Faansie Basson: finding balance with sheep and life
By Anne S. Hatch
MEEKER | There is a well-kept secret. In early September, as summer slowly slips into the rearview mirror, people flock to Meeker, Colorado, a small town located 225 miles west of Denver and 100 miles northeast of Grand Junction. They come to watch…well, sheep. And the elite dogs and handlers capable of maneuvering them through a complex course. Precise practical skills and quick reactions are vital to avoid chaos in the open expanse of White River Valley.
For those familiar with the popular 1995 film Babe, there will be no pig. No magical phrase of “Baa, ram, ewe.” No polite woolies stepping in unison through the prescribed course. Instead, you can expect the unpredictability of prey facing — and trying to escape — potential predators.
The Meeker Classic is one of the most prestigious sheepherding competitions in the United States. Those who step onto the field with their dogs know they must outperform tremendous talent, and have a bit of luck, to place in the top 20 and earn prize money. Investing years, sometimes a lifetime, these individuals understand and train dogs better than anyone.
Some of these professionals also train people, helping them channel the intelligence and energy of a working breed towards positive, rather than destructive, behavior.
Anyone familiar with the herding world knows the name Faansie Basson. He won the championship title at the 2022 Meeker Classic with his dog Jack. Currently living in Hico, Texas, with his wife Elmarie, Faansie makes his living training students — both dogs and humans — when he isn’t competing. Asked which type of student is easier to train, Faansie quips without a smile, “Dogs don’t pay the bills.”
Starting his herding career in South Africa, Faansie has worked dogs on large sheep operations for the practical purpose of earning a living. Experience was his teacher as he keenly observed others to learn without formal instruction. Now others keenly watch him for guidance and seek him out at his coveted sheepherding clinics.
Last April Terri Nicolau and her husband Brien hosted their first sheepherding clinic at Kyon Ranch in Peyton, Colorado, nearly 300 miles southeast of Meeker, and they chose Faansie. “He is an extremely talented stockman,” Terri explains. “He communicates very well and explains his methods very clearly.”
Perhaps part of Faansie’s appeal stems from his modesty and subtle humor that belie his celebrity status in the herding world. “You can argue with me,” he invites the clinic attendees when they become quiet. “I like arguments, as long as you understand in clinics I am always right.”
Nancy Penley, an advanced handler, brought her dog Wallace from Loveland, Colorado. Marrying into a ranching family that owns border collies, she has attended several of Faansie’s clinics. “I love working with him,” she says. “His structured clinics are the way I learn.”
Traveling from as far away as Steamboat Springs, Colorado, and Santa Fe, New Mexico, 18 women (and they are all women) are there to learn. Whether acquiring a working dog as a pet or using them as coworkers on ranches, these women have different reasons for being there. Some want a constructive outlet for dogs living in the suburbs; some enjoy the intellectual challenge and adrenaline rush of competing; some have working ranches that require help to manage livestock.
Many have taken the day off from their paying jobs — bookkeepers, a wildlife biologist, an archaeologist. Others are retired. All share one commonality: their working dogs.
Left alone, herding breeds can wreak havoc. Intentionally bred for their domesticated hunting instinct, these dogs require a physical and mental outlet; otherwise, they become problems: digging, barking, chasing. They need work, and herding livestock is a natural fit.
But you need someone who understands their language. Otherwise, disaster can strike.
Faansie states early on, “All sheep dogs can kill a sheep.” Their predator drive is what allows them to move livestock and become invaluable workers on ranches. It is also what can allow them to run a sheep into a barbed wire fence or chase cars if not properly channeled.
Kaileigh Medalin, one attendee relatively new to herding, drove her border collie Ryker two hours from Superior, Colorado, for the clinic. Her first rescue dog chased horses and livestock and was not a good fit for herding, but Kaileigh says she “got the bug and the rest is history.”
On the first day of the clinic, several dogs arrow too close to the sheep, blasting them apart in dusty havoc. Faansie shadows each student. He asks questions and corrects missteps, occasionally taking off his cap and smacking it against his knee or asking students to loudly thwack a wand of duct-taped newspaper against their legs to get a dog’s attention. Timing is everything.
“All dogs understand movement,” Faansie explains. With younger dogs and less experienced handlers, he works in an enclosed arena, sprinting between dog and sheep and handler to create a fluid triangle. His motion and body placement affect both dog and sheep, creating a seemingly spontaneous dance that is actually choreographed by extensive experience and deeply rooted instinct.
Not wanting to use fear or domination, Faansie gives each dog a chance to do right as he believes dogs are honest; they disobey when they don’t understand a person’s intentions. “If your dog knows what you want,” Faansie states, “I think they will do it for you.” And the responsibility for clarity falls on the human.
Faansie demonstrates the dynamic relationship between sheep and dog. A handler must know when to apply and release pressure through body movement. Voice commands and whistles are part of the training, but simply shouting “Come by” to move the dog clockwise around the sheep or “Away to me” to ask for a counterclockwise arc around livestock is insufficient. If the dog merely reacts to the words, without thinking or understanding its job, then the dog becomes “mechanical” and moving left or right or forward is irrelevant. A wreck becomes inevitable. And the human, not the dog, has failed.
“The most important thing a dog should do is take care of the sheep,” Faansie explains. “The handler should learn how to take care of the dog’s mind.”
This symbiotic relationship depends upon three factors. The most important one is balance. A complex concept, balance requires the dog’s instinct to cover sheep and bring them to the handler at a good pace. The dog must also have an efficient stop command to control the dog’s position (not the chaos) and a reliable recall, which Faansie feels is “the most underrated command.”
The second day of the clinic brings marked improvement. Faansie eagerly praises students, bestowing the title of “most improved” on one person after another. As Faansie reminds the group several times, “It’s always from the small things that the big changes come.” And the changes are evident.
Lest anyone become frustrated, Faansie reminds his students that the learning never ends — for humans or dogs. Mistakes happen, even for experienced handlers. And that is where the growth occurs. He references Tiger Woods as he discourages negative self-talk. “Don’t lower the bar or your expectations,” Faansie says, “but don’t be too hard on yourself.”
Katy Fitzgerald uses her dog Capone to set out sheep in a large field for the more advanced handlers. Her first border collie was intended as a trail and riding buddy, but she quickly realized his herding behavior could not be ignored. He became “the gateway dog.”
Beware: Herding is addictive. It allows humans to connect with the natural world. It offers a reprieve from the electronic buzz filling our lives. While some approach it as a weekend hobby, a chance to get outdoors and into open space with their four-legged friend, many become hooked. They end up seeking land and sheep and the people who share their passion. They practice and eventually want to assess their progress against the measuring tape of a clinic or the yardstick of competition.
Diane Prather drove from Tularosa, New Mexico, with her border collie Jacson. Starting to herd with Australian cattle dogs, she found it challenging and “character building.” She then acquired a border collie who “hated agility but came to life with herding.” And now she is hooked. Today, she competes and says, “I love the analytic and competitive nature of herding.”
Some eventually compete against experts like Faansie, bringing the cycle of student and teacher full circle.
This year Faansie will not be in the running order at Meeker. Instead, he and his dog Finn, who earned third place overall at Meeker last year, will be in Ireland, representing the United States at the World Sheepdog Trials. This event is to herding what the World Cup is to soccer.
But some of Faansie’s students from the April clinic will be there, handlers in their own right. Perhaps they will smile as they recall Faansie’s humor about wanting them to remain a bit confused so they will return to future clinics with him. Perhaps they will achieve a personal best score by recalling his insights about reading and reacting to their dog and the sheep. Whatever the outcome, Faansie would emphasize the gift of clearly communicating with dogs to improve the partnership with every experience.
Because as sheepherders say to call a dog off of livestock for a job (hopefully) well done, “That’ll do.”
