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

by Jon Katz

  Built in stages, starting around 1830, my farmhouse is a bit of a hodgepodge. Parts of it are quite elegant, parts in serious disrepair. The restoration began modestly, as they often do. The latest twist in my ongoing scheme to convince Paula to abandon New Jersey involved renovating an unused bedroom on the second floor to serve as her office. Anthony was doing a spectacular job on it through our second winter, exposing old wooden beams, replacing the drafty windows and cracked walls, refinishing the maple floor. About Paula: Id been trying for years to get her to move up to the country, and I was beginning, on one level, to get discouraged, to understand that this probably wouldnt happen anytime soon. I was luckily and happily married, and one reason was that we had always supported each others work. Paula entered the workplace when it was an inhospitable place for professional women. Work has never been an abstraction for her but a significant part of her identity and sense of purpose. Shed always been a reporter, from the day I met her in a newsroom, through Emmas early years and beyond. In many ways, Rose reminded me of her-I recognize the risk in comparing your wife to a dog, but those who know Rose and my feelings about her understand this as a compliment-in that work was one of the centerpieces of her life and she would not be happy without it. Even when we were apart, though, Paula was anchoring. I couldnt have lasted a month without her. She helped financially, oversaw bills and insurance and bank statements, came up whenever she could to help with chores, was deeply involved in my work, especially in reading and editing my first drafts. And because we had both worked for many years as journalists, we were used to frequent absences. We didnt like being apart, but we could handle it. In recent years, Paula had suffered her own midlife passages. Shed spent a decade and a half as a New York-based reporter for The Washington Post, a job she loved. When the paper told her she had to move to Washington-not an option for either of us-she left. But she was very sad to go. She also bore the brunt of our decision to unload our New Jersey home. Almost all the burden of negotiating the sale, shedding decades of possessions, finding an apartment, and moving fell to her. She took it on with her usual tireless efficiency. Much as she dislikes change, she did well with it. She expanded her teaching at Columbia University, began writing for The New York Times and elsewhere, and started work on a book proposal. Yet she remained a committed urbanite, a New Yorker. Moving to the farm would cut her off from work and make her Mrs. Jon Katz, someone shed never aspired to be. She loved having the dogs around, and was happy to take them for a walk, but was not much drawn to long discussions of their training or emotional lives. She liked visiting the donkeys and distributing carrots, but did not wish to delve into the world of farriers, abscesses, and equine dentistry. She enjoyed walking through Hebron, but would miss indie movies and Thai food and her friends if she moved here for good. I missed her. Life always felt strange and off-kilter without her. The good news, though, was that Paula, slowly, was coming to appreciate the farm. She began to build her own life in Bedlam, making her own friends, pursuing her own barn routines (such as feeding the chickens, which she admired for their industrious work ethic), fulfilling a vow made long ago that someday shed learn to cook. This was a high-priority item in a place where the nearest decent restaurant was at least fifteen miles away. I was abetting this transition by commissioning her new office. Any place Paula liked had to include her own workspace, and now this one did. Anthony even built her a desk out of beams and lumber found in the barns. And since he already had to rent a Dumpster to haul out the resulting debris-so went the reasoning-why not pull down the dog rooms stained acoustic-tile ceiling at the same time? The unused loft above it could contribute to a soaring space. The Dog Room-as wed taken to calling it, and still do-was on one end of the house. It looked like a fairly recent addition; I assumed it was an artifact of the early 1960s, with its orange shag carpeting, wood paneling, and fake fireplace. That carpet had been soiled, clawed, and chewed by cats and dogs long before mine. It offered so many pungent smells dating back so far that the dogs were happy to claim the room. I put their crates there, and even when they werent crated, they gravitated to the place and scattered their toys and chewbones on the orange shag. Dogs dont mind old knotty-pine paneling or wonder whats behind an imitation-brick hearth. I did, of course. On some level, Anthony surely knew the Dog Room would involve more than a new ceiling. I, however, had no clue. Anthony was, by now, a cross between a friend, a brother, and a son, our evolving relationship limited by our vastly different histories, but increasingly important to us both. We talked a half-dozen times a day, yelling mock insults, bemoaning some new outrage, sharing our small triumphs. We trekked into Saratoga once in a while for burgers and movies, walked in the woods with our dogs. On Sundays, he and his wife, Holly, and toddler daughter, Ida Jane, and I met for breakfast in Salem. In the time since I had first seen him patching the sliding door of my newly acquired barn, Anthony and his business had made big strides. Hed originally dubbed his company Hands-On Maintenance and spent his weeks replacing doorknobs and repairing leaky faucets. Now, after hed tackled increasingly ambitious jobs at Bedlam Farm-from a hillside pole barn for the animals to Paulas airy new quarters-I had some caps made for him that seemed to fit his mission better: Anthony Armstrong: Repairs and Restorations. He worked like a fiend, had great taste, and was becoming captain of a small crew of helpers. Anthony was obsessed with the Dog Room and what might be hidden there. Nobody who lived in or had visited the house had any idea what that fake brick was covering up or why; no one in recent memory had ever looked. There was a decaying chimney on the exterior of the house, and a cast-iron woodstove in front of the fake fireplace, so it seemed safe to assume thered once been a real fireplace there, or perhaps an oven of some sort. The plan was for Anthony to tear down the acoustic tile, then insulate and Sheetrock the space above, a start on making the room larger, brighter, less forlorn, more suitable for humans. If we had any money left, wed pull up that carpet. Insulation was also a priority: when the wind came up hard, the room creaked like an old frigate in a squall and cold air gusted across the floor. I argued, halfheartedly, that the fireplace could wait. But from the moment he dove in with his crowbar, we both kept looking at that brick fireplace. Why was it there? What lay underneath? Anthony couldnt take it. He badgered me for days to let him pry off the wall-covering and take a peek. Id already spent a hefty sum on the office, plus the winters usual vet bills and feed. Paula was arguing that Dog Room renovations were a quagmire waiting to happen and could wait. Id developed theories about waiting, though. Things I waited to do, Id learned, often never got done. Few people in life urge you to go for it, to take chances; almost everyone cautions you to be careful, go slow. The trick is to figure out when theyre right and when theyre wrong. My worst nightmare is a life filled with regrets as the clock winds down. I didnt feel I had as much time to wait as I used to. So I was already inclined toward adventure, though trying to talk myself out of it, when one April morning Anthony walked past me into the Dog Room with a claw hammer. What do you think? he asked. Lets poke a hole and take a peek. He knew me well. He swung his hammer, and it took just three whacks before the brick sheared off enough to look behind it. What we saw, when the dust settled enough for a flashlight beam to penetrate, was a complete surprise. There was a rare old slate fireplace, dusty and crumbling from years of moisture, yet graceful, the sort of discovery renovators dream of. Nearby Granville and environs is a region renowned for its quarries; this rock must have come from there, my neighbors told me as word of the discovery spread. One elderly farmer even thought he remembered the mason whod built the fireplace. We saw more sobering things back there, too, alas. Rain had been pouring down the chimney flashing into the walls and floors for years. Nothing much but history was holding the chimney together. There was very little insulation behind the walls, and what was there was water-soaked and smelly. The rest of the house stood on a stone or concrete foundation, but this room sat right on the ground. So when we proceeded to peel back the carpeting-what the hell-w
e saw beautiful pine floors that were worn and rotted. In a bit of a frenzy now, debris and dust beginning to pile up, Anthony ripped off the knotty-pine wall paneling and found more rot and mold. This was not a recent addition we were seeing but a part of the original house-probably, Anthony thought, a shed used to store firewood for the stoves. Oh boy, this is going to cost you, he whistled. When he pulled the ceiling down, the rooms history and its destiny became apparent. With its double-height ceiling, rough-hewn old beams, and a barn-wood wall that was once the rear of the house, and with its view of the valley and daylong light, this could be a beautiful space. We have to save this room, Anthony and I said, almost in unison. We have to do it right. But as I was already learning, the cardinal rule of renovation is that while nobody knows whats behind walls and ceilings, fixing whatevers there or replacing whatever isnt will always take longer and cost far more than you think. Restoring a room, especially one thats nearly two hundred years old, is an organic thing. Everything affects everything else, all the small gears pieces of a greater whole. Anthony immediately hired a helper and bought scaffolding and a bigger truck. I got bigger bills.

  Anthony and his sidekick, Chris, were soon going at it, ripping the roof, ceiling, walls, and waterlogged floor apart. Rotted wood, slabs of paneling, tiles and carpeting formed a mountain behind the house. The Dumpster was filled and emptied and filled again. Oh my God, I heard Anthony say half a dozen times a day as he pulled up another moldy board or poked his crowbar right through a wall. He hired Kathan, a temporarily out-of-work stonemason, to repoint and rebuild the chimney and restore the fireplace, a task that would take weeks. But Kathan did beautiful work, meticulously remortaring and replacing the crumbling bricks. He was outside on his scaffolding one raw day-I was watching his progress with some awe-when he asked about the gouged-out slope behind the house. This gaping excavation, an unsightly cutaway dug to make room for cars, trucks, and snowplows to circle the house, was an eyesore. Id planned to put in a concrete retaining wall to hold back the dirt and prevent mud slides after rain, but hadnt really thought much about the aesthetics. The other option, slightly less unsightly, was to build a wall of pressure-treated lumber. You want a stone wall? Kathan asked. Genius. Stone walls were beautiful, substantial, dignified. They were everywhere in Washington County, often crumbling in the weeds and woods of former farms, where farmers dug stones from their pastures to make room for crops. A stone wall would greatly improve Bedlam Farm, and would far outlast me. I loved building things that people might be talking about long after I was gone, like the lovely but slow-growing burr oak I had planted to someday provide shade and beauty in my back pasture. I had no chance of living long enough to see that tree grow tall and spread its branches, but my daughter, Emma, might, or whoever eventually lived here. So we decided to build the Bedlam Wall, of fieldstone trucked in from a Granville quarry. Had I grasped the expense, noise, and disruption-it took ten tons of stone and a half-dozen truck trips merely to deliver it-I might have hesitated. On to Berlin, I muttered to Anthony, echoing General Patton. If were gonna go down, he agreed, lets go down in flames. Kathan and his helper, Julio, assisted by Anthony and Chris, worked like mules for weeks. The fieldstone-first quarried by workers who fled Ireland during the Potato Famine, we were told-lay piled in giant mounds all over the driveway. Kathan sorted each rock, eyeing it, measuring it, chipping or filing where needed, then fitting it into place. There was no mortar in this wall, just the masons ability to pile and slide rocks into an interlocking shape. It was extraordinarily complex and painstaking work. Neighbors and townspeople began stopping by to monitor progress and express admiration. I was buying milk at the Bedlam Corners Variety Store one morning as another customer was gossiping with Marie, its new owner. That guy is building a huge stone wall up at the old Keyes place. He must be crazy, he said. Then, thinking about it, he added, He must be loaded, too. Youre half right, I said, winking at Marie and leaving. It was hard to believe how these guys worked. They showed up at six a.m., rain or shine, heat or cold, broke for a thirty-minute lunch around noon, then resumed hauling giant rocks around for hours. They manipulated tractors as if they were playing video games. Kathan chiseled and tapped, arranged and rearranged. In the age of The Home Depot, it wasnt something you often got to see. But it was also a nightmare for Orson. The din and dust and noise were indescribable and continual. The house rattled with the vibrations of hammers, saws, planers; trucks pulled in and out, dropping bone-jarring loads of rock, followed by the thunk of sledgehammers and the whirs of drills. Neighbors came by in their pickups and muttered about how much money this must cost, how good it looked. In the midst of it all, I had a book to write. I retreated to my first-floor study while the dust rained down and tried to concentrate. I pulled the dogs in with me, and we all huddled together in my little room. Rose didnt like the noise, but she found Anthony and his tools the most fascinating thing next to sheep, and would sit and study him for hours from the safe distance of her garden hideaway. Sometimes she would charge at an auger or drill, trying to herd it. Mostly, she decided to become an Anthony scholar, studying him as if he were an ancient text. Clementine also had her work: to enthusiastically greet and lick every human being within her range, and then to gobble every doughnut, sandwich, or cookie she could steal. It was during the Dog Room restoration that I dubbed her The Whore of Bedlam Farm for her willingness to go home with anybody holding a bag of Doritos. It was sad, in a way, to contrast these two dogs responses with Orsons. I had unleashed an Orson hell, an invasion of noisy men with tools, coming in and out of the gate, in and out of the fence and the house, scores of times, day after day, week after week. He fought valiantly to keep them all out, to nip and charge at them, bar the door, grab their tools. He waited for his moment, took his shots. Anthonys brother, Charlie, having joined the crew to paint, learned to carefully pat Orson and give him treats before entering the yard with sanders and paint cans. Orson seemed to accept him after a few weeks, and Charlie relaxed-until the day he turned away and Orson ran up and nipped him in the butt. Orson does not forget and he does not forgive. And he does not give up. It all may have taken a toll that I was too busy, self-absorbed, or dim to recognize at first. Orson, as his farm life centered more on me and less on sheep or the outdoors, had become increasingly preoccupied with protecting the boundaries of the house, its gates and doors. Now the coming and going by Anthony and his crew drove him crazy. From dawn to dusk, one large man or another, often carrying a drill, saw, or hammer, was coming through a gate or door to start thumping, banging, noisily intruding. I crated Orson when I knew people were coming, but I couldnt lock him up all day, and everybody urged me not to. Anthony and his guys werent afraid of dogs, and didnt really mind walking into the house holding their toolboxes in front of them, shouting at Orson to get back. They were willing to suffer the occasional ripped pair of jeans. What might have meant a lawsuit in New Jersey was just part of life in the country. Throughout the day, while I worked, I heard people yelling, Hey, Orson, knock it off! In a way, Orson became a bit unhinged. A dog whod already known too much failure was failing all day, trying to keep out one intruder after another, unable to. In addition to Anthony and his crew, the steady parade of visitors-delivery people, gardeners and mowers, the exterminator, the feed man, neighbors and friends, curious readers-continued. Some days were worse, some better, but it seemed to me that Orson was being cranked up continuously and dangerously. I had to try to do something about it, short of sending him to New Jersey for a few months. I went to my vet and told her about my worries. I told her I wanted to get more serious about this arousal. Might there be a medical cause? We tested and tested. She did blood work, administered a thyroid test, took X-rays. We tested for fractures, for Lyme disease, for cancer. It cost more than a thousand dollars, and turned up nothing. I cant help you, the vet finally concluded. Theres nothing medically wrong with Orson that I can see. But I know somebody who perhaps can. She handed me a business card from a holistic orthopedic vet who spec
ialized in dogs with problems that conventional veterinary care couldnt fix. She might be a bit out there for you, she cautioned me. Shes a professional and well-trained vet, but she is innovative and open-minded. She does acupuncture and massage and uses herbal remedies. But I cant tell you how many dogs she has helped when I couldnt. Orson is a great dog. And I think youre right-something is wrong with him. But I cant tell you what it might be. I think your instincts are good. He might be headed for some serious trouble. Valerie may be someone who can help. I groaned. I didnt want to go there. I liked conventional vets, and was wary of the many alternative cures and practices I had seen and heard about, especially online. Surely there had to be rational limits on the amount of time and money I spent worrying about this dog, who was a big part of my life but not all of it. But my vet was no fuzzy-headed animal wacko. Clear-eyed and businesslike, shed won my respect and trust. And as a writer about dogs, I thought, I really couldnt lose. It would be interesting either way. The important measure, I decided, wasnt whether or not I believed in alternative veterinary care, but whether the dog got better. If he did, it was great. If he didnt, wasnt it part of our covenant that I do everything possible to help him, to show him how to live in the world? Orson, Id come to fear, was headed for a new kind of trouble. His behavior seemed to be deteriorating in a way I didnt believe ethical or responsible to ignore, not any longer. He was calmer and more obedient many days, yet on others getting more aroused, his efforts to defend the house more ferocious. Wed been working together for nearly four years. I had trained with him-positively and carefully-over hundreds and hundreds of hours. Id run out of ideas, exhausted most conventional training methods, and hit the outer limits of traditional veterinary care. The number on the card was in Vermont-naturally. I called as soon as I got home. So Orson and I took the next step together and entered the woo-woo.