We got them out at the cabin; a little one room place that we have up in the mountain north of the city. There is no running water or electricity, just a winding wild flower covered path up to a loo with a glorious view.

It was late that Friday night, there was a full moon and the black trees and white mountains glowed like teeth and demons. After the clutter of opening the creaking shutters and stoking the iron stove, we settled in to the silence of the night. Only it wasn’t silence. There was mooing, long dulcet tones; the cows calling to one another from either side of the trickling river.

The next day I stomped out to the top of the hill, peaking out over the tops of our near by trees, I could see a heard of cattle in the valley before the barren expanse of the BLM land and the far blue peaks of the Dome Land National Wilderness.

Like a sneak peak into a 50s Western, I wanted to see cattle free ranging. Once there was a cowboy on the scene, I grabbed my camera and ran down the hill. The herd was on the move, a slow rumble of hooves and guttural rumblings, the growing dust snaking into the air.

The cowboy atop a hansom palomino was in fact an old woman. She was all alone with her horse, a gun, five dogs and a hundred head of cattle. And boy could she talk. She was great. I found out in the sharp sun and blue shadows that she was fourth generation rancher, her family had owned most of the undesirable scrub land up there from the mountains down to the desert floor.

The dogs ran about the meadows. All breads, Shepherds, healers, pointers and mutts, somehow all looking just about alike. They were playing and herding, the occasional yelp from their master to keep them in check.

“What handsome dogs” I remarked as a Rottweiler mix sat vigil at my feet, gratefully receiving my gentle strokes to his handsome face.

“oh boy” she slapped her lariat against her high waited dark blue jeans “I got too many of them” she shook her head, “he’s got six puppies at home”

And so, a few weeks later, we picked out our two hansom brothers from that boisterous litter. Little did we know but that would also turn out to be the weekend that we conceived.

On Monday, four months later, I took Manfred and Lothar off to see my very good friend Doc B. I held legs, surgical instruments and my breath as they were ‘un-dogged’.