that something had gone terribly off-script. None of those stages involved coffee at this point.

Apparently, waking up to find a tiny, sleeping human curled up beside their giant, white, rather heroic-looking dog was not part of most people’s morning routine.

I thought my overall presentation was quite impressive, if I may say so. The snoring somewhat undermined it.

Eventually, the questions began to form.

There was some noticeable human buffering. Then: In a whispering yell – LEO!

“Where did he come from?”

“How did Leo find him?”

“How did this happen?”

I understand nearly every word humans say. The unfortunate part is that they have no idea what I am saying back. And humans consider themselves the superior species. I’ve never seen any reason to correct them.

I explained everything. The midnight patrol. The tiny human. The walk home. The porch. The excellent decision-making.

They heard none of it. Then something remarkable happened.

Nobody asked how I got outside the fence.

Nobody checked the gate.

Nobody searched for a broken board or suspicious opening.

Usually, when Jax and I escape, humans become excellent detectives. They look for damage. They look for clues. To be fair, our previous adventures have involved some questionable engineering decisions. This time was different.

Apparently, if you return home with someone else’s tiny human, people become astonishingly forgiving about your own whereabouts.

Noted.

The humans called me a hero. Appropriate. Finally, some recognition! But I was simply doing what I know to do.

And, apparently, doing what I know to do exceptionally well.

Somewhere out there, another big white canine with a different name is probably pretending he doesn’t understand what all the fuss was about.

Good dog, Buford. He understands.

Humans are funny. They call it a miracle when a dog does what he was born to do.

Personally, it’s just another Tuesday.

With a respectful tip of the hat to Buford of Arizona…

and every guardian who understands that perimeter checks occasionally require leaving the perimeter. It’s a community service.