06/07/2025
Nicole
In the summer of 2011 I received an email with a photo of two big fuzzy white dogs. It was from someone “in the know” at the local animal shelter. The dogs had not yet been put up as “found” so this was an insider communication (special!). I believe there was a reason for the lack of publicity, but this is only speculation on my part.
At the time we had one livestock guardian dog: Derry, a big, white fuzzy dog and just a grand soul. I’d been thinking for some time that he might like a cohort. I wasn’t sure about two. But I said, ok at the least let me come to the shelter and have a conversation with these dogs.
Henry and Nicole (it wasn’t until later on that they actually divulged their names) were in a kennel. Indoors. Out of their element. The shelter staff said they were “unsocialized”. I took one look at them and blurted out, “hey you guys are farm dogs, aren’t you?” They said, in their best sarcastic canine voice, “well, DUH.” They were incredibly unimpressed to have been snatched up during their “walkabout”.
We arranged with animal control to bring Henry and Nicole to do a trial run here – to make sure they were, indeed, “farm dogs.” I hadn’t exactly (consciously, at least) planned to keep them here. Two new big dogs? That’s a lot. But Henry bit through his leash and Nicole hid under the truck and would not be coaxed out. The officer called in to HQ and said, “um, is it ok if these dogs stay at the farm? Because I don’t think they intend to leave.”
It was clear and Henry and Nicole had suffered very poor treatment. Henry would actually yelp if you even reached to touch his shoulders. Nicole would just give you a sideways look and skedaddle. It took almost a full year for these two to accept that humans could be OK. They were brilliant working dogs, patrolling the property, napping most of the time but always with one eye open, watching over the sheep and other animals.
Each of them ran away exactly once. Henry, on Thanksgiving. He returned the following morning exhausted limping, and saying, “you were right, this is a good place and I’m never leaving.” Nicole, on New Year’s Day. I was alerted to a “large white dog” stopping traffic on the nearest busy road. I ran down and found numerous vehicles stopped. People had gotten out of their cars and had put several paper plates in a row on the ground with treats on each of them, trying to lure them to their cars and out of harm’s way. Nicole was sampling the food with obvious delight, but would have nothing to do with getting in their cars. Now, she had only been at the farm 4 months and had certainly never done anything I’d asked her to, but I put my hands on my hips, and said sternly, “Nicole! Get on home!” And, to my amazement, she did. And never ran away again.
Nicole lived here for nearly 10 years, most of those outside with the other animals. Recently she had shown a sensitivity to extreme temperatures, and so came into the house when it was super cold or super hot. She didn’t shed out her coat properly and had to be shaved in the springtime, which she accepted with a lot of grace. In the last year, Nicole took to sleeping in my bedroom, positioned right at the end of the dresser. Several times a week Mamie, a hyper-alert and reactive little dog would startle by any sort of sound during the night, would leap off the bed and dive bomb Nicole with a lot of fanfare and noise. The first few times they had “words.” And then Nicole, a smart cookie, knew it was all just ridiculous bluster. She’d sit up, hair tousled and eyes bleary and say, “oh, what now!?” It was just their routine.
Sometimes she’d lie right next to the bed, so I could drape my leg over and scratch her with my foot, which she seemed to like. Nicole came a long, long way from the untrusting and sad creature she had once been.
Nicole died this past week at age 13.
