"Hoss was the smartest dog I ever saw," says Louis
Cusimano, an old-time ranch cowboy who has spent his life on
ranches in southern Colorado and northern New Mexico. 
Hoss
passed away back in 1986, but the legend of that remarkable dog
is still part of the legacy of the region.
Most of Hoss's legacy was absolutely due to his own extraordinary intelligence, but a significant part of Hoss's reputation might be attributed to his master's sense of humor and the way he reacted to what Hoss did.
Louis never intended to own Hoss. Back in 1972, his kids were grown up and gone, the family dog had died, and Louis didn't want to have another dog. But, one day, he ran into some old friends, and they had a litter of puppies in their horse trailer.
"This one particular puppy kept jumping up there, wanting me to get him. Well, you know how it is after you look at a puppy."
The pup was out of an Australian Shepherd mother and also had some Border Collie in him. Louis named him Hoss.
Hoss ended up spending nearly all his time with Louis, both at home and in the ranch pickup. He was with him when he went to the feed store or to work out on the ranches or anywhere else. And Louis talked to the puppy all the time, just as if it were another human.
Louis's son, Chuck, relates how it came about that Louis realized his new dog was not like most other dogs:
"One day, my dad and his boss were in the corrals, and they were working cattle afoot. When my mom came and called them to lunch, my dad and his boss went on up to the house, and they went in through the carport door. My mom's car was parked there, and my dad leaned his whip against the trunk of the car and put his gloves on top of the trunk.
They went inside and had lunch and then, when they got ready to go back outside to work cattle, my dad went out a different way, so he didn't have the opportunity to grab his whip and his gloves. He and his boss went down to work the cattle in the corral.
"Now, sometimes when you work them in an alley, cattle will run over you if you ain't got something to protect yourself with.
"Dad made a comment, 'Dadgummit, I wish I had my whip.' Well, in just a little bit, there was Hoss, and he was still just a half-grown pup, and he had that whip in his mouth.
Dad thought it was just a fluke. He thought, well that dog was foolin' around and he got that whip and he brought it over there. About then, Dad's boss looked up and saw it and said, 'Where did you get that whip?'
"Dad said, 'My dog went and got it for me.'
"His boss said, 'Yeah, right.'
"Dad said, 'No really, he brought it to me.'
"His boss said, 'Well, send him for something else.'
"My dad said, 'Hoss, go get my gloves.' The dog took off and in just a little bit here came Hoss, and he had my dad's gloves with him. He brought them to Dad in his mouth. My dad took the gloves, and he started to realize that this dog was that special."
Louis says, "After that, I could tell him to go get the whip out of the truck and he'd do it. Or I'd tell him to put it back and he'd do that, too.
"The first time I told him to go put the whip in the truck, he jumped up and hung it up on the sides of the window. It flipped him back on the ground. He kinda studied it for a minute and jumped in again, but the second time he turned his head sideways and got it in the pickup. He'd put it in the gun rack, where I always kept it.
"Hoss liked
to carry things in his mouth so I started letting him carry my
gloves for me. He kinda got in the habit of it. If I left them
in the truck I'd say, 'Go get my gloves,' and he'd go get them
for me. He'd be carrying them around and I'd say, 'Uh-oh, you
dropped one.' By golly, he'd put them on the ground and check
them and he had them both and he'd pick them up and bring them
to me and look at me like, 'Hey, I know how to count.'"
"Apparently that dog could count," marvels Chuck. "More than once, I've seen my dad try to trick him. 'Well, you only brought one glove.' And the dog would sit there and give a quizzical look like 'What the hell are you talking about? They're both here.' And he'd drop them out of his mouth, use his paws to spread them apart and look at Dad and then gather them both up. Dad never taught him that. He just picked it up. This is still amazing to me to this day. As far as dogs go, I think he was a genius."
Louis says, "At first, I didn't try to teach him anything. He was just a dog. But he started to do things like he was listening to me and understanding me.
Chuck remembers a lot of it.
"I don't think my dad fully realized how many things that dog could do. The thing that amazed a lot of people and is still amazing to me is that Dad would be driving his big Ford four-wheel-drive pickup and have the window down and have a whip in the back gun rack, his gloves on the seat or the dashboard, or a hammer or a pair of pliers, any number of things Dad used on a daily basis, and they could be off a hundred yards from the truck and Dad could tell Hoss, 'Go in the back and get my overshoes,' and the dog would bring him his overshoes. The dog had a grip on the English language and knew what these objects were by their names."
Louis spent a lot of time with Hoss, and he started teaching him some tricks. It began kinda by accident when the dog came back to him one day and jumped up on him with muddy feet. Louis decided he didn't like the dog doing that, so he quickly taught the dog to put his feet up on the side of the house, and he'd reward him by scratching his back. The dog would come running up to Louis and Louis would point to the wall, and Hoss would lean up against it for his back rub.
Chuck says, "This is where Dad's sense of humor kicked in. He saw how people reacted to that so he carried it several steps further."
Louis says, "I'd tell him 'I'm gonna check you for a gun,' and Hoss would stand up against a wall or a fence with his paws up on the wall and his back feet on the ground. I'd frisk him and say, 'You don't got a gun, but I do,' and I'd point my finger at him. He'd turn around and stand, facing me with his paws in the air.
"I'd say, 'Beg for your life,' and he'd stand like that and make 'ooooooow, oooooow sounds.'
"Then I'd say, 'Bang, you're dead.' He'd fall down and lie on the ground, but his stub of a tail would be thumping up and down.
"I'd say, 'Dead dogs can't move,' and his tail would stop wagging. Then I'd say, 'You're not dead anymore,' and he'd jump up again. He'd be real happy and proud of himself."
Chuck tells how that enhanced Hoss's reputation: "One time, a guy was showing my dad a gun that he had, and the dog was there and he kinda pointed the gun towards the dog, and the dog stood up on his back legs and went to making little barking sounds.
Dad said, 'He's begging for his life, don't shoot him!' The guy about had a heart attack."
Louis' lifelong friend, Keith Williams, remembers an incident with Hoss:
"I was working with Louis, and he told the dog, 'There might be some coyotes around here. Go up on that haystack and look for coyotes.'
"The dog jumped up on the haystack and looked around, and Louis said, 'I'm afraid of coyotes. You'd better go find me a stick.'
"The dog jumped down off the hay and pretty soon he came back with a stick in his mouth.
"Louis said, 'No, I need a bigger stick than that.' The dog ran off again and pretty soon it came back with a bigger stick.
"Louis said, 'That's still not big enough.'
"The dog took off and was gone a long time. After while it came back dragging a big ol' tree limb. Louis said, 'That's big enough.'"
Louis would take Hoss with him whenever he went to work. Every day, if he was working out of his pickup, they'd stop at noon and Louis would turn the radio on to "Paul Harvey News and Comment" and eat his lunch and give the dog a bite or two.
Chuck says, "Now, probably about 50 percent of the remarkable things the dog was known for could be credited to the way my dad handled the situation the things he would interject and say. Then somebody would take it to heart.
"'One time, my dad and my uncle were out cleaning moss out of a stock tank, and Hoss was running around there, smelling the ground and looking for mice or rabbits and exploring.
"Dad had the pickup door open and the radio was on and they were listening to country music or talk radio or something and pretty soon they heard, 'Stand by for news,' which is what they always say on the radio just before Paul Harvey comes on.
"Hoss quit what he was doing and ran and jumped in the pickup and sat up in the front seat. My uncle Joe asked, 'What's the deal with your dog?'
"My dad said, 'Oh, he don't like to miss Paul Harvey!'
"My uncle really thought Hoss listened to Paul Harvey. Of course, he didn't know 'the rest of the story,' the lunch part."
Louis continues the story of Hoss. "When we were working
there at Kim, Colorado, I had a horse that stayed ground tied.
Once you dropped the rein, you couldn't spook him. 
So
one day I told the dog, 'Go over there and get my horse.' By
God, he went over and got the bridle reins! He lead him over
to me. After that, he'd lead my horse if I gave him the reins.
"I'd tell him to go get wood out of the woodpile for the fireplace. I'd tell him to go get another one and he'd go bring another one."
Chuck says, "Hoss was very friendly. He wouldn't hurt anybody, but he wouldn't take no guff off of anybody either. He'd protect the pickup like most ranch dogs do. He wasn't an especially good cow dog, but he'd sure break up bulls if they were fighting.
"Hoss would stay out of the way in the corral. He didn't come and get in the way like a lot of dogs do. He was well mannered and obedient. Dad would say, 'Get out of here. Go hide somewhere,' and he'd leave, not to bother you again."
Hoss's reputation spread far and wide, and Louis enjoyed playing it up as much as possible.
"Once, I went to La Junta, and a guy I knew was working there at the Ranch Supply and some other guys, I knew them all. He said, 'You still got that dog with you?'
"I said, 'Oh, yeah.' He'd heard about him. I called the dog and he came in the shop. I told him to shake hands with Jim, and he sat down and put his paw out.
"I was trying out a pair of gloves and took them off and gave them to the dog and said, 'Go put 'em in the pickup." He ran out with them and jumped in the window and put 'em on the dash.
"When I got ready to go, Jim asked, 'Who's gonna pay for them gloves?"
"'Oh,' I said, "Go get them from that dog.'
"He said, 'Heck with you. I'm not gonna take anything out of that truck.'
"I paid him for the gloves. I was gonna buy them anyway."
Louis's wife, Judy, adds:
"That dog always wanted to ride in the front, which was fine, but we had a certain place where we'd stop and let him run up the road, if we had enough time. Well, as soon as we got to that place, he'd start whining, and I'd say, "Do you want to ride in the back?" And then he'd shut up right now. He didn't like riding in the back."
J. Cusimano is Louis and Judy's other son. He recalls another event that involved his mother:
"One time Dad left Mom and Hoss sitting in the pickup while he was standing outside talking to a neighbor. Hoss would get up off the floorboard and look to see if Dad was through and Hoss finally looked at Mom and let out a disgusted sigh like to say 'I wish he would hurry up!' Mom just told Hoss "'I know exactly how you feel!'"
Louis picks it up from there. "He'd lay in the floorboard and sometimes he let out a windy. I'd say, 'What have you done? You stink.'
"He'd cover his head with his paws like he was ashamed he did it."
Chuck remembers it, too. "The dog would get real sheepish and jump down on the floorboard and look back like 'I'm sorry, Boss.' If he did it two or three times, my dad would say, 'I think you need to run up the road.'
"He'd stop the pickup and open the door and Hoss would get out and run up the road as happy as heck ranch roads I'm talking about. Spend a little energy and get rid of some of that gas. When he got tired of running, he'd just stop and my dad would pull up and open the door and the dog would get in.
"The dog would lay on the floorboard of the pickup, and whenever Dad would take his foot off the gas, the dog would get up on the seat to see where they were."
Chuck's brother, J. says, "At the same time Dad had Hoss, my wife and I had a half German Police / half Samoyed female named Brandy that we treated like our child. Hoss and Brandy were great friends but I guess they were kind of family. Brandy was like our child and Hoss was like my folks' child so I called him little brother. He was my real smart brother. Pa never could teach Chuck to jump through the pickup window with a whip in his teeth.
"One thing Dad and I did was to teach each of these dogs a trick and there was a kind of unwritten contest to each teach a trick the other dog knew. Dad would sing the 'Shave and a haircut' song and Hoss would say the 'two bits' part as 'Woof Woof.'
"A lot of tricks Hoss did, he taught himself. One day we were driving cattle and part of the trip was down a busy highway. There were lots of idiots driving that road, and we put both dogs in the pickup so they would not get run over. It was a hot summer day, and Mom had the air conditioner on. When we got off the highway into the pasture again neither dog would get back out of the air- conditioned pickup. They looked at us like we were nuts to ask."
Chuck remembers many more stories about Hoss:
"There was a time when my dad had cleaned out a shack there on the place, and he had a bunch of old, rat-infested gunny sacks, and he was going to burn them. He had a barrel set up out there in the yard, and he was going to burn them in that barrel. He went and got an armload of sacks and told the dog, 'Get a sack.'
The dog grabbed one and drug it out there, too.
"The dog wasn't tall enough to get the whole sack in the barrel, so he'd hand the sack to Dad, and Dad would stuff them in the barrel.
"Then Mom called Dad to the phone, after he and the dog had carried a load or two. Dad went to the telephone and when he came back, there was a whole pile of sacks in, on, and around that barrel, and Hoss was still bringin' them.
"If your hat blew off, Hoss would go get it. Dad could let him out of the pickup and ask him to pick up beer cans or pop cans off the side of the road. Or he'd pick up a piece of trash. Dad would say, 'Go get that piece of paper and bring it back to me.' Hoss would do it.
"One time, my dad was helping cut some bulls for a rancher down there by Hoehne named Joe DeGarbo, and while they were putting the tools away when they were all done, Hoss went around and picked up the trash, the boxes from the vaccine. He was going and getting it and piling it up. He was helping clean up the mess. Nobody told him to do it. He was just that kind of a dog. Johnny on the spot. Amazing!
"We went to work some cattle one time, and Mom had packed us a lunch. We had the lunch in the pickup, the dog in the pickup, me and Dad in the pickup, and we found a piece of fence that needed some attention and Dad said, 'We're gonna work on this.'
"We got out and started working on this fence and Dad said, "Go in there on the passenger side, on the floorboard, and get those fence pliers.' I got to thinking as I was walking over to the pickup, 'That dadgum dog has been in there with our lunches. They're gonna be gone and the dog's gonna be fat.'
"Well, shoot, I opened the door and looked in there and the dog's nose was about three inches from that sack and just twitching like hell. But he wasn't gonna touch one of those sandwiches unless it was offered to him.
"You could teach him to go find anything, and he'd find things by their name. Dad sent him for a hammer one time. Well, it was a little off balance when Hoss tried to grab it by the end of the handle, because the steel part was so heavy. The dog would twist his head and drop it until he finally figured out how to grab that hammer where the balance was better, close to the head.
"He was just able to think things through and figure them out," Chuck marvels, "I have witnessed more than once when that dog would actually sit in the pickup with his head hanging down as if he was in deep thought. He was a thinking dog. He wasn't just reacting. I believe he actually used the power of reasoning."
J. concurs. "Hoss always looked at you like he was trying to read your mind."
Hoss was Louis's best friend for many years, and Louis enjoyed every day he was able to spend in the company of his once-in-a-lifetime canine companion.
Louis remembers fondly, "It seemed like Hoss could understand every word I said to him. We got him in '72 and put him to sleep when he was 14 years old."
