In 1984, when I was 21 years old, I participated in a farm labor exchange program organized by the International Agricultural Exchange Association (IAEA). Our family had hosted two exchange students previously, one from England and one from Australia at our Montana ranch, and I became interested in the program. So the following year, I signed up for a six month exchange to New Zealand.

As “exchange students”, we paid for the airplane tickets and some other expenses, but we were provided with a work permit, a monthly wage and we were placed with a family on a working farm. There was some consternation about my placement though, because over the prior summer, I had shaved all the hair off of my head. So in my application photo, I was completely bald, which made many of the host families a little uneasy. At first, nobody was interested in hosting a young, bald man from North Central Montana. But,… eventually I was placed with a family operating a sheep and dairy farm near Ragland, – a coastal town known for surfing located a little south of Auckland.

The farm consisted of approximately 80 hectares (@ 200 acres) that stretched from the a flat, bottom bench area, then a widening as the property rose up steep draws. cresting at a high ridge behind the house. The paddocks (or fields) of the flat, bottom area were divided up by electric fences used to rotate the milk cows throughout the production season. The rest of the land going up to the ridge was fenced into larger paddocks utilized for sheep and steers. If I hiked up to the top of the ridge behind the house, I could see the ocean about a mile away, with the waves rolling in. The terrain was broken and steep, with several coulees running small spring trickles creating dangerous bogs in flat, open spots.

The 80 hectares supported 125 producing, milk cows, @ 2500 sheep as well as 50 yearling steers that were being grass fattened. Incredible production by a Montana country boy’s standards. At our ranch in Montana, we had 1000+ cow/calf pairs on 30,000 acres, with an additional 6000 acres in fallow rotation or irrigated crops. Very different operations and very different carrying capacities.

The use of dogs and motorcycles for handling the milk cows, sheep and steers, was fundamental. The terrain was all walkable or hike able, but with such steep gradients that moving animals like the sheep or steers was impossible unless you had a bunch of people working together. So, you needed to work with dogs, and you needed to move around on motorcycles.

After settling in the first day, I began to help out and the most important activity was the twice daily milking of the 125 dairy cows. After I proved that I could move cows and understood how a udder worked, I was made responsible for the daily milkings, which I loved.

As part of my “equipping”, I was taken to town to purchase a “swany” (heavy wool pullover coat) along with a pair of black rubber, gum-boots. Then I was given the use of a Honda XR-200R four stroke, mono-shock dirt bike. And I was introduced to Rowdy, who became “my” dog. I grew to love little Rowdy.

Rowdy was a pup. When I began working with Rowdy, he was probably approaching a year in age? He was a skinny little guy. A raw pup that until I arrived at the farm, had been tagging along with his mother during some of the daily chores. And as a tag-a-long, he was a third wheel many times, getting in the way and causing chaos more than helping. But, the little guy had thousands of years of programming in his head, and when he looked at livestock, his brain synapses crackled and popped. He knew the front end from the back end of every animal, and he understood how to make them move. All he needed was an opportunity and a little patience. Already, some commands like “GET-AWAY-BACK ROWDY” were in his bone marrow and he loved to line out to the back of the herd and go to work. Rowdy took every command to heart and did his best every single time. He was a little dog with a good attitude and together, Rowdy and I became an energetic if not polished team that got a lot of work done.

As with all dogs, an important part of the daily ritual was eating. And there on the New Zealand dairy and sheep farm, “dog tucker” (dog food) was never far away. In fact, more than 2000 “dog tuckers” grazed the slopes every day. On a regular basis, I would find Ray (the boss) with his knife out, cutting the throat of an old, spindly ewe. Saying, …”we are low on dog tucker so this old ewe is going into the freezer”. No fooling around about dog tucker.

And dog tucker was handled efficiently. A ewe would be killed, gutted, skinned, cut into chunks and stored in a freezer lickety-split, (maybe an hours work,…maybe?). And the entrails were put in what I understood to be the “awful” hole.

The “awful” hole was a bore hole about 2 feet across and 30 feet deep, drilled deep into a loamy embankment. Once the dog tucker was processed, the entrails were scraped and scooted into the awful hole, where they fell to the bottom, settling on the remains of other dog tuckers previously processed. A large wooden lid was pulled over the hole so nobody fell into the the awful hole.

My understanding was corrected one day when a man showed up with a drilling rig. Ray was somewhere else doing chores, so I met with the man to sort out what he was about. The man started talking about an “OOffal hole”. Where is the OOffal hole he was asking. I didn’t understand what he was looking for. Honestly, looking back I should have understood that his “OOffal” hole was my “AAwful” hole. But the nuance of a strong “O” pronunciation threw me off, and I was drawing a blank on where to put the new “offal” hole. He was saying “offal hole”, … “offal hole”, and finally, I said, “oh! You mean the “AAAawful hole”!

He looked at me, and I looked at him. And we started laughing. Offal or awful – they are pretty much the same thing. It was the pronunciation of the words that threw each of us off. And when we finally figured it out, we had a good laugh together.

And another offal hole was bored for further dog tucker processing.