Monday, November 21, 2005, 03:39 PM

Knew there was a reason I liked ya; my family has been using ACDs, although we in the western climes tend to call them blueheelers, as cow dogs for some time know. Ironically, the first in the 70s we also called Gypsy, or Gyp, though she shared the common name of all working dogs, “Damnit!”

Gyp was an outstanding working dog, had the eyes like your Gypsy, but, after a move, could no longer accompany my father to his Forest Service job. I found her one afternoon, as she had escaped from her pen, with her head in an old milk cartoon, dead, drowned from the few inches of water in it. My father swears she committed suicide.

The next dog, also called Gypsy (named by me partly to assuaged my guilt, I guess). The runt of the litter, she damned near died the first few days we had her, but she came around and became a good working dog too. Finally had to put her down about the time I left college, her hips were full of cancer (common in working ACDs from the jumping in and out of the truck) When I took her in to the vet, she relaxed after the injection for the first time in years. Felt bad I’d let her live in pain as they are stoic dogs.

A few years later my dad got a blueheeler pup, about the size of a beer can, weaned much too early. Abbey had nine lives and used them all; stomped by cows, fell through the ice one winter afternoon and treaded water in an open spot till we found her, and so on. Finally, the cancer got her too, she fell off her spot on the tool box on the back of the flat bed ranch truck and the vet found her hips full of holes, like swiss cheese my dad said.

He know has a border collie, Tres, as his dog. Tres showed up as a pup at his line cabin, some 50 miles from anything or anywhere. Gotta keep a dog like that.

So, when my girlfried (know wife) and I decided to get a dog, we (or more accurately, me), got an ACD, just a blue bundle of fur toddling up the driveway. Don’t know who learned more those first months, my girlfriend or the dog, Maggie. ACDs want someone to be in charge and, if it ain’t you, then it must be them. Maggie doesn’t know a thing about cows, but is a great trail dog and will play hours of ball. While writing my disseration, her spot was either under the or on the end of my desk, often using her behind to hold down papers or a book open for me.

Can’t say enough about ‘em, ACDs are good dogs, but, as I told my wife before we got the dog, owning a dog means someday you more likely than not will have to kill it (to state it bluntly). But, damn, dogs, any type, make life so much better!

(And Annie is further proof of my wife’s “ACDs will breed with anything” thesis, noting the large number of ACD-mixes here in Albuquerque!)

Cheers and hope the quarter goes well.

Lance