Also by Robert Sedlack The African Safari Papers
All the Valley quivered, one extended motion, wind
undulating on mossy hills
a giant wash that sank white fog delicately down red runnels
on the mountainside
whose leaf-branch tendrils moved asway
in granitic undertow down—
and lifted the floating Nebulous upward, and lifted the arms of the trees
and lifted the grasses an instant in balance
and lifted the lambs to hold still
and lifted the green of the hill, in one solemn wave
Allen Ginsberg
“Wales Visitation” (excerpt)
1967
breeding
one
Two creatures laid claim to a pasture. One, a large white dog, sat in the swaying grass not too far from a plundering brood of hungry geese. The dog, oblivious to the bobbing black necks, kept his steady, attentive eyes on a corral nearby, from which strange but soothing sounds trickled out.
The other creature stood on two legs and remained so still that a few of the geese, unimpressed by what could have been a scarecrow, came much closer than they should have. He had glanced over when the geese arrived but his attention, like the white dog’s, was on something else. His head tilted back, he stared up at the sky, looking to the north, sniffing the air.
It was not cold enough yet for him to need a headband but he wore one anyway. On his right hand was a brilliantly coloured ski glove, on his left a dull-grey woollen mitten.
Suddenly his right arm swung freely until his left hand caught it and pulled it across his chest. His right foot dragged as he limped a few steps and stopped.
His erratic movement created a stir in the brood. The dominant female scampered forward and took flight, her long neck, sturdy as a steel pipe, motionless as her giant wings propelled her forward. The rest quickly followed. The sound of her honking brought many replies and for a moment the sky was filled with their sounds. These became but a distant, haunting echo as the geese slowly dissolved into a single dot on the horizon.
Except for a strong breeze blowing through the blades of grass, everything fell silent. The pasture was left to the large white dog who kept his eyes on the corral and the limping man who kept his on the sky, where a cold front, rolling aggressively south, pushed forward like a thick wall of mud. The battered autumn air escaped skyward, and crowned its retreat with a line of cotton-candy heads.
two
The farm wasn’t much to look at from the gate. There were scattered piles of weather-ravaged equipment, an old tractor, two trucks that started when they wanted, and several raggedy buildings that tilted one way or the other.
A sheep farm was the only type of farm Jack Pickle had considered. Chickens were too noisy (although he kept a few for roasting) and cows were too big. Actually, cows scared the hell out of him. So he had Corriedale sheep. Exactly forty-nine head. He had started with twenty and was working toward a hundred.
Jack’s land stretched across one hundred and sixty acres, sixty-five of which were cultivated. Another forty were claimed by what other farmers called a wildlife section but Jack referred to as the Enchanted Forest. It was here that a large creek gurgled in summer, and trees, shrubs and flowers grew where they wanted.
Jack had two dogs. One herded. One protected.
The herder was black and white and Jack called her Pearl. Jack only needed her when he had to get the sheep out of the pastures and into the corral. But the two were joined at the hip. Wherever Jack went, Pearl followed.
Jack spent three years believing that Pearl was also good at protecting the sheep. Even after losing several chickens he refused to accept it was the result of Pearl’s negligence. Only after he witnessed a coyote nipping at the hamstrings of one of his rams and saw Pearl spinning in a circle and yelping did he figure he’d better get some muscle.
Another farmer returning from a sheep conference told Jack that llamas were the next big thing in livestock protection. They could spot a coyote and chase it off before a lamb had a chance to shake its tail. Jack bought two.
But being a retired cop, Jack knew he couldn’t have too much protection, so he also bought a white, heavy-coated livestock dog. Taillon was solitary. He didn’t come in the house. And he wouldn’t let Jack get closer than five metres before he’d lumber away. Which was quite a compliment because Taillon wouldn’t let strangers get closer than ten.
Taillon ate with the sheep, slept with the sheep, and made his own substantial contributions to the piles of manure. Jack never knew of any confrontations between Taillon and a coyote. But then again, he figured he wouldn’t find enough left of the coyote to be able to tell what it was anyway.
The front door on Jack’s two-bedroom house remained locked to prevent injury. A porch would have nullified the one-metre drop to the ground, but given a choice between tending to his sheep or his house Jack always chose the sheep. As a result, visitors had no choice but to wipe their boots on the welcome mat at the back door.
The sturdy house looked worse than it was on the outside because it hadn’t been moisturised with a paintbruch since Jack had bought it ten years ago. The original white paint looked a paler shade of grey and peeling strips fluttered in the wind.
The kitchen was small, the sink usually piled with dishes and the floor near the stove spotted with dime-sized splatters of grease. Jack cooked all his own meals and, no surprise, his specialty was lamb. Shoulder of lamb. Rack of lamb. Lamb ribs.
A wedge of soft butter always slumped in a bowl on the kitchen table, enticing visitors who liked a stroke of it across their muffins. Rural folks helped themselves to a thick cut but most of the city guests were on a diet or watching their cholesterol.
A simple living room wrapped around the kitchen, providing a long sofa, a reclining chair where Jack took his afternoon naps and a fireplace that waited impatiently at the end of the room. It had not been used since Jack had bought the farm and, instead of chopped wood, was home to everything light enough to be blown by a breeze.
In place of a roaring fire Jack kept the television on with the sound off. He preferred to have it tuned to a sports network because then there was always something moving across the screen.
Jack conducted his financial chores at a desk beside the kitchen. He accomplished these with an assortment of tools: a rust-stained steel desk rescued from a junkyard, a typewriter with a missing “y,” envelopes, a tape dispenser, a dusty stapler and two dented filing cabinets. He called this room his torture chamber.
The big bedroom was Jack’s. He kept the door shut so visitors couldn’t see in when they passed it on their way to the bathroom, though other than an unmade bed he had nothing to hide. Jack just thought that certain things should be private.
The other bedroom, down the hall beside the bathroom, was small. Jack kept this door shut because of the smell.
Jack liked cats. He had three, two in the house and one in the barn. Norman was an old male he’d had for nineteen years. After twelve years, Jack had added “the Great” to his name because of Norman’s disdain and intolerance for all creatures except Jack. Norman the Great didn’t go outside any more and spent most of his day sleeping under the couch or purring on Jack’s chest.
There was a new little guy Jack hadn’t named yet. He had heard him squawking in the grass one night during a terrible rainstorm, and figured some heartless son of a bitch must have dumped him by the side of the road.
Jack had had a few moments of regret, though, that he had taken this one in. The cat’s favourite game was to wait until Jack was settled in his recliner and then turn his big toe into a malevolent worm. Jack cursed like hell when the cat ripped into his toe. An
d cursed again the next morning when the hot water in the shower made his cuts sting just like new.
Jack swore he’d pitch the damn cat into the night. But he never would. Jack, being Jack, couldn’t turn away anything that needed shelter and a little food. And that included his nephew, who had come to live with Jack seven years ago.
Fred Pickle was known to a few neighbours as the cripple, or gimpy, or the handicapped guy. They weren’t necessarily being mean. Some didn’t know him by name and were just fixing him in their minds during conversation. But the ones who knew Jack’s nephew liked him a lot. And they didn’t know him by any name other than Fred.
Fred delicately bit a piece of glazed doughnut as Jack muscled a stack of hay back and forth. Pearl scampered, barking, nearly getting tangled in Jack’s boots. “Down,” Jack said, and Pearl obediently dropped to her belly. Jack loved Pearl. She was the only one on the farm who did what he asked.
Fred thought the haystacks looked like giant loaves of bread. They made him think of peanut butter. With a mighty heave, Jack finally pushed the stack forward and a chunk fell off, sending hay dust curdling across the ground.
The sheep began bleating and scuttled from the far end of the corral. Jack loaded the hay into a wheelbarrow, pushed it over to Fred and dumped it, burying Fred’s boots. Fred gripped the pitchfork in his left hand and stabbed the pile.
“Okay, okay, um, um, now you can rest and watch your nephew work this sheep farm like nobody he can think of.” Fred grunted and made a big production out of his effort. He flung the hay over a short fence and watched as his first attempt fell short. The sheep didn’t care. They found the hay and began to eat.
Fred pitched again and this time found his mark in the trough. “He shoots, he scores.”
Jack darted to a stack of better-quality alfalfa hay. Jack was thin, wheezed when he worked and never seemed to get much colour in his face, but he moved like a busy red squirrel. He cut the strings that tied the bundles, carried them to Fred and tossed one into the trough.
“Hey, hey, no fair, I feed them the dusty old food and you give them the fresh, green stuff, wowee, they will like you more than me.”
Jack dropped the next bundle, then dug in his pocket and plucked a smoke from his cigarette box. The plastic lid was held on with black electrician’s tape. Jack rolled his own cigarettes. It still wasn’t cheap but it was better than quitting.
Suddenly a voice boomed from beside the barn. “It’s Fred Pickle! Lock your doors and hide your women.” Fred spun around, delighted. An old man with a balding, freckled head approached in his size-twelve shoes like a worried soldier negotiating a minefield. Jack saw Badger coming and wondered if he’d tiptoed like that when he flung that stick of dynamite at the McDonald’s back in 1972.
“Ah, don’t bother, Badger, there’s manure everywhere,” yelled Jack with a wheezy laugh. “You might as well just step in it and get it over with.”
“Too bad you couldn’t sell sheep shit, Jack, you might actually turn a profit.”
“Hey, hey, I know you,” said Fred as he lumbered over.
“I’ve never seen you before in my life,” deadpanned Badger, offering his left hand.
Fred jabbed out his own left hand and then, just as fast, hol-stered it like a gun. “Something does not add up. You said you have never seen me before and yet you know my right arm doesn’t work and I think you are just being a smarty-pants.”
“Badger’s the nice fella who swapped seats with us,” explained Jack. “In the city, Fred. At the arena.”
Fred thought real hard, shrugged his shoulders and went back to his pitchforking.
Badger watched Fred, a subtle sadness relaxing the muscles on his face. He heard Jack coughing and turned as Jack stubbed out his cigarette. “Where’s that lamb?”
“Hold your horses,” said Jack. “You’re gonna have something to eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“It won’t take twenty minutes. I’ve got three steaks in the freezer,” said Jack as he dashed off.
Fred tossed the last two bundles of alfalfa into the troughs. “He smokes and coughs and runs and smokes again, wowee, I wish he would just quit so I don’t have to breathe his toxic fumes and have my life shortened by five years.”
Badger unwrapped a cigar, carefully struck a match and lit the tip. Once he saw it was burning red he started puffing and grinned at Fred who was watching him, shaking his head and coughing for effect. “Did you know,” asked Badger, “that your uncle would have to chain-smoke twenty-four hours a day for three months to put as much poison in the air as an SUV driving twenty kilometres? God forbid we remind soccer moms of that or attack the Ford Motor Company with as much rage as we do Philip Morris.”
“I don’t pollute anywhere because I can’t drive, buh, buh, how did you get out here today? Did you walk?”
“No, I drove my fossil fuel–spewing motorhome.”
“I think that makes you a hypocrite.”
Badger enjoyed Fred’s honesty. He chuckled and puffed his cigar. “Working hard, eh, Fred? Or hardly working.”
“Um, um, I don’t believe it. You want to see someone who works twenty-four hours a day and seven days a week? That’s me.” Fred limped toward the far end of the corral, his right foot dragging through the straw. Badger followed closely behind. Two mangy llamas on the other side of the fence stared at Badger and started clucking their tongues.
Fred stopped. “You hear that?” Badger looked around, concerned. “Um, um, that means they don’t like you at all and by the way do not get too close or they will spit, okay, you want to see something special?”
Badger kept a nervous eye on the llamas and followed Fred until he stopped again. Badger had to catch his breath and Fred waited until he had done so before slowly moving his left hand through the air as if opening a curtain. “Voila.”
Taillon was lying on his side in the grass. His eyes were closed and his white hair hadn’t so much as twitched at their approach.
“A dead dog,” said Badger.
“Um, um, he may not look busy at all, buh, buh, inside his wheels are spinning and he is scheming up ways to trick the coyotes.” Fred stared at Taillon like a proud father.
“He sure is big,” said Badger.
Taillon ignored the attention. Fred sighed with satisfaction. “Please, please, please, tell me you have not seen a more beautiful dog. Ever.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more beautiful dog.”
“When?”
“Ever.”
“Okay.” Fred put his hand on Badger’s shoulder. “Can I tell you a secret and you promise not to tell Papa Joe?”
“I promise.”
“Sometimes after Taillon has let me sit with him for an hour or so, I leave behind a few treats, you know, to say thanks.”
“I’m sure Jack wouldn’t mind.”
“Are you kidding? He would be mad as h, e, double hockey sticks. ‘He’s a working dog, Fred, don’t treat him like a pet.’ Um, um, Taillon does not eat them right away, buh, buh, when I come back in the morning the biscuits are safe and snug in his belly.” Fred looked wistfully at the giant dog. “He loves me so much, sometimes I can see a glow around his head.”
Fred popped a button on his overalls and Badger knew what was coming so he turned his head. Fred sighed and the rising steam made it look like the start of a brush fire. Badger was used to Fred relieving himself at a moment’s notice. He’d been doing it as long as Badger had known him. As well as forgetting who Badger was if Fred hadn’t seen him for a few months.
Fred tucked himself in and turned his back to Badger, fumbled for something in his pocket, then began talking in a stilted voice. “You may not believe this, buh, buh, Taillon has relatives that date back to before Jesus Christ, um, um, then they got bored and teamed up with Nordic nomads and found the mountains of Europe a nice place to settle down and soon after became the Royal Dog of France and were trusted guards. They hated bears and wild dogs, buh, buh, t
hey liked sheep and spoiled dogs like Pearl because they were friends with the sheep.”
“That’s a noble dog you’ve got there, Fred, all the way back to France.” Badger whistled through his teeth.
“Okay, the breed developed a tantalizing contrast of being patient and kind with helpless animals while maintaining a vicious intolerance for those creatures who liked to eat little, helpless animals.” Fred looked across at the fields. “This means you could leave Taillon alone in the backyard with a little girl and hope the good Lord took mercy on any two-legged predator who tried to abduct her.” Fred looked at Badger impatiently, “Don’t you even want to ask me when they came to Canada?”
“So, Fred, I was curious, when did this breed first come to Canada?”
Fred was so pleased he almost buckled over. “And that was smooth as silk so here we go.” Fred looked again at what Badger knew to be a piece of paper. “The first known …” Fred frowned and mouthed the word.
“Pyrenees,” said Badger.
“… um, um, came to Newfoundland in 1662 with French fishermen and because they did not hate the English like their owners, well, they mated with some black dogs from England and made a brand new breed.” Fred turned to Badger with a smile, “The Landseer Newfoundland.”
Badger nodded and Fred returned to his notes. “Buh, buh, buh, it was not until 1931 in Massa …”
“Massachusetts.”
“…gesundheit, that the breed flourished as a purebred.”
It was Jack who had gone to the library, about forty-five minutes away, to find a name for his sheep guardian. With the help of a librarian he had found a mountain in France called Taillon—big and silent, just like his dog.
The pronunciation was something the librarian had worked on with Jack, but he couldn’t get it right. It was too French for Jack’s stiff tongue. So Jack just pronounced it talon. It made no difference to Taillon because he went about his business without ever responding to his name or being told what to do.
The Horn of a Lamb Page 1