Trauma Farm by Brian Brett Page B

tongue). Some dogs, such as the much-maligned pit bull, have been bred to kill dogs or valiant animals merely for sport.
    We try to keep a herd dog—a border collie—for the sheep, and usually a Labrador to guard against raccoons and marauding dog packs. Dogs are helpful and sometimes necessary allies on a small farm.
    Goats and sheep and pigs soon joined the dog in the human fold, quickly followed by the cow and an increasingly exotic menagerie, ranging from the yak to the guinea pig, the silkworm, the camel, the cat, and the turkey. The art of domestication rapidly grew more complex. At the same time the grains and rices and fruits and vegetables began to transform under our guidance into a stunning array of varieties. You only have to consider the Brassica genus—mustard, cabbage, broccoli, canola, and a myriad of other cultivars—to recognize what diverse characteristics we are capable of breeding into the world. The history of domestication is mainly the history of the small farm, which tended toward a balanced mixture of horticulture and livestock that suited the local environment.
    I’ve always bonded quickly with animals, despite the livestock and game I’ve slaughtered and despite the number of times I’ve been kicked, bitten, and trampled. Wherever I’ve been, all my life, animals have come to me, even so-called ferocious dogs, schizoid cats, or twitchy horses. I also lean, instinctively, toward physical contact with animals. I brush against them, rest my fingers on a shoulder. Simple gestures in the middle of hard tasks. I love their physical world. They recognize that, and they come forward to be touched. If you are unafraid and open with animals, you will learn how much they want to like you. I’ve been chased around a few trees by bulls and horses, and I slammed more than one gate just in time on a charging dog while peddling with my dad when I was young, but I’ve also stopped stampeding livestock and vicious dogs in their tracks. You have to trust yourself in the world, and learn when to run and when to stand. I’ve never been bit while offering my hand slowly to a slavering German shepherd, though I’ve met a couple of dogs who’ve kept me in my vehicle.
    Dogs on a farm, like livestock, tend to find the most impressive ways of injuring themselves or sickening. Fortunately, on our island, we have a good vet. Malcolm has what is known as “the touch.” When he returned to Salt Spring after many years away, he performed emergency operations in his home while building his hospital. I much preferred it in the house. You’d go there, and Malcolm and his wife, Stephanie, would wipe down the kitchen table and he’d start operating. Afterwards, with the dog kennelled or in a basket by the fire, we’d clean off the table and maybe have a glass of wine and swap lies about farming.
    Our first Lab, Tara, got an ear shredded by a vicious raccoon. Malcolm stitched it up and we returned with her a week later to have the stitches removed. We were sitting around in the kitchen, chatting, and Malcolm patted the chair he was sitting on. Tara walked right up to him and sat down with her head between his legs. He took his tweezers and slowly began pulling the stitches out of her ear while she trembled, unrestrained. I’ve never seen so flagrant a “touch” in a vet before and such trust from a dog.
    Afterwards, he told her to go lie down, and she curled up in the big basket in front of the fire in the living room. We gossiped on, then got into a disagreement, mostly because Malcolm, like many farmers, is a flamboyant conservative (though he’d deny that with some vigour), and I’m definitely not—so we usually have much to argue about. It was late in the evening by then and, after finishing our wine, Sharon and I left. We were a mile down the driveway before we realized we’d forgotten the dog, who was happily snoring in front of the fire. Most times when you take a dog to a vet it cringes and shakes and