It seems that most horse lovers have a dog. Or dogs. I do.

The first dog to shadow my footsteps at the barn was a Cairn Terrier called Robbie. Weighing in at eighteen pounds with a raggedy grey-black coat and a jaunty swagger, Robbie was Mr. Congeniality. He was such a charmer that no one at the barn minded lending a hand to keep him on a sit-stay while I was fetching Lancer’s saddle from the tack room. While I was riding, his job was to sit on a bench in the corner of the arena and wait. When I went hacking, he’d follow behind Lancer – right behind. Lancer’s foot would barely have left the ground, and Robbie would be stepping into the footprint. Lancer seemed OK with it, so I gave up worrying.

Robbie was the perfect little companion till the day he grew up and the terrier part of him kicked in. I remember the moment. I had just said, ‘Come!’ in my most authoritative voice. He stood there looking at me with the wheels spinning behind his little button eyes. The thought bubble over his head read, “I actually don’t have to listen to you…” He turned and ran the other way. Sigh. All good things come to an end, it seems.

My next dog, a German Shepherd called Indy, made up for Robbie’s selective hearing. Even in mid-flight after a rabbit, she’d turn and come to me if I called her. Below, she is baby-sitting my then-infant niece – who has grown up to be as horse-crazy as her aunt.

My next two dogs were also German Shepherds: Fritz and Lindy. Lindy was the explorer. One night when I was leaving the barn, I couldn’t find her anywhere. Leaving the car door open, I went back into the barn to see if I’d accidentally shut her in – no luck. I came back out to find her waiting in the car, reeking of skunk. Then we had to drive home…

Fritz, on the other hand, was the perfect dog. He would come on hacks with me and heel right by my stirrup. If he drifted too far forward, Gandalf would give him the evil eye. Fritz would duck his ears in apology and re-position himself beside me. When I’d stop at one of the outdoor rings to school Gandalf, Fritz would lie in the shade and watch. His ‘stay’ was so solid that one day, when a doe came out of the undergrowth and paused to look at us (it seems that deer don’t recognize you as human when you’re on a horse), he whined and complained about having to stay, but he didn’t move.

My current batch of dogs are – what else? – German Shepherds, Yogi and Dayna. They don’t see the barn much because Yogi is a little too… animated. Intense. Excitable. His joy in life is to chase a stick or a ball. Throw the stick, Mom, throw it throw it THROW it! Throw it now! Throw it again!

I’ve tried taking him to the barn, I really have. I remember having to tie him to a jump standard to keep him from running under Larry’s feet, because ‘stay’ apparently becomes an alien word when spoken from the saddle. Then I had to dismount to straighten the jump standard he’d pulled over. I had to dismount again to extricate him from the tangle he’d managed to build around himself with the leash. Then I had to listen to him crying as I rode away from him, and yipping joyfully as I came back. Cesar Millan would diagnose the root cause as lack of leadership on my part. It’s not that I haven’t tried. Yogi is just so… opinionated. In his opinion, commands are good as long as there isn’t something more interesting going on.

Dogs are like horses, though. We love even the difficult ones. Life would be a lot poorer without them.