A Good Dog: The Story of Orson, Who Changed My Life

by Jon Katz

  Orson

  CHAPTER FIVE The Big Nipper Chris, the FedEx man, drove many miles on the rural route he covered. He came to my farmhouse three or four times a week, bringing books and CDs, computer paraphernalia, farm and dog supplies. He loved dogs-he had three of his own-and knew how to handle the ones he encountered. You could tell he was comfortable around them. When his truck pulled into the driveway, right alongside the front yard and the side door to the house, Orson was likely to go berserk. But Chris, patient and experienced, got out of his truck, stepped back calmly, avoided eye contact and approached the house walking sideways, all the while talking normally, saying Hey, Orson, and praising him when he was quiet. Usually Orson was not quiet. But he did love food, and when Chris reached into his pocket for a biscuit, the barking paused. Then Chris would toss the treat over the dogs shoulder. The idea was to calm Orson, to reward him for being calm, and to steer his attention away from the truck and from Chris. Meanwhile, when I heard the barking, I walked outside to get the packages and put Orson on a leash. Next to me, and away from the doorway, Orson settled down. When he was calm, Chris tossed Orson another treat, and soon Orson would accept pats and scratches and lick Chriss hand. It usually took two or three minutes for Orson to cool off enough to be trusted. Then I removed the leash, and he sniffed affably around the truck. Chris and I took this calming and acclimating ritual seriously. Over the course of six months, Chris would probably be here nearly a hundred times. If we stuck with it, we agreed, Orson would accept the presence of the truck and its driver. Enough introductions, dog biscuits, scratches, and hugs and Orson would get the idea. Hed become desensitized to the truck, welcome Chris, and perhaps be more comfortable with others as well. One spring day-Chris guesses it might have been his seventieth or eightieth delivery-Orson didnt bark when the FedEx truck pulled into the driveway, just sat still, wagging his tail. I was in the barn, doing chores. Chris got out and tossed Orson the usual biscuit; he scarfed it up and walked over quietly, his tail going more rapidly, his ears up. He seemed to recognize Chris instantly, and was focused on his hand-the source of treats. Chris, pleased, thought hed broken through. He reached over slowly, tossing biscuits every few seconds. Orson ate the biscuits, turned, and nipped the thumb of Chriss right glove, tearing it nearly off. There was no blood, no injury, just astonishment. I really thought we had it, Chris said.

  Border collies sometimes do nip-people, animals, balls, anything that moves rapidly away from them. This is a natural behavior, the way they control large animals and induce them to go where they want them to. When people like me get a dog like Orson, they tend immediately to demand that the dog eliminate its natural behaviors and live the way humans prefer. Inevitably theres some tension. In fact, there can be civil war. I saw the fight in New Jersey as our personal Appomattox, a kind of truce. Much later, I recognized it as only the first of a number of turning points. I kept wanting to declare our personal struggle over, proclaim myself victorious, and leave the field of battle. Of course, the skirmishing had just begun. Orson did appear to focus on me more, for whatever reason, after that tussle. He more readily accepted my authority, or at least the idea of it. Yet our new understanding didnt spell the end of the long, uphill battle this dog faced to subordinate his nature to human expectations. Tens of millions of dogs make this accommodation every day. Lots dont, often with sad consequences, and the more powerful the instincts, or damaged the dog, the tougher the struggle. Border collies often upset their people primarily because theyre supposed to be a smart breed; their owners dont recognize that theyre also intense, instinctive, even odd creatures. If you dont have work for them, they will find some on their own; odds are, it wont be the kind of work you want done. We think of these dogs herding sheep, but their own definitions of work are much more fluid. Orson, for example, didnt like where I kept the magazines that streamed weekly into the house in New Jersey. He decided to move them. Every time I glanced up, he was skittering up or down the staircase with a recent Newsweek or Rolling Stone in his mouth. Paula and I kept magazines in a pile downstairs, where we could skim through them in the evening. Orson, however, felt they should be upstairs, by the bed. This was a perfect job for an obsessive dog looking to keep busy. I scolded Orson when I caught him, and put the magazines back on the stack, but I couldnt make much of a dent in this new routine. After a couple of months, we began reading magazines in bed.

  Border collies generally shouldnt use their mouths when working. But I learned that there are times-say, dealing with rebellious ewes, obstreperous rams, and grumpy donkeys-when nipping becomes an essential tool. A good herder will not bite a sheep, but might pull some wool once in a while. Rose has nipped cows to get them moving, and backed up rams by nipping them on the nose; it sometimes proves an invaluable work tool, even a matter of survival. Now and then, two or three ewes get it into their heads that they dont feel like moving across the road to graze, or they want to flee the shearer, or the vet. Rose convinces them otherwise, sometimes by discreetly nipping their noses or butts. Sometimes sheep get tired or hot. Sometimes they feel protective of their lambs. Sometimes theyre just ticked off. They will kick, butt, or run away, struggles that a working dog like Rose quickly learns she must win, by any means. So, many border collies will nip now and then. Orson was a nipper-the Big Nipper, I started calling him. In New Jersey, where there were significantly more people per square mile, he sometimes nipped at people who grabbed him too enthusiastically about the face or tail, or at people who edged too close to our backyard gate. He nipped garbage trucks if he could. And at times he was more than a nipper. When highly aroused, he could grow crazed, barking and lunging, not completely under my control or his own. Every dog owner has his own definitions, but I consider a dog potentially dangerous if he or she cannot be recalled instantly, 100 percent of the time. Orson couldnt. Yet he seemed to go in cycles. Sometimes the arousal got better, sometimes it got worse. I was always celebrating the former, then despairing over the latter, always right and always wrong. But if Orson was a pain, he was a manageable one. In New Jersey, where life went from chaotic to mundane, whole weeks would pass without incident. We went for long walks through the neighborhood, trekked out to Raspberry Ridge for lessons, met other dogs and dog lovers at local parks. This is where guilt and responsibility often collide with a dog like this: Orson should almost always have been leashed, crated, or kenneled, at least until he was fully and completely trained. I knew, even then, that most border collies cant really live fully or happily in a place like suburban New Jersey. Thats part of why I bought a farm. Yet before then, Orson needed more, to my mind, and I was determined to give it to him. He needed a lot of exercise, so I took him to run in parks at five a.m. when no one much was around. He needed to explore things, so I walked him off-leash at odd hours, when commuters werent rushing about and kids werent heading to school. Usually this worked out fine. Sometimes he got into trouble, and the fault was mine, not his. Like his owner, Orson was rife with contradictions. He exhibited great sweetness and true craziness, in almost equal parts. Orson liked women, of almost all ages, any shape or size or color. What he did not like was anyone coming through what I call transition points-doors, gates, fences. He didnt much like men. He didnt like men wearing dark clothing. He especially didnt like men wearing dark clothes and carrying tools. I dont know whether these aversions stemmed from some atavistic border collie herding behavior, from a tendency toward hyperarousal, from an overdeveloped territoriality, or from plain insanity. One afternoon in New Jersey, a landscaper walked by carrying a rake. Orson leaped up without warning and began biting the rake, trying to pull it out of the guys hand; the poor man dropped the rake and ran. What was this about? Had someone once hit Orson with a rake? Did he think it his job to keep people with sticks away from me? I didnt know. I would never know. Orson loved kids, but where did he acquire a visceral loathing of lunch boxes? He loved strollers, nosing around behind the babies for food. He was drawn to anyone in a wheelchair and was very fond of
older people, seeking them out, charming them, nuzzling their hands. What a love, they would say. What a sweetie! Fifteen minutes later, some teenaged skateboarder would be running for his life. There is a big difference between nipping and biting, but its a distinction thats often (understandably) meaningless to the recipient. Its no excuse for my dog to nip somebody because hes a border collie. I have to be aware that a dog like Orson may nip fast-moving things, and take the necessary precautions. I sometimes forgot what Orson illustrated so dramatically-that dogs have alien minds, often beyond our understanding.

  On the farm there were different cycles, new realities. That first year, we were alone much of the time, especially in bitter winter. Days would pass without anybody much coming by the farm, which allowed Orson, for perhaps the first time, to settle into a calm routine. There were just fewer things around to fire him up, fewer people, trucks, dogs, sirens. He got to work out his aggression, or defensiveness-whatever it was-by tearing around the woods several times a day, wearing himself out. Orsons outbursts were reckless. He plowed into a tree while running down a chipmunk, cracked his leg (two fractures) leaping over stone walls, sliced his paw on some ancient barbed wire still lurking in the woods. But he liked his creature comforts, too. On bitter, snowy days, he was happy to curl up indoors while I worked, whereas Rose would happily sit outside in a blizzard until she became a featureless mound in the snow. My friend Anthony, who perhaps knew Orson better than anyone upstate besides Paula and me, loved Orson dearly, but approached him carefully. He understood Orsons crossed wires. Country kids often have to run from roaming dogs, though they cant always run fast enough. They tend to respect dogs natures, while city dwellers and suburbanites seem more likely to forget that their dogs are animals. So Anthony knew that Orson might try to nip him if he reached his hand over the kennel fence or walked into the house, no matter how much Orson appeared to recognize him or how many times Anthony said his name. He would come in, saying, Orson, Orson, get back. Sometimes he tossed a biscuit in first, to distract Orson and calm him down. Orson seemed to regain control of himself and come over to Anthony for a pat. Joking with Anthony about Orsons nipping, I began to research the legal definition of a dog bite. In most states, I learned, a bite requires penetration, either of flesh or clothing. Nips, on the other hand, generally are not considered bites if they cause no damage and leave no marks. He bit me! Anthony would shout on those occasions that Orson took off after him. No, I said. He nipped you. Under the law, he hasnt bitten anybody. This was joking banter, yet it was also an excuse I was talking myself into, a way of avoiding my fears about this dog. I was hiding behind technicalities, insisting that a nip was unpleasant but more or less natural for the breed, while a bite was different, something other dogs did-so I reassured myself. Until, one day, one of my neighbors came by. He wanted me to know that Orson had lunged at him and torn the cuff of his sweatshirt. He showed me the shredded sleeve. What happened? I asked, alarmed. Hed come to the back door, and Orson had charged the gate of his backyard kennel, barking furiously. The guy had reached over to calm and pet Orson, whom hed previously met several times, and was stunned when Orson lunged and tore his sweatshirt. He got me pretty good, too, he added. My first reaction was annoyance: Didnt my neighbor know it was foolish to approach an aroused dog on his own turf? Why would he ignore Orsons barking, his obvious upset? Why reach a hand over a fence toward a dog that was out of control? Wasnt that asking for trouble? But I quickly realized that I was being presumptuous, insensitive. Yes, that was not the best way to approach an aroused dog, but could my neighbor really be expected to know that? Why was my first impulse to blame him rather than myself? It wasnt a question of fault-Orson didnt mean any harm, and neither did my neighbor-but a question of facing reality. My subsequent reactions were more troubling. Neighbors walked up my hill all the time, often with their dogs; children came by to see and feed the donkeys. Elderly people drove by to see the farm, which many had visited in their youth. Technically, my neighbor had behaved foolishly, but others would act similarly. I didnt want them to be bitten, nor did they deserve to be. Too many dog owners have told me that it wasnt their dogs fault that some kid got bitten; the child should have been taught to stay away from strange dogs. I dont-cant-agree. If I own a dog like Orson, its always my responsibility, and in some way my fault, if somebody gets bitten. Legally, perhaps, Orson had not crossed the line. Yet I tended, as many dog lovers do, to dismiss and rationalize. Yes, he nipped-but only at people coming to the gate. He was just doing his job; its natural for dogs to protect their humans and their territory. Sure, he could be a bit frightening, but only to people who didnt understand dogs. I even engaged in some of the moral rationalizing that I strenuously object to among other owners: The victim deserved it. He should have known more about dogs, approached the gate more carefully, avoided eye contact, noticed that the dog was excited and backed off. But that didnt let me off the hook. Orson didnt wake up in the morning and decide whether to be polite that day or not; dogs cant make conscious moral judgments. He reacted instinctively, for reasons I might never fully understand. But I was wrong to permit any dog to frighten, nip, or bite, then try to explain it away. Every time Orson, or any dog, ferociously charged a gate or nipped a visitor, any time any dog bites a human, the life of every dog suffers. With dog bites an epidemic American health problem-millions of people are bitten every year seriously enough to call the police-I see a particular urgency in making sure my dogs dont hurt anyone. My first year at Bedlam Farm, we had few incidents, and those that did occur were easy to explain. I lived quietly on my forty-plus snowy acres. Much of that stormy winter even Paula often couldnt make the drive from New Jersey. Delivery people came infrequently. The mailbox was across the road, so the letter carrier didnt have to approach the house. Icebound, focused on writing my next book, I settled into a fairly tranquil routine with my two dogs. We never saw anyone on our walks in the deep woods, and our working and herding lessons took place early in the day, out of others sight and hearing. But as the seasons advanced, several developments upset Orsons peaceful equilibrium. One was the publication of the book wed been writing together so cozily, The Dogs of Bedlam Farm. People who read about our first year on the farm started visiting uninvited, sometimes bringing their own dogs, sometimes walking up from the village or driving by slowly to take pictures. Rose ignored most visitors. Sitting by a window or in the yard, watching her sheep, she greeted visitors with a couple of perfunctory woofs. Orson went after each passerby, agitating himself and disrupting our days. Nothing made him crazier than to go outside and see a strange dog down in the pasture, or even in a car across the road. It drove him wild to have people pull up in front of the house to take pictures or stroll around. It made me a bit crazy, too, to have to deal with unexpected visitors, though they were well meaning. Perhaps our reactions were connected. One morning, as Rose and Orson and I went out for our training session, I discovered a couple and their two German shepherds in the pasture. The dogs were barking at the sheep (at least they were on leashes), and the humans were busy with their cameras. Oh, we were just passing by, the people said. Hope you dont mind. I did mind. The donkeys were eyeing the scene anxiously-to protect the sheep, they would definitely charge or kick at intruders. Rose was about to take off after the two dogs. I managed to grab Orsons collar-he was frantic-before he could do any damage. The visitors retreated hastily and apologetically. I wanted to be hospitable, and ordinarily would have loved to show off Roses skills, but these folks were endangering themselves and my animals. I decided I needed a barrier that would allow the dogs to sit outside and run around safely. There was a dog run out back, but I wanted a fence that enclosed the front yard. It would provide a boundary that visitors and neighbors-and, ultimately, Orson-would respect; it would protect him and them and my privacy. So Anthony built an elegant white wooden fence, modeled on those you see at horse farms, around the front of the house. It took a while. He had to hand-drill the post holes and measure the boards care
fully. He added a layer of green wire mesh so the wily border collies couldnt slip between or under the boards. It took a couple of weeks to construct, but once completed it gave me the freedom to open the front door and simply let the dogs out to take in the sun or have a romp. I hoped this would offer Orson, and others, protection. My plan was to sit outside with him for a period each day, to make him lie down and stay when a cyclist or hiker or truck passed by, and to shower him with treats when he complied. I would give any owner with a highly arousable dog who loved to run fences the same advice: Use food and calming training to show him, over and over, that visitors are okay. Reinforce and reward him for being calm, instead of yelling and reinforcing him when he barks or chases. Dogs dont really differentiate between good and bad attention; they love either variety. It was growing apparent that when a truck passed-especially one with a diesel engine-or when a person stood by the gate, Orson would simply lose control. He entered a feverish state in which he would throw himself furiously against the new fence, yapping and growling. So we undertook more training. At least part of every day was spent waiting for trucks and cars. Lie down, I would command. After two or three tries, he would, usually. Stay. Then I tossed treats. Sometimes I sat on the grass next to him, stroking his back, calming him as the hated interloper receded. Sometimes this worked. Sometimes it didnt. I guiltily reflected that I might have worsened this problem. When Orson (Devon, then) first arrived, he was so out of control that I was desperate to give him something to do, something that would help calm him down and burn up all that energy. The thing I capitalized on was his love of chasing after trucks. I found fenced areas near streets where we could play this game. When a truck came roaring by, Id say, Go get em! He loved more than anything to lope after the noise for a hundred yards, then turn back to me. As long as he remained safely behind a fence, it seemed harmless enough. Its not something Id recommend now, yet it gave him the chance to run hard, to have work, to feel successful. It never caused aggressive behavior. Now his reactions were more extreme, and I was trying to train him out of the response I used to encourage. The situation had also changed. It always puzzled me that people would come up to the fence and simply stand there watching while Orson went nuts for ten, even fifteen minutes. They simply didnt know that they were causing, or reinforcing, a problem. But I remained responsible for the behavior of my dog, no matter which side of the fence he was on, even if I had to fight the instinct to lean out the window and beg people to simply go away. The fence did give Orson a boundary. It was a place I could leave him safely, at least when I was at home, while still giving him and Rose some freedom. I always crated the dogs when I left the farm. But even with the increase in visitors, this was a rural area. By New Jersey standards, we had scant traffic, few passersby. Apart from the occasional gawker or hapless delivery person who tried to reach over the gate, things were relatively stable for months. Perhaps this would be the pattern of Orsons life-peace alternating with chaos, each new phase an opportunity to work with him, train him, soothe him. Over time, and with patience and persistence on my part, I was sure he would improve.