Randy with his best buddy Barney.
“Like many Sheepdogs, Randy was never a great ball player. If I tossed a ball or a stick, he would run out and pick it up but usually brought it back only to lay down with it tightly gripped in his mouth as if saying “OK, you may have had it once, but now it’s mine.”
All the houses on my street have large, deep front yards and are pretty wide. At that time, up the street a few houses lived a young family with two boys about 6 to 10. They often played ball in the front yard since it was large enough to make an impromptu field.
One time when I was out in the yard with Randy, he sat watching the neighbor kids as they set up a little baseball diamond using their tennis shoes as bases. He looked on with interest as they positioned the bases and then as one of the kids picked up a nerf ball and bat.
Suddenly, Randy took off, straight as a string for second base. Grabbing the poor kid’s shoe on the run he made a fast retreat back to my house with his prize in his mouth.
“Randy!” I yelled.
Realizing he had done something, but not willing to give up yet, he swerved and headed straight for the front door as if to get inside before he was caught.
“HEY! He took my SHOE!” one of the boys yelled once the shock of the blatant theft had worn off. I walked to the front door and pulled the evidence of his crime from my dog’s mouth, handing it back to the kid with a mumbled apology. They resumed their game, keeping a suspicious eye on my dog while Randy sat down once more to observe, the vision of watchful patience.
Suddenly, as before, Randy made a dash for one of the bases, taking it on the run and gleefully bounding back toward me. Even though the boy was partly prepared this time, he was no match for the speed of a young sheepdog.
Pleased with his success, Randy arrived at my feet, flopping on the ground with the shoe between his front feet and covering it with his head possessively, daring anyone to take it from him.
The kids, more baseball fans than dog fanciers, I guess, were not amused.
A week or two later, I was out in the front yard with Randy again and did not notice that he had quietly disappeared.
“MOM!! THAT SHEEPDOG STOLE MY SHOE AGAIN!!!” I heard ringing out through the neighborhood. Looking up I saw my sheepdog, the neighborhood thief, headed back to the front door as fast as his long legs could take him, a boy’s tennis shoe firmly gripped in his mouth.
This time I had to appologize to the boy’s mother as I carried the shoe back up the street to them.
From time to time, after that, I would find a single shoe on the front porch. I knew at once where they came from and would usually just take them up the street and leave them on the neighbor’s porch. Then one day, I found an expensive lady’s pump on the porch. That one I just quietly slipped into my covered trash can, not wanting to know where my wayward young sheepdog had been that time.!”
Pretty funny I thought, and yes the dog’s name really is Randy, I did not alter the story.