Years ago, I did a breeding and got a bi-black male puppy. This was one of my first breedings, and I naively thought that I, a novice, could finish a bi-black male Sheltie in the few shows I could afford to enter in those scraping-by student days. A few breeders kept good bi-black bitches, but why on earth, I was asked by many, would I want to keep a bi-black male? If you have not guessed it by now, I am stubborn. I named the puppy Clan Duncan Midnight Special, and he was a good one. He was sired by Am/Can Ch. Cherden Sock It To 'Em CD ex Banchory Bonny of Clan Duncan CD, a High Born daughter whose dam was from the same Aladdin background as Pow's dam. Midnight may have been the very first bi-black to be advertised at stud. The hate mail from other Sheltie breeders that I received after his ad came out in the The Sheltie Special was voluminous and threatening. (The picture below is one from that ad, taken when Midnight was still a puppy.) So Midnight stayed home and lived out his years in peace as my very special companion. Midnight was born in Arizona, moved with us to Mississippi, and at last returned "home" with us to Idaho.
When we were in Mississippi, I was often alone, just me and Shelties spending quiet evenings by the fire, 'way out in the country, where the sound of the train hooting its diminishing wail at our crossing was the loudest sound in the world, and where the whippoorwill repeated his name over and over from his perch in the pine trees above the pond.
At the time of this story, our place was a small acreage consisting of a modest white house, several outbuildings, a wedge of forest, a pond, a stream, and a swamp, collectively known as Pleasant Hill. We had but one neighbor visible in that world of lush, tall trees, and that house was 150 yards from our front door. It was not a neighborhood, but a few scattered homes set at intervals back from a state highway, their lawns like sharp notches incised into the wall of green trees. We had few visitors, for there was little reason for anyone to stop along the highway. Nothing was there but us and the trees.
Midnight loved Pleasant Hill, and was always my shadow on walks into the forest or on soggy treks into the swamp to photograph frogs or to gather violets for a tiny vase. I soon noticed that Midnight had unusually good hearing, as I do myself. His was better than mine. Mid would cock his head from side to side and stare at a log, and I learned that if I rolled the log I would uncover a centipede or some other little creature for us to admire. He would hear my husband's car returning home long before I or any of the other dogs heard it, and would run to the door, wagging, while they all looked at him as if he were crazy. Eventually many learned to follow his lead, because Midnight did not give false alarms. If Midnight thought something was happening, something was happening. I rarely heard his bark. He was a very quiet Sheltie, thoughtful and observant.
In the evening, Midnight would lie flat on his side between me and the fireplace, absorbing the heat into his black coat. He was one of those dogs that you love to look at because they are so correct, whose faces you love to touch because the lines are what they should be, and because you know they are devoted to you and you love them so much. I spent many hours watching the firelight flicker on Midnight's black face and dreaming of breedings to come, and of the days when bi-blacks would take their rightful place beside the other colors in the winners' circle.
One night in October I had put the younger dogs to bed, settling down for a long, late evening of reading and feeding the fire. Midnight was in his usual spot, flat-out asleep. Duncan, Ballad, Bonny, Heather, Niki, Benny, and Wartville were asleep in the living room as well, distributed at random on the carpet like thoughtlessly discarded fur coats. I had turned off all the lights and was reading by firelight.
About eleven, it began to rain, a light, intermittent rain that slashed against the windows of the living room. I shivered and moved closer to the fire, eventually growing sleepy and drowsing over my murder mystery. An hour later, the midnight train rumbled through, sounding its lonesome whistle at the crossing and sending inaudible vibrations through the ground and up through the floor of the house. Midnight suddenly raised his head.
The other dogs lay sound asleep on the warm carpet. Midnight got to his feet quickly and stood at high alert in the middle of the floor. This was unusual for him, so I laid my book aside.
Midnight walked slowly from the living room into the darkness of the room into which the front door opened, my office. I could see his eye reflecting the flickering flame, and his white legs. The rest of him faded into the gloom of the unlit office. The other dogs didn't stir. Rain pattered on the roof and the floor shook: this midnight train was a long one.
Midnight took a step toward the door, and I saw him lift his lips in a snarl, the firelight gleaming on his teeth. I got to my feet as he ran for the door. Midnight was there in a flash. When I got there, he had his front feet braced against the wood, and was growling. I had not heard Midnight growl since his tiny-puppy days. Quickly I lifted a hand and turned the button on the door to lock it.
The instant my fingers turned the button into place, the doorknob moved. I jumped back, and at that moment there came a heavy pounding on the door. Midnight stayed braced against it, standing on his hind legs, and the loud pounding woke the other dogs and brought them barking into the office. I looked out the tiny door window, but could see nothing even when I turned on the porch light. I realized that the train had passed, and on the front step a man was shouting.
I hushed the dogs and listened, my heart thudding, but could make no sense of the slurred and jumbled words. It was time to get my faithful pistol from its hiding place. Returning to the door, I called out, "What do you want?" After many minutes and much shouting, I thought I understood that the fellow's car had broken down on the state highway not far from the house, and he wanted inside to make a phone call. He was drunk, very drunk, and was a big man, perhaps seven feet tall, since I soon realized that I could see nothing outside the door's window because he was standing so close to it that all I could see was the wet black shirt fabric over his chest. I was NOT going to let him in, but shouted back that I would call any number he wished if he would tell it to me. I could not make him understand.
The man continued to slam heavy blows with his fist on the front door, and the hinges were starting to creak. I was hoping he would not break the door down, nor think of going to the easily breakable windows. Midnight had not moved from his position with his front feet up and braced against the door. I was just about to phone the county sheriff when our neighbor's porch light came on. At once the pounding stopped, and the man left the porch at a run. I had just time to dial my neighbor's number and tell him what was running up his driveway in the dark. Midnight bolted for the living room, where he stood on his hind legs with his front feet on the sill and looked out the low windows at the man as he ran away from our house. Midnight was still growling.
My neighbor went out with his shotgun, got the big fellow calmed down, and went with him up the highway to look at the disabled car. Later he called to tell me that a tow truck had arrived, and our unannounced visitor was safely on the road. Too overwrought to sleep right away, I built up the fire and resumed my book. One by one, the other dogs turned around and lay back down on the carpet. Midnight stood by the window, vigilant, all night. I slept fitfully after the excitement, and each time I woke, I saw Midnight's black silhouette against the rainwashed glass. When I woke the next morning, he was still watching.
I still miss Midnight. I do, however, glory in the long list of bi-black winners, producers, and champions that have graced our breed since he was with me. I have lost my own line of dogs that came from Midnight, and until recently, despaired of ever finding another down from my long-lost protector and dear friend. But there is one, discovered by Lisa Porch (Coldstream Shelties) in one of her very valuable pedigree searches. I hope to breed to him. This is Am/Can Ch. Mac-Nel N Lakewood's Ben Hur, a sable fellow owned by Eastgate Shelties and Lakewood Shelties (click on Ben's photo below to go to his page at Eastgate). Strange how the pawprints make their paths down the years, is it not? When I discovered Ben Hur, I felt . . . just a whisper of Midnight.
