The Farm Hand

All of you with fur babies have to read this to them as a bedtime story. Its about how their ancestors lived!

Scamp was Otis’s farm dog. Otis was my Father-in-law who sharecropped different farms around Tipton County his whole life. I’m not sure how Scamp came to the farm; he was there when I came into the family in the late ‘60’s. Scamp had the markings and size of a Border collie but was mainly mutt I think. He had no formal training, just instinct and practice.  Every morning He’d meet Otis at the back door ready to go to work. He’d follow Otis out to the pasture.

Otis would open the gate and say, “Go get ‘em Scamp.”

Scamp would run full tilt to the far end of the pasture and start herding the cattle (or pigs, or sheep, it didn’t matter to him) toward the gate. Otis usually just waited at the gate. He’d take out his pipe and pocket knife out of his bib overalls and clean the charred tobacco from the pipe bowl and reload it with fresh Velvet pipe tobacco. About the time Scamp had the animals lined up and headed for the gate, Otis would be lighting his pipe. He’d shut the gate and go on to the next chore.

It was poetry in motion watching scamp work. He very seldom barked, instead he would position himself in front of a reluctant beast with his head positioned in such a way that the animal would have to look him in the eye. It looked like he was talking to the animal. If the animal went left Scamp went left, if the animal went right Scamp went right. This posturing usually worked but if diplomacy failed Scamp would resort to nipping at the haunches to get his point across. This was all the more remarkable because Scamp only had three good legs. He had gotten his leg caught in a fence and had to chew off his own foot to get free.

When Scamp was done with his chores he’d survey his domain to make sure all was as he left it the day before. He’d stop at his water bowl for a quick drink and then off again to make sure the foxes weren’t in the hen house or the coons in the barn. One Saturday when we were out on the farm to help with the chores there was a trail of chicken feathers leading to the woods behind the barn. As we were following the trail to the back of the barn Scamp took off in front of us like a shot. We didn’t see the fox but Scamp did! He chased that fox down along the fence row just out of the plowed ground. Half way through the field Scamp was poised, ready to grab the fox by the neck! Just as he lunged for the fox that sly fox ducked through the fence. Scamp’s three legs couldn’t maneuver that fast. He let out a yelp as he tumbled over the plowed ground.

A while later he limped back where we were and postured with his head down in front of his paws, his tongue hanging out panting, and looked up at Otis as if to say, “ Sorry boss, I almost had him!”

By the early seventies Otis’s age and health demanded he give up farming. ’73 was the last year for crops. He sold all of his equipment in a farm auction and moved into town. Scamp stayed till the end. One of the last things to go was the chickens. Some of the family, me included, was out in the chicken lot with wire coat hangers straightened out with a single bend on the end to form a hook. The idea was to snag the birds by a leg and put them in a crate. Those birds knew something was up and they scattered. The original idea was to sneak up on them at dusk when they were roosting. It didn’t work out well. I’m glad there were no cell phones back then to record the fiasco that followed. We were running around like a chicken with its head cut off (pun intended) trying to catch the chickens but they managed to stay just out of our grasp. By this time I was bent over with my hands on my knees, panting like a dog when I noticed Scamp a few feet away on his belly, with his head up and tongue out surveying the situation. I swear there was a smile on his face.

We were ready to give up and call it a night when Scamp bounded by at an all out run. He’d had enough fun at our expense and it was time for him to get to work. No one said anything and Otis wasn’t with us to guide him. Before anyone knew what he was up to he had a chicken pinned down with his front paws.

He looked up as if to say, “You gonna get this thing or not?”

We looked at each other and shrugged. As soon as we would grab a chicken he was off to corner another one. We could barely get them crated before he had another one ready. He made short work of the chicken catching. We all made a big deal over the dog but he let us pet him and then he moved on. He knew something was up because he hadn’t seen Otis for a long time.

The last thing left on the farm was Scamp. They went out to get him and bring him home to the house. Since it was Otis Scamp got in the car. He was really glad to see Otis again and wondered what adventure they were off to next. When they got out of the car at the house in town he was puzzled. He didn’t smell any live stalk, and the only chickens were now in the freezer.  They put Scamp in the back room with his old blanket and plenty of food and water and made over him but they knew by the defeated look on his face he was not happy. He’d never been chained or cooped up in his life. The four bedroom walls might as well have been a cage. About mid morning of the next day when Scamp figured out there was no farm to tend he bolted out the back door. A few days later he was spotted back on the farm thirty miles from town by a neighbor. They fed him till Otis could pick him up and take him to the house again. As soon as Scamp had a chance he bolted again. I think he still had a score to settle with that old fox! I don’t know what happened to him this time but I like to think he died happy and free!