In the 70s, my grandparents owned a small vineyard which had a stream flowing through it. It's sides were steep and narrow, so they only had a flat bridge with no sides on it which wide enough for a tractor or harvester to cross it.
They also had a Labrador, Horace, who was a beautiful short-haired russet brown. Because we are a sheep-farming country, farmers can shoot dogs that are worrying their sheep on sight. So, Horace was trained to leave sheep alone.
One day, when grandad arrived at the vineyard he found about ten young sheep in the smaller front half of the property. Being a small number and close to the road, he thought he could quickly round them up and pop them back in the fields next door. To stop them going into the larger back area, he put Horace in the centre of the bridge and said, 'Sit! Stay!' Hoping Horace would put them off going that way, he began to move the sheep.
All was going well. Grandad had got them out from under the vines and they were heading towards the gate when suddenly the leader broke free and headed towards the bridge and Horace. All the others followed. As they stampeded past, some of them jumped him, before streaming into the vines beyond. Poor Horace crouched down, shivering in abject misery as they flowed by.
Grandad swore, then walked up to Horace. 'Good boy,' he told him and ruffled him behind the ears.
