The Very Versatile Collie

This article was written for the March and June 2008 issue of the Breed Column in the AKC Gazette--
The Very Versatile Collie

The opening sentence of our breed Standard describes the essence of the Collie as a “lithe, strong, responsive, active dog.” The Standard further informs us the structure indicates “speed and grace” and “the face shows high intelligence.” The Collie’s heritage as an all-purpose farm worker and the close relationship between farmer and dog translates these days to teamwork in agility, obedience, herding and tracking. Changes in the last decade to more positive training methods, combined with their strong desire to please, make Collies an excellent performance choice.

Our National breed club supports several performance programs. In 2004 the CCA established the ROM-P—a parallel registry to the ROM (Registry of Merit for sires and dams of conformation champions)—for sires and dams of performance titled offspring. A ROM-P sire must have five offspring that earn titles in herding, tracking, obedience, or agility. Two of the five offspring must have advanced titles. Dams must have three performance titled offspring, and two that have earned advanced titles. There are over 80 Collies with ROM-P designation—50 dams and 37 sires. These dogs represent a cross section of families and pedigrees, demonstrating that ability and talent run wide and deep within our breed.

The CCA also offers a Versatility Award program that is very popular. It rewards Collies competing in breed and performance based on a point system. Points must be earned in conformation, obedience (includes obedience, tracking and agility), and herding categories. Advanced titles merit a Versatility Excellent Award. Each year at the CCA National Specialty, the chairman of the Versatility Committee gives a presentation before an enthusiastic audience describing each dog’s accomplishments. An indication of this program’s success is the steady increase in number of awards. Since 1993 CCA has bestowed 109 Versatility Awards and 39 Versatility Excellent Awards.

Performance Collie folks are fortunate to have the statistical talents of Suzanne Schwab, who generously shared her knowledge for this article.

Suzanne reports, “From 2002 to 2006, 19 Collies earned AKC Herding Champion titles. The only breed to earn more HC’s in that time period were Border Collies, even though Collies rank behind GSD’s, Shelties, Pembrokes, and Aussies in total number of registered dogs.” Twenty-one Collies have earned HC’s since the beginning of the program, and Suzanne notes that four of them are rescues all trained by Linda Kratz. Herding talent runs throughout Collie families as 10 different breeders bred the remaining 17 HC titles, and seven of the HC’s are also conformation champions. Of the 21 HC Collies, three have UD’s, four have CDX’s, one has a MX/MJX, and one has an AX/AXJ. Fifty-two Collies earned one or more HX titles and of those 17 are conformation champions. Through August 2007 a total of 600 Collies have at least one AKC herding test or trial title. Of those, 218 are Herding Started level or higher, and 64 are also conformation champions. The number of advanced titled herding dogs who are also conformation champions is impressive. Our forebears’ missive to preserve intelligence and athleticism while striving for aesthetic qualities puts the conformation and performance Collie in one great package!

While many breeds have sharp divisions between show and working lines, our breed, to its credit does not. Started in 1993, the CCA Versatility program really took off in the new millennium! One hundred and six Collies earned VA or VX titles since 2000. Keep in mind that is with our registration numbers steadily falling over the same time period. To earn a Versatility Award or Versatility Excellent award, points must be earned in conformation, the minimum being a major. The overwhelming number of dogs receiving recognition in each level, however, are champions who are also sired by champions, with most of the dams also champions. The diversity of pedigrees, breeders, and owners indicates show lines are producing Collies capable of going well beyond the show ring.

2006 was particularly good for MACH Collies—six earned their first MACH, with one each for a MACH 2, MACH 3, and MACH 6. Suzanne Schwab reports “including the 12 MACH’s, there are 64 Collies with an MX and/or MXJ, and 180 with an AX and/or AXJ. Three of the MACH’s and eight of the 52 Master’s level are rescues.” Suzanne, herself an avid tracker, states, “since 1990, two Collies (both trained by Silvia Shultz) earned VST/CT titles and these same dogs also have UD titles.” Eighteen Collies have TDX’s since 1990, when Suzanne began keeping stats, and of those, eight are conformation champions. She also points out that only five trainers account for half of the 67 Collies with tracking titles. A small but stalwart and consistent group!

In obedience only six Collies have earned an OTCH, with just two of them since 1990. With less than a handful of breeds dominating the OTCH titles, Collies are far from unique in their lower numbers. Twenty-one Collies earned UDX’s, respectable relative to their overall popularity and at the UD level Collies do better, ranking in the top 20 or so for titles per year. The comparison is similar for CDX’s and CD’s. In all, Suzanne has recorded 2018 Collies earning an obedience title since she began keeping statistics, with 140 at UD or higher. Nineteen of the 117 UD’s are also conformation champions.

I recently spoke to Jim and Judy Smotrel about their Collies and asked them their thoughts on what makes Collies great performance dogs. “Originally we were drawn to their beauty,” Jim said, “and then discovered how much Collies like to do stuff, that it makes them happy!” He continued “because they are a herding breed Collies have a great work ethic and desire to do for you. For their size they still maintain athleticism and maneuverability.” Jim and Judy said they felt that Collies are mellow around the house yet have good energy outputs for performance. Smotrel’s attribute Bart, their first Collie, to changing their lives. In 1986 Jim acquired Bart’s CD and the rest, as they say, is history, for Bart ultimately earned many titles and became Am/Can Ch, V Ch, Can OTCh, U-UD Hi Vu Black Bart The Skyhawk UDT HT TT TDI CGC UAgII VX HOF ROM-P. The Smotrels have been competing with their Collies ever since.



A Fortunate Choice




On the eve of summer’s unofficial start I sit on our screened porch with near 13-year-old Coal sleeping at my feet. Sprawled around us are three more Collies, fur rippling as a ceiling fan disperses the heavy air. On the couch, Token’s front paws claim my lap in undisputed ownership. I’m trying to think of a topic for this month’s Gazette but instead a persistent feeling of how fortunate I am intrudes on my thoughts.

My devotion to Collies began early in my life, and while I admire and appreciate impressive wins, successful breeding programs and ROM sires and dams, there is one thing I am reminded of that is the most important aspect of dog ownership, and that is my relationship with these animals I know and love so well.

This day to day living with dogs wears the finish off floors, requires extra vacuuming and cleaning off rainy day fur shaking, but despite my frequent griping about what I could do with the extra hours and money, all is forgotten in these quiet times. Beyond competition and training, I think perhaps it is the visceral sharing of our lives that adds another dimension.

Breeders face many pressures now from anti-dog legislation, rising food and veterinary costs, and the increasing expense of pursuing our hobby. It’s a generally unfriendly environment towards breeders by localities, by extreme animal rights groups and even by the very folks who own pets. At parties people are often surprised when I tell them that I breed dogs; I guess the image they are sold by certain groups doesn’t fit when they meet and talk with me.

The fact that our sport is supported by an increasingly aging population also threatens us as breeders. There is so much competition for kids’ attention with activities that didn’t even exist a few decades ago—numerous sports and the internet keep kids under controlled environments or indoors. I remember my own childhood biking through the neighborhood, taking my dog for long walks, or earning extra money as the resident dog sitter. When both parents work, and kids have every minute planned for them, it leaves little time for pets. A recent work project took me into suburban developments where evenings were sadly quiet without the sounds of children outdoors or even a dog barking in someone’s yard. Without realizing what’s missing, there is, I think, an empty space in a life without a pet. Dogs are a connection to an ancient synchronicity when human and canine decided life would be better if we stuck together.

Some would say that it’s a sign of the times, and what can we do? I console myself with the thought that nothing is forever and this too will pass. But I don’t want to passively sit by and just hope for a change. We who breed dogs, who participate in dog related activities must also find ways to convey the rewards of pet ownership. We can encourage our breed and all breed clubs to put programs or events together that connect human and canine in such a way they will discover the joys of having a dog, even if it’s just hanging out on a hot summer evening on the porch.

From the September 2010 Breed Column/Collie

Sammy



July Montana days are filled with a hard, bright light. The heat hits you broadside. Unlike our humid Virginia summer, which wraps softly around you like a clingy overbearing friend and then seeps into your pores, this is assaultive, combative summer. The wind strikes you with its hot dry breath, and slaps at you. In the 100° heat the dogs, held for nine months as evidence in an animal abuse case, only get short walks. In the sun, black coats burn to the touch.

After two trials and a conviction, adoptions finally begin. I’m here to help the ones with behavior problems and assist with matchmaking if called upon.

“Where’s Sammy?” I ask, having been informed that out of the nearly 180 dogs, he is one of the worst off. Sally takes me to the outdoor pen where a bony, dull coated, wide-eyed dog darts frantically corner to corner. It takes three of us to catch him. We bend forward, arms outstretched, and try to interrupt the panicked running. Needing a few moments to figure out how the heck I’m going to move him, I sit on the ground and hold his leash. He pulls wildly and chokes himself trying to get away from me. Too hot to continue letting Sammy stress out, I decide we should go around the outside of the building, rather than inside past all the barking dogs, and go in the back door-against the rules. The only leash volunteers use for him is a short nylon braided choke lead meant for kennel or veterinary use.

“We can’t walk him,” they explain, “he gets out of all the collars.”

This one tightens around Sammy’s neck so that it is nearly impossible for him to get air into his lungs. He lunges to the end of it and chokes himself. It’s the best we can do for now, I intend to find a better solution.

We go into the “cat room,” where all the kitties lived during their stay in Great Falls until their adoption. Gray panel walls and dark gray carpeting give it a cool, quiet feel. A table shoved against one wall is full of discarded kitty bowls, cat food and unused bags of cat litter. It’s a nice size room, empty except for Liberty, a recuperating Collie in the small portable pen in the corner. I pull out a folding chair and sit down. Sammy throttles himself at the end of the lead trying to get as far from me as possible.

We sit for a long time. I try some of Turid Rugas’ calming signals for dogs: lick my lips, yawn, look away, turn sideways. Nothing works. He not only doesn’t approach me, he leans as far from me against the lead as he can without strangling himself. His tongue hangs out the side of his mouth, long and dripping saliva. His tail is plastered underneath his body, hard against his belly. His eyes are wide and wild. He looks every bit the terrified, tortured, about to die dog he thinks he is. The demons are stirring madly in his head, screaming at him to escape before he dies.

He listens to his demons. He does not listen to me. I watch him from the corner of my eye, and try not to stare at him directly. Staring is threatening and brings the monsters to the surface, as does moving towards him in any way. If I see him take the slightest pressure off the lead, or show the slightest fragment of relaxation, I tell him “good boy, Sammy.” Eventually he sits, a coping mechanism when it’s finally too much for him, and I praise him for that. After 30 minutes, I stand up and walk around the room. We have to be able to move from place to place without the lunge—choke routine. “It makes us look bad, Sammy,” I joke to him. We begin to walk from one end of the room to the other on a fairly loose leash. Whenever he starts to pull, I stop, he looks at me, and I praise him. It must be a strange development because instead of terrified he looks puzzled. After awhile, he looks bored, exactly the look I want.

Slowly Sammy’s face begins to relax and soften. After an hour of this, it’s time to put him back, but I’m reluctant to return him to his pen after the progress we made. Before we go out to the main room with all the dogs, I pause to chat with some of the workers, and Sammy sits beside me. Whenever he forgets and tries to bolt, I work to calm him, and he stands quietly.

“This is Sammy,” I say. There is a tinge of pride in my voice.
“Sammy?” they ask incredulously.
“Yes,” I tell them, “there’s hope.”

It’s hopeless though once we leave that room; he drags me back to his pen past all the barking and lunging dogs. I have spent nearly two hours with him in calm and quiet, and already see progress, but it is depressing to have to return him to his pen. As soon as I release him, he spins, barks and lunges.

Sammy has a habit of darting past the volunteers whenever they try to catch him. He’s lightening fast and slippery, ping ponging from one end of the pen to the other. I sit on the floor and toss treats to him, hoping I can interrupt this habit. He stops and stares at me, but won’t come near me. Finally, I sniff a treat and pretend to eat it. Sammy looks down at all the treats I have tossed on the floor and eats every crumb. When he’s finished he looks up as if to say, “I didn’t know it was food you were throwing at me!”

A young worker rummages up blankets to cover his pen top to bottom. “This will help lower the stimulation and calm him,” I tell her. When Sammy hears me say his name he peeks out between the hanging sheets and stands quietly. Another bit of progress.

For our walks outside I’ve found a new collar he can’t pull out of and fit it so he can’t choke. At the mere hint of pulling, I stop and he looks back, remembers what we are working on, and we start walking again. The one thing he cannot tolerate, though, is human touch. Catching him is easier now, but the panic still sets in. Patience is my only ally. When I reach for his collar he cringes to the ground, shaking. His eyes bulge until the whites show. I have spent a lot of time with him, but I wonder if it is well spent. He gets better in such small increments, and we still don’t know who will adopt him.

The chores are done by 4:00 p.m. and exhausted volunteer workers go home. I’ve grown to love the evenings here and I linger well past the time to leave. I have no commitments but this, and I find a strange and comforting peace with the dogs. As the volunteers leave, they turn many of the lights off, and the darkened building puts the dogs in a quiet mood. They have been fed, walked, hugged, petted, cleaned and watered. Most are sleeping, stretched out on the cool concrete floor. A hot wind blows under the half closed garage door at the front of the building, but this place is relatively comfortable considering the temperature outside.

Sammy and I have our setbacks while he learns to walk without our lunge-bolt-lunge-bolt routine. He still looks at me wildly and fearfully, like I’m a monster, when I stop and try to get control of him. Our trips outside gradually improve; we can now walk the entire length of the building without him lunging once. But as soon as we near the back door, he panics and leaps uncontrollably. Poor Sammy, there is nothing I can do about his torment of going inside. In the cat room he settles down quickly, and to my amazement he actually lays down in front of the fan blowing warm air around the room. He still won’t let me get near him; if I try and reach my hand towards him, he leans away as though I’m poison. If I hold a treat he will take it, so I count my blessings. Not so long ago this would have been impossible. “Sammy,” I say, and he looks at me and breaks my heart. As much as I wish I could, I can’t take him home with me.

My days are filled with tiny moments of seemingly insignificant events, yet I savor the time I spend with these Collies. Dogs known mainly by their number, relatively few have garnered names in the course of this long arduous trial. Sammy is one of them. When I return to Virginia I learn that Sammy’s new home will be in California. Godspeed Sammy, I pray.


From an unpublished manuscript:
The Significance of Naming
Read at Sunnybank, August 2007 at the Gathering’s The Heart of a Collie

The Visit

I walk The Place as dusk settles into the trees, light slips over the lake, shadows form around the wisteria vines. I’ve come to see Sunnybank prior to tomorrow’s crowd of people and dogs. Perry, my Collie companion for thirteen years, and the puppies are with me. In youthful glee the youngsters run exuberantly, stretch legs and chase each other. Oblivious to who has come before, they race across the lawn in pure puppy now-ness.

My own steps slow with his, as Perry explores the grounds like a familiar guest. Do all Collies feel this comfortable here? Well-worn paths draw us to stones covering dusty bones of long dead heroes of fur and teeth, courage and loyalty. The wind stirs treetops and whispers to us. I turn towards the grassy hilltop and imagine a house embraced by porches, smothered in vines. If Terhune were on that hillside, in shade of aging oaks and faded imprint of a home, would he recall his own memories of great hearts, wise eyes, and unspoken love?

As daylight fades, I remember stories of Lad, most loved. I rest my hand gently on the aging head beside me and know the same spirit lies within skin, bone, and heart of my own dog.

Where summerhouse once caught the lakeside breeze, we pause. One puppy, impatient with our progress, runs upward towards the clapboard shelter of bygone days, where toes twitched in sleep and minds dreamt of future exploits. Perhaps he thinks someone is there to greet him, but finding no one, hurries back to me.


(Winner of the Essence of Sunnybank ColliesOnLine essay contest September 2002)

My Dog's Not Lassie

It’s tough owning a breed of dog with such a tremendous amount of baggage trailing behind it, especially if the dog looks like Lassie. We drove six hours north and west to Murrysville, Pennsylvania. I’d been there a few weeks before looking at a litter of puppies. One stood out, but the breeders were still deciding who they wanted to keep. I was determined that one sable and white male would be mine. I called frequently. “I’m still interested in that puppy,” I reminded them.

Perry came home with us. He was our “one and only” then. My memories of him are like scenes in a movie; Perry at home, Perry at shows, Perry traveling--little moments in time that accumulate into the story of our life together. Like when I brought a kitten home. Perry became obsessed. He would follow the kitten around the house, his nose within an inch of her at all times. He terrified her; mouthing her head, and stare at her for hours. I would yell at him, try to protect the kitten, worry that I would find it dead, her neck snapped by my kitten-obsessed dog. Like the kitten, I’d misread his intentions. He loved Towhee, he didn’t want to harm her. Eventually he wore Towhee down and won her over. He never lost his passion for cats, even the ones who hated dogs. They fascinated him, if he saw one he would run to it and stare at it until I had to drag him away. He was a kitty junkie, unable to hear or see anything else in their presence.

Perry hated to be left alone. He could handle 2 or 3 hours of loneliness, but if it stretched to 4, he would look for something to destroy. Indoors it was chairs, tools, ends of furniture; outside he’d chew hoses, garden appliances, even trees. One time he chewed and pulled up young fruit trees that my husband Joe had just planted. He always chewed what we touched, what we cared about. It was a compliment we did not appreciate. Some might interpret it as revenge or spite, but it was an act of devotion as much as neediness, similar to his love of Towhee; licking her soaking wet, until she could finally get away from him, the fur on her head matted down flat against her skull in a doggy saliva goo. It was as if Perry tried to absorb the essence of things.

Perry thought about things too much, especially when we were training for obedience. He
would weigh the options; trying to decide what would please me. Perry never wanted to be wrong, he was a perfectionist. He was sensitive to criticism. We had a lot in common.

We took long walks in a cemetery near our house. It was quiet and beautiful, with stands of old pines overlooking the river. One section was reserved for deceased pets. We would weave around the stones, and I’d stop to read what must have felt to the owners like wholly inadequate efforts to convey the grief. Some of the animals lived to be 12, 15, 18 years old. I wanted Perry to live forever.

We flew to Orlando, Florida to be on a game show for dogs called
That’s My Dog.  He relished every minute of it—the relay race where Joe and I called Perry between us; me stuffing his legs into a T-shirt, Joe cramming a sun visor on his head. Perry grinned foolishly and dashed between us for more. He played to the crowd in the ball-fetching contest. Grabbing a ball out of the basket, he deliberately dropped it, picked it up again, building suspense until he finally brought it to me. Then bounce another ball long after the buzzer ended the contest.

His magic trick was the coup de grace. With Perry’s eyes blindfolded by a white scarf I tied around his head, I held up a white sock and announced to the audience that he would find it. Joe set out a half dozen different colored knotted socks in front of the crowd. One by one Perry worked down the row until he confidently picked up the right one and brought it to me. The audience cheered while the judges gave him near perfect scores. In the obstacle contest he climbed the A-Frame, jumped, tunneled, paused, weaved with “this is so easy and fun” written all over his face. Perry was a star.

He loved company. He greeted children with a toy in his mouth and an invitation to throw it for him. Perry considered it his job to be an ambassador for the breed. Yet he never missed his canine roots, he had no desire to explore his dog-ness.  He always preferred people. He had the kind of loyalty dogs get famous for. He never saved my life, or ran in front of a car to spare a child, or barked to alert us of fire. There never was a kid, a fire, or life-threatening situation. He would have, though.

The very first time he saw sheep, he went to work calmly and deliberately as though he’d done it all his life. He loved ducks almost as much as he loved cats. He’d lick their heads soppy wet if they let him. Judges sometimes misunderstood, thinking Perry meant to harm the ducks. They gave us warnings. If they only knew, he’d follow a duck to the ends of the earth, and at 11 years old effortlessly earned his Herding Started title.

Perry lost his hearing, he got stiff, old, and bone thin. He never, ever stopped being Perry. He could have been a movie star, gone to Hollywood, made a fortune. The references to Lassie were constant, clichéd, inaccurate. Perry was better. He was real.

(ColliesOnLine Essay Contest Winner)