It's Raining: Great Pyrenees Don't Seem to Care

It's been raining for what feels like the last thirty-seven years. I’ve forgotten what dry socks feel like. The driveway has become a river, the barnyard’s a mud spa, and my boots now make squelching sounds that would make a frog blush. Welcome to storm season at American Way Farm, where the forecast is always “damp with a 90% chance of regret.”

And yet, despite the biblical weather, the Livestock Guardian Dogs (or LGDs, for those who’ve never had the pleasure of owning a 120-pound shed monster with a martyr complex) are still out there, bravely doing their job. Job description? Keep all four-legged predators away from the goats. Personal satisfaction? 10/10. Shelter provided? One sad tree.

This particular LGD (let’s call her “Soggy Sue”) has stationed herself beneath the only tree in the pasture, which, bless its barky little heart, is trying really hard to be a pine umbrella. It’s not. It's more of a decorative suggestion of shelter. Like those cocktail umbrellas—cute, but ultimately useless in a thunderstorm.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: “Surely the dog is just dozing out there in the drizzle, off the clock like the rest of us in weather like this.” Oh no. You see, even when she looks dead asleep, snoring and soggy, that dog is on full alert. Her ears may be flat against her head, but trust me—any sudden movement, suspicious scent, or twig snapped in an unapproved direction would launch her to her feet like a canine missile with an attitude problem. It’s like she’s got predator radar wired into her soul.

And what about the goats she’s protecting, you ask? Where are they during this courageous display of damp dedication?

Oh, they’re in the barn. Dry. Cozy. Possibly toasting marshmallows. I walked in earlier and I swear one of them had made a little blanket fort in the hay and was humming to herself. They're all nestled in there like royalty, looking out the barn door at their loyal guardian as if to say, “You missed a spot behind your ear, Your Majesty.”

Now listen, I have a suggestion. Just a friendly, totally-not-judging, whispered-through-a-cracked-window sort of suggestion: Go inside.

Seriously, girl. Go lay down with the goats. Snuggle up. Live your best fleece-lined life. You’ve earned it. I promise that bobcat isn’t going to brave the squelch-fest of a pasture just for a wet goat burrito. And if he does, we’ve got a door and opposable thumbs—we’ll hold the fort while you towel off.

But no. There she sits. Or lays. Half-submerged like a Roman statue of sacrifice. Occasionally blinking. Occasionally twitching. Always guarding.

You know, I have half a mind to go out there and drag her in myself, but last time I tried that, I ended up face-first in the mud while she just rolled over and sighed like I was interrupting her dramatic monologue. I’d like to believe she’s committed to her job, but I’m starting to think she’s just holding a grudge because I gave the last bit of leftover meatloaf to the chickens.

So we’ll just let her be.

Out there. In the rain. Watching. Waiting. Possibly composing poetry.

"Ewww, it's wet. We don't do wet."

Meanwhile, the goats will remain inside, dry and judgmental, with their superior barn privileges and their uncanny ability to act like they, not I, pay the mortgage.

Stay dry out there, friends. And if you see a large white blur lurking under a tree in a thunderstorm, don’t worry—it’s not a ghost. It’s just our LGD, doing her job with soggy pride and a damp sense of duty.

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©2011 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm