A critical definition in biology is the "limiting factor" — that environmental factor or combination of factors present in the least favorable amount, which controls or limits the growth of an organism or species. In California, the limiting factor is generally moisture, and it comes into play right about now. Late summer and early fall correspond to winter in continental climates: the time when the weak and unlucky die. There, they die of cold or hunger, here, they die of thirst.
My pasture is grazed out, and nothing will regrow in it until the rains begin. The reservoirs are emptying, stressed trees are dying, and everything which can go dormant, is. I get an analogous feeling to the winterbound, waiting for the snow to melt. I have already begun to long for rain, two months before we can expect any.
The news on the radio is all bleak (we have never had a television, and gave up newspapers long ago, partly because all that paper seemed wasteful and partly because they are delivered to our mailbox a mile away). Sometimes it seems every single bad thing that happens in the world can be traced directly to oil, from wars to hurricanes. We're putting solar flat-plate collectors on the roof to heat our water and also our house, via tubes in the floor we embedded in the slab seventeen years ago but never hooked up. On bad days, it feels like a futile gesture. What is the limiting factor for human survival? Am I in the generation that's going to find out?
And then, whenever I think about it in this mood, I feel blue for working Aussies. So few people appreciate them, and those who do are scattered and divided, without a common vision, or a focused plan to ensure their survival. I don't have hope that any current organization or program is headed in the right direction for preserving and improving the working Aussie. The Hobby Aussie is in good shape, but the dog that was once the mainstay of the American ranch looks to be slowly going extinct. Its gene pool is drying up.
Of course, in absolute genetic terms, it is not in danger, because the pool of similar working-type dogs is large. A breeding program devoted to strengthening the phenotype of the working Aussie using all available similar genes — including unregistered Aussies, McNabbs, Koolies, Welsh Sheepdogs, English Shepherds, etc., is still perfectly possible. The limiting factor, to stretch a biological metaphor, for working-bred Aussies, is probably a combination of organization and innovation. It would take both, I believe. People would have to put their heads together and agree on a workable plan, and that plan would have to include doing things which haven't been done in the past. While the reproduction of working Aussies was mainly in the hands of ranchers, the isolation of the various gene pools and the rigor of selection-by-performance overcame the limitations of outdated breeding practices, but times have changed.
Being a born pessimist, I can't see a way out of the dissensions and muddy thinking which characterize the working Aussie community today. But there is always divine intervention. I'll continue to look forward to that.
On the bright side, I have a new buckling kid who hopefully will breed my does, when he is tall enough to reach them, a cute little guy I named Norman. And I have finally, finally, begun to card and spin my lovely silver Navajo-Churro fleece. That is a pleasure, although I'm still very bad at it. My new pup Ty is a joy, except perhaps when he proudly drags in yet another repellent object he found decaying under the deck.
And, while all this doom and despair is going on, Bonnie and I have been flailing away at learning the center pen. At my last practice session, we were doing so well at our remedial program, with Bonnie gathering correctly, getting to head nicely the very first time, and rating with only a few little reminders now and then, that I had high hopes for the pen too. But, it was horrible. We just could not, could NOT get those sheep in, no matter where I put my dog. She got farther and farther out, and got more and more discouraged, and I got louder and louder.
Finally Gwen came over from where she had been repairing fence, and tried penning with her own dog, who is typically far too pushy, splits his stock, and in general isn't nearly as reliable as Bonnie at getting things done. He put them in without much problem. That was a burn. Despite my total funk I vowed to try again.
This time I gave up trying to position or direct my dog. I threw away my training pole in disgust. I had broken it anyway, slamming it on the ground in a temper. I took the sheep back to the second panel, got their heads pointed at the pen, and said "there." Then I walked back to the pen. Bonnie put them in without a hitch. Then she did it again. And again. It was as though she was saying, 'Oh, you wanted them in the PEN! Why didn't you tell me? I thought you were just interested in chasing me around the arena yelling OUT, OUT.' So I was humbled by my dog once more.