A Dog Named Tank

“Sara, you don’t drink wine,” a friend once accused. “You *hold* wine”

She wasn’t wrong.

If you know me in real life, you might be amused to learn that Sara, Queen of the Lightweights, is together with a winemaker.

Because that’s what my sweetheart does when he is not playing banjo.

He makes wine.

The good Lord knows my people have their issues, what family doesn’t?

But a propensity towards drink ain’t one of them.

Most my kin, including your girl here, get flushed, dizzy and sick after more then a half glass. Sometimes a half glass is even too much. We aren’t drinkers.

This is especially ironic considering three generations ago, my ancestors were bootleggers. After prohibition, my maternal grandparents opened up a liquor business in Los Angeles. A liquor business, in a family where no one drinks. But I digress.

Because my sweetheart makes wine, we get to live at a place where the grapes grow—in the wild dusty vineyards of the Santa Ynez Valley.

And in this vineyard there are animals we get take care of.

As of this writing there are:

4 Nubian goats with beautiful amber eyes

3 Dexter cows with fur the color of Irish Setters

3 horses one that looks like stracciatella ice cream, the other two a rich beautiful bay, and

1 Anatolian Shephard called Tank.

Tank is a Livestock Guardian Dog.

That means his gig is full-time babysitter for the goats, to protect the herd from coyotes. (Which are plentiful in these parts. You can hear them howling and cackling at night, they are no joke; they’ll kill your goats in a NY minute if given the chance.)

So Tank is a very important person around here (yes I said person and I said what I said because dogs are people too.)

Tank arrived 3 weeks ago from a breeder in Tennessee,  who specializes in livestock guardian dogs.

I was still in quarantine in LA at that point, so my sweetheart greeted Tank alone.

“Tank will sleep outside” Max explained to me over the phone.

“Anatolians really like guarding others animals. They really like their job.”

“But… won’t he be scared and lonely in a new place sleeping outside with no bed?”

“Sweetheart, the lady said Anatolians don’t like to be in the house or even in dog beds or huts…they like sleeping outside on the earth, with their herd.”

“But…” I spluttered. “ Won’t he need love and hugs? He’s a puppy….”

“Darling, Tank is going to be happy with his new job and I don’t think we should distract him too much.”

Reader, I struggled with this information.

A dog I wasn’t supposed to love on?

When I finally got out of quarantine and could come up to see my human love in Santa Ynez, I had wrapped my head around the concept of meeting a work dog.

I’ll be gruff and formal with him, I told myself. I will treat Tank like the bodyguard he is.

I mean, Jesus, his name is Tank. You try saying ‘Tank’ in a cutesy voice.

When Tank first met me, he barked, a kind of deep roaring gruff bark, but one with zero animosity in it.

I rubbed his ears, he licked my hand. He was clearly a gentle soul.

For about three days, I began a campaign to win his love, but he was indifferent to my affections.

If Max was out riding Peanut, his horse, Tank was more interested in hanging out with them. I tried not to take it personally.

Max suggested I try putting him on a leash, but Tank weighs 150 pounds which is officially more than I do. If he didn’t want to walk, nothing could make him.

“Tanky boy! Tanky baby! Come boo-boo lets have a walk.”

But he’d just stared blankly at me.

Until finally on day 5 something happened. I ignored all of my instincts, and decided to just ignore Tank.

I mean totally ignore him.

And guess who stayed right by my side on a 90 minute walk.

Like a cat, Tank seemed to be saying “ I come with you because I want to and not because you tell me too. Also, human, please be so kind as to cut out that emasculating baby voice. My name is Tank, not Tanky-boy, not Tankini, not Baby.”

3 weeks in, Reader, I am pleased to tell you that the more I ignore Tank, (and give him chicken bits every morning) the more he loyally shadows me on my walks, guards me when I sit outside the trailer, and licks my face happily when I let him out of the goat pen in the morning.

As the Germans say, “eins nach dem anderen.“ Tank and I are training each other, and it is very fine.