By Lisa Batten Kunkleman
Returning from my morning walk, I see my black and white dog, Remy, waiting for me just on the other side of his invisible fence. Sheltie or border collie-sheltie mix, it doesn’t matter his official breed. He’s my shepherd. My bodyguard, and he takes his job seriously. Remy paces until I return safely from anywhere I go: the bathroom, the kitchen, or a walk off our property. He is a working breed dog who herds me and protects me day and night. I am his human sheep.
He sees me coming down the road and rises from his spot to wag his tail. He stays in the same three by six area, formerly grassy, now turned up red clay soil where he dances and paces until I return safely. Maintaining his position, he watches my arrival while the other dogs sniff around for rabbits and moles. They take off to chase a squirrel and even that, which is Remy’s favorite sport, doesn’t tempt him to stop waiting for me.
The ever-working Remy makes sure that the clamoring, large green trash bin that I’m rolling up from the end of our long asphalt driveway is not attacking me. Assured at last that I’m in no danger, he dances behind his invisible fence line never daring to go across it lest he feel the collar’s sting. Once I’m on his side of the fence line, he dances around my legs, herding me all the way up the incline of our driveway.
I enjoy being somebody’s sheep, guarded and protected. He looks at me the way some people look at the love of their life. I’m his. It’s more than puppy love.