When the bull shoved Tokyo

Morning in the paddock was going fine, which is how you know it would not last.

Tokyo was doing what Tokyo does: darting between the others before anyone had finished blinking. Harare was already looking for greener grass that was, in fact, the same grass. Canberra had the line. Paris had opinions about it.

Then the bull arrived.

Little Thunder does not walk into a paddock. He enters. He stood on the stump that is not a stump, it is an old apple crate, and he announced that the grass on that side was the best grass, tremendous grass, nobody had ever seen grass like it.

The grass was the same grass.

Tokyo, being quick, was the one in the way. The bull shoved. Not a big shove. Just enough. Tokyo bounced off Moscow, who did not budge, and the bounce went through the herd like a stone in a trough.

Harare felt it first. She always does. She put her head up and started moving, which made London pretend she had not heard, which made Canberra put her head down and keep the line anyway, which is how a small shove becomes a morning.

Spike was already running. Spike thinks a problem like this is solved by getting there faster, and he is not entirely wrong. He hit the far side of the paddock at full kelpie, eyes on, low, the serious walk that is not a walk.

Suzy was not there. Suzy was at the gate.

She had looked at the shove, looked at the herd, and gone where the cattle would try to go next. That is the difference. Spike solves the cow in front of him. Suzy solves the paddock.

Tokyo stopped darting. Harare stopped chasing the same grass. London queued, because of course she did. Canberra had the line again.

The bull was still announcing. The grass was still the same grass. The kelpies had done the job.

Spike sat down in the dirt with his tongue out, very pleased with how fast he had been. Suzy sat at the gate, which was where she had meant to sit all along.

Eight months old. Still puppies in the head. Working dogs in the legs.

That is how a shove gets put back in the paddock.