Teaching my townie Border Collie to Be a Sheepdog in 24 hours
Can you teach a spoilt, hay fevered, cheese loving, city Border Collie to be a real sheepdog? Dog owner Jessie Davidson tests it out in a park with her friends dressed as sheep.
Border Collie's whole gig is herding livestock. Their ancestors hail back to England in the early 1700s. Some could recognise up to 200 objects by name, and some had the vocabulary of 300 words.
My Harley, on the other hand, shows her truest potential by peeing on command, herding young children, chasing Frisbees (which don't come back), and spinning in circles for cheese.
She lives in luxury. She takes antihistamines for her hay fever, so she doesn't get a rash. And she has a bed every room.
Harley has forgotten her roots. Harley needs to learn how to be a sheep dog.
One of New Zealand's top trainers Lloyd Smith told RNZ that it takes two years to train a sheep dog to be farm ready. But with the amount of Country Calendar Harley consumes weekly, we can smash it out in 24 hours tops.
After calling Mākara sheep farmer Richard Luxley — who was unimpressed to find that Harley was an ‘inside dog’ — I learn that a proper sheepdog needs to master five essential commands:
‘Go’
‘Stop’
‘Left’
‘Right’
‘Waylego’ (to bring the dog back)
The night before Harley's herding debut, I try to teach her these phrases. My boyfriend sits on the ground draped in a sheepskin while I try and get her to manoeuvre around him with the commands. But Harley sighs and lie on one of her many beds.
She gives me the its past my bedtime look.
After a tireless 10-minute session involving minimal progress and maximum cheese bribery, I resort to putting on a YouTube compilation of sheepdogs in action.
“See Harley. That’s what real dogs do,” I tell her.
The next morning, I get Harley up bright and early for her big herding debut. Unfortunately, no farmer is willing to let me unleash my semi-trained princess on their actual flock.
So, in place of real sheep, I recruit two friends and my boyfriend. I tape crude sheep drawings – drawn by yours truly – to their chests, transforming them into a very confused and slightly embarrassed herd.
Heading to a playground, my three ‘sheep’ space themselves out while Harley and I survey the scene. I wear my finest farmer attire: a red raincoat, my dad’s sunglasses, and a wide brimmed hat. Harley wears her best collar — a bold blue number.
I have three plans:
Plan A: Harley will let her natural instincts take over and herd the sheep together.
Plan B: Harley will go to each ‘sheep’ by name on command.
Plan C: I'll get on all fours and show her how it’s done.
I am hopeful. This is Harley's moment — her chance to connect with her heritage. Maybe after today, she’ll ditch the beds and sleep on grass. Maybe her hay fever will clear up once she remembers she's a dog, not a human with allergies and a TV habit.
Unfortunately, Plan A to follow her natural instincts for herding is a flop. When I give the signal to herd, her so-called ‘natural instincts’ don’t kick in whatsoever. Harley is far more interested in a stranger doing post-run stretches nearby. When she finally gets around to the sheep, it's in hopes my boyfriend has a secret stash of cheese in his pocket.
Plan B of going to each sheep by name is showing promise. She recognises my boyfriend’s name (small win!). The others, however, throw her off. Eventually, she loses interest and goes back over to see the stranger stretching — who is now bent over touching his toes with a Border Collie's snout up his bum.
So, I have to resort to Plan C — I'll show her how it's done myself.
As any self-respecting amateur shepherd would do, I tighten my hat’s drawstring, shove my sunnies up my nose, and get on all fours. Heart pounding, I crawl through the playground, successfully herding my sheep together as Harley watches on with what I can only assume was admiration.
Then, expecting Harley to learn by my example, I space the sheep out again and release her.
With a bit of guidance from me and a lot of encouragement from my flock (who apparently have the ability to talk and give ear scratches), Harley more or less manages to herd them together.
“Waylego” I yell in excitement, and she comes running back to me – because of the command or just the fact I yelled I'm not sure. But she was momentarily a success!
The next day, I come to accept my efforts were in vain when the grass at the playground makes her hay fever worse. Her ancestors are probably looking down from the heavens with shame. She's been gifted another bed and is curled up in front of the fire watching Yellowstone with my dad.