A discarded empty plastic bottle on the wind blown beach is collie heaven. Every Sunday windy walk we take across the deserted sands, Seobhag fìorghlan na h-ealtainn will chase down & herd as many as he can. His now, almost instinctive air scenting search skills, his need for puzzle solving & occupation, often make for a bizarre spectical of acrobatics & circus antics when the plastic bottles start flying. A game he came up with himself after I refused to walk through the village with him carrying his crazy pink football. :o)
I've come to the conclusion that the dug deserves his own post, without the mention of a kayak.
When he was the size of my hand, I would carry him into the high Cuillin, & bivvying for the night he would sleep in a woolly sock under my chin. Of course now he is all grown up, its his mountain. A low growl will alert me to another presence on the white out ridges in the dead of night long before they appear. Should I release him, he will coral them toward the howff & a fidgety warmth. He will also see this as a food bolstering opportunity. Payment where payment is due - is how I deal with it.
When I set off along remote parts & partial circ-navs of Skye in the k*y*k, he will run the cliff tops & shores alongside until we camp, grabbing crab snacks at will. I will occasionally see a big pair of pointy ears peering over the edge, checking our progress. Should I spend the day rolling in the surf, he will leap the breakers & join me. Bampot & unfailing companion that he is. There was a near unfortunate incident of this at Rubha Hunish,. We have since had words & it's best forgotten - but lesson learned.
When he had a rear 4 point split & infected incisor removed & was unable to stand being blootered on opiates, I spent 27hrs in the downy with him, to make sure he knew he was safe. Even then he tried to go to work. He has returned the gesture ten fold. I have since weaned him off a diet of stones, hence the plastic bottle fetish.
The roof of his mouth is black, his markings impeccable, which basically means he gets laid more than I do. Something is very wrong here...
His search success rate recently hit 94% & he barks in Gaelic. Both his eyes are the colour of a peat burn after autumn rain. They were blue. He has a soft scar on his nose, about an inch long, which he got by running head first into a rock. He got this by looking at me instead of where he was going. We got round that.
He has an unhealthy obsession with slugs, but likes helicopters. He has carried a raw egg from Glen Brittle across the Cuillin to Sligachan without breaking it.. He lost the top of his right ear, by continually taunting a Wookie, in his formative years. He has stolen many pies. I once lost him as a pup, searched the house & eventually found him, covered in ash & asleep in the fire grate, which was as warm as an Aga after the night fire. He often practises Kungfu in his sleep. Maybe because his main adversaries are the bad crows, who hang out at the shinty pitch.
He's only ever shown his teeth to one guy with serious intent - but then you should never get into a bar fight with a pelagic ghillie you can't handle. Especially one who has a Skye collie asleep at his feet. The fella ended up outside on Doni's taxi roof with the collie circling. He was arrested for damage to the taxi & affray, the collie got a sausage off the Sergeant. I could go on, but I'll keep it short - Hippo, Birdy, Two Ewes.
All that said, If he goes out playing wi Molly Mac all day & comes home wearing blue eyeshadow & tinsel again, I'll nail the basta.