Old Polly is branded as a Sheep Killer!

Dogs that become Sheep Killers

            I cannot remember when the following incident happened, but I know that from time to time farmer’s dogs would return to the wild and go on a sheep-killing spree in the dark hours of the night.   And so it was that two dogs, one large and the other small, started killing the farmer’s sheep in our area.   It was more a case of them chasing the sheep in the dark, mauling and tearing the poor animals, which ran frantically into the barb-wire fences.   I know that my dad was up one dark night with some of his labourers trying to stop such a killing spree on our farm.   You would hear the dogs barking on the far side of the farm with sheep running in all directions, but by the time you got there they would be on another part of the farm.   These dogs would actually kill one sheep and feed on it and the rest would be some canine madness from deep within their brains.

The next morning you would count your losses and would have to kill several severely injured sheep.   After that my dad would “kraal” his animals at night with a guard in place nearby.   Our dogs, Polly and Chips, would be locked up in the store-room.   The killing continued and you would hear how other farmers nearby were suffering losses as well.   No one suspected their own faithful dogs could be involved in this dreadful business.

From the internet:  “The image of killer dogs going around in packs is a myth, they usually work on their own or with another dog and they come in all sizes and breeds.   You can't predict which dogs will turn out to be killers.   They can be pets for years or top working dogs, and then all of a sudden something triggers off a desire to be a dog, and they go out and hunt to kill.   One common factor to all sheep killers though is that they are wanderers.   Wandering dogs near stock can very easily become killers.   Most dogs that kill sheep don't have a mark on them.    This is because after their bit of fun, they regularly go and have a swim and cool off.”

            One dark night my mother’s twin brother’s sheep on the farm next door to ours, were attacked and killed with the same results and the clever dogs escaped without a trace once again.   Early the next morning my uncles arrived on horseback at our place with their guns still slung over their shoulders after being out all night.   Uncle Fred Martin followed them in his car.  They demanded to know where our dogs were and Daddy said that they were in the store-room.   They claimed that it was known that Polly was a killer and that they were there to shoot her.   They would not believe my dad when he said that she had been locked up all night.   Uncle Fred, acting as the judge, told my dad to bring the dog.   Daddy said that he would bring his dog out and that they could kill her, but that they would have to cut her open to examine the contents of her stomach.   They agreed, and so did the “Judge”, and poor old Polly was taken a distance away from the house and shot dead and cut open to reveal that all she had eaten that night was chicken mash.

            The whole family went into mourning and all my uncles’ pleas for forgiveness were turned down.   Even their offer to give us another dog was rejected.   A few nights later our neighbours’, the van Rensburg’s, big black dog and little mongrel fox terrier were trapped red-handed and shot.   They could not believe that their placid and faithful pets could turn into savage killers after dark.

            The killing of old Polly would have repercussions a few years later when my dad was discharged from the army and felt that he could no longer live next door to his brothers-in-law who did not trust him or believe him.   My dad was a kindly man and they never knew how he had felt about this incident.   When we moved down to the Eastern Cape they all thought that it was because he wanted to return to where his roots lay.   We did forgive my uncles even for my mother's sake and there were no bad feelings.   My dad never spoke about the incident again.

Not a nice story, but never-the-less, true.   The animal lovers in my close family do not like this story and refuse to read it to the end.   It also makes this old man shed some tears remembering my dear father and a well liked old dog called “Polly”.

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