by Jon Katz
Donna pulled into the driveway in her SUV a couple of weeks later. Tall, blond, and lean, she had the look of a horse person, that ruddy complexion, that confidence around animals. Shed been doing this for twenty years, she told me, shaking hands firmly, and then following me out to the yard. There seemed nothing woo-woo about her. She stood over Orson and waved one hand over his back. Hes telling me hes frightened, she announced. He thinks you might give him away, like you did the other dog-evidently a reference to Homer, now resettled with my neighbor back in New Jersey. She walked around a bit with Orson, and then told me that Orson was a border collie in need of a job. He is confused. He wants to work, and you are his work. He is very upset at all the people coming here. He wants to protect you, and he thinks that hes failing whenever somebody comes in. I didnt say much as she visited with the other dogs. Clementine kept bringing her bones and treats; I could hardly wait to hear what was going on inside that head. Clementine is upset when Rose gets on the couch and takes her spot, she said, picking up nothing further. It made sense that this sweet and uncomplicated creature had no bigger complaints. Out by the barn, Donna met Winston, who was, she said, one irritated bird, the Rodney Dangerfield of roosters. He got no respect. Rose was always plowing over him to reach the sheep, Clementine would steal the chicken feed from under his beak. Has a hen died or left? Donna asked. Yes, I said, Id returned one to the friend whod given her to me; I didnt need so many eggs. Well, next time tell Winston, she advised. He is looking for her and is distressed that he cant find her. Tell him? I wondered. Did we speak the same language? I appreciated Donnas perceptive readings; she picked up on some important stuff. Id long known that one of Orsons elemental dramas was that he was a border collie without work. That I had become his work was likely true, and many people would find it touching, but I was more ambivalent. Hanging out with a human isnt the natural task of a border collie. Her perceptions of Orson were useful and reinforcing to hear. And while I didnt particularly care if Id annoyed Winston, who had quite a nice rooster life, Donna did know and understand animals, I concluded. At the same time, hers were ideas that plenty of good trainers or behaviorists-or farmers, for that matter-might have come up with. I was fuzzy about the difference between what was observed and what was communicated. And I found it off-putting when Donna paused, closed her eyes, and received supposed messages from the dogs: Orson is telling me his shoulder hurts. Was she receiving literal words, in English, from these animals, I asked her more than once, or just relaying her sense of their thoughts? Oh, theyre talking to me, she said. These are their literal words. Sometimes she laughed at their jokes. With that she lost me. I debated this visit with friends for months afterward. Probably its healthy and valuable to explore alternative ways of communicating with our animals. But I found it arrogant to assume that animals would use our words. Their animalness is practically sacred to me, and I respect and love them for it. Interpreting behavior is one thing; picking up verbal jokes quite another, a place I couldnt go. So I was especially wary when Lesley Nase, the shaman, called to say she was receiving fascinating images from Orson, from the picture Id given Valerie. She would love to come to the farm and see him, she suggested, and explore whether there were places he might be getting negative energy. Lord, I thought. In a country where millions of people dont have basic health care, my border collie is getting visits from communicators and shamans. But I had gone this far. Lesley showed up the following week in a tiny foreign car, a middle-aged woman clutching a handful of dowsing rods. I liked Lesley, too; she was warm and funny, joking about retrieving souls. I was struck by how the dogs-especially Orson-warmed to her. She also pointed out the irony, noticing my limp, of Orsons getting regular acupuncture while I didnt. Did I want some energy treatment for my leg, she wondered. No thanks, I said. I think by now Orson had figured out when someone was coming to care for him. Hed always craved being the center of attention, elbowing other dogs aside to greet visitors, curling up in almost anybodys lap. So he was shortly in Lesleys, as we all sat in a heap on the front porch steps. Hes too large and heavy to really be a lap dog, but she didnt seem to mind. I got an image of a Nazi parade from Orson was her opening revelation. He was inside gates and fences, and there were people marching, and other people watching and clapping. Orson had once been an obedience show dog, I told her; hed often entered competitions through fences and gates, although Id never been sure how that connected to his arousal and nipping. A woman whod known Orson back in Texas had e-mailed me after a previous book to say that some competitors on the circuit there were referred to as Nazi obedience trainers, because they were so critical of their dogs. As in any sport, from human soccer games to canine herding trials, people do get swept up in the passion of competition, which can become something ugly, an arena for enforcing control rather than working together. The images Lesley was receiving-somehow-made me picture some of the worst herding and obedience competitions Id attended. I could picture Orson in a show ring, entering and leaving through gates, aroused by the applause, growing frenzied-and then distracted. He hated almost all direct commands, even from me. Before he got his new name, he cowered, winced, and panted-almost every avoidant behavior a dog can show when confronted with something fearful or strange. A Nazi parade. It gave me a bit of a jolt. I appreciated that Lesley wasnt claiming to hear Orsons voice, but rather felt she was picking up images that helped explain him. Behaviorists argue that dogs dont have language and cannot think in human terms. Some behaviorists believe that dogs thoughts consist of sensory ideas, which take the place of words. Other scientists use phrases like movies of the mind when they try to interpret dogs mental abilities; images drawn from experience substitute for words in their canine heads. Theres a long, rich history of humans who have special gifts that enable them to understand and receive information from animals. This therapeutic communication with the spirit world often comes through dreams or visions, even hallucinations, during which animal spirits explain the sources of their problems and provide guidance for finding a cure. Certain individuals are believed to possess such unusual visionary powers that they can enter the spirit world at will. For thousands of years, these people have been known as shamans. Theyre credited with having an unusual affinity with the spirits of animals. Id heard of such people and read about them. Lesley might have been one of them. If you accept the concept of dogs thinking in sensory images-movies of the mind-and that some people might have unusual receptivity to such images, then her work didnt seem so outlandish. For whatever reason, I felt shed read Orson accurately and grasped the complex nature of our relationship. Like many dog lovers, I am extraordinarily attuned to my three. I usually know if theyre in pain, aroused, fearful, or uneasy. I often anticipate their behaviors-from upchucking to barking-as they do mine. Ive had a number of dreams about Orson, no doubt linked to difficult parts of my own past, as well as to the animal parts of myself. On occasions, when Im with him, images of fear and pain have flashed through my mind quickly, a kind of waking vision. So perhaps Lesley just took these instincts further, somehow. Since I didnt really believe I could literally read Orsons or my other dogs minds, Id never really tried. But I kept in mind my midlife motto: Learn and grow. I didnt quite grasp the notion of soul retrieval, or how Lesleys dowsing around the grounds could help matters. But what I believed was less important than what helped the dog. This whole excursion into strange new territory wasnt about me, but him. Lesley had good, solid ideas about helping Orson: keeping him with me more when I wrote, keeping him out of the yard when I wasnt there, sprinkling the gates with food and beef jerky each morning so that, over time, he would come to see them as less dangerous. Equally important, she reminded me to make certain he was given the opportunity to succeed and be praised, for his battered canine ego to be strengthened, even rebuilt. Her counsel was both apt and utilitarian, something I could translate into practical action. She felt a positive connection with me, she said, and felt she had a good grip on the dog. A bit to my surprise, I wanted to stay i
n touch with her. Of my dogs, Lesley said, only Orson had broken pieces of his soul floating around out there. At least, only Orson was damaged to the extent that she received powerful imagery from him. Which was interesting, because he was the only dog I hadnt raised from puppyhood. So we agreed to talk by phone in a few weeks, to see what else she might glean.
By this point I felt as if I were living in a movie, a story full of ghosts and spirits, dim flashbacks and unearthed secrets. The script called for me to accept the communicators and shamans and move, along with my dog, to a higher level of consciousness. Some friends were delighted, praising my open-mindedness; others clearly thought Id lost my marbles. What Orson needed was to be treated appropriately for his physical ailments and to be trained-still more-for his behavioral problems. Anything else was just letting myself off too easy. But how tempting. How I wished he could talk to me, tell me what had happened to him, why he felt so anxious and unsafe, how I could help. What wouldnt I pay for the glue that would put his broken parts back together, and give him contentment for his remaining years? He had done so much for me, I would be happy to return the favor. If Orson had taught me anything, it was that he isnt like me, doesnt reason like me, and, sadly, cant talk to me. He was an instinctive and wounded animal, not a four-legged human waiting for a therapist-or spiritual advisor-to tap into his childhood. Ultimately, though, what these communicators told me, regardless of how they received the information, was something I already knew but needed to hear again and again: I had more work to do with this dog. It would be interesting to have a personal shaman, I told Orson. When youve got problems, send signals to her, I advised him. Dont nip at people. As it happened, relief for Orson was definitely on the way, but it didnt come from the land of extrasensory perception. The thing that brought Orson the most delight that year was an expensive gadget, a farm implement, something with an internal-combustion engine.
Several weeks after Lesleys visit, John Sweenor-mechanic, friend, neighbor, a member of our strange and growing little tribe at Bedlam-came by and saw me hobbling. Id had a bad left ankle for years, and wore orthotics and a leg brace to keep from falling. Sometimes, walking as much as I did around the farm was painful. By that spring, however, Id developed worsening, almost blinding pain in my right leg-the supposedly good one. The diagnosis was a torn quadricep, probably caused by climbing the steep hills around the farm, hauling lambs and supplies up and down the slopes. The pain was relentless, exhausting, dispiriting. The injury would take weeks to heal, the doctor said, and would heal only if I stayed off those hills and off my leg. This was both difficult and uncomfortable. I loved walking; the dogs and I strolled for hours around the farm and through the adjacent woods. And I loved sheepherding, which also involved a lot of movement. Even a quiet visit with donkeys required making my way up a steep incline. Anthony and John had been badgering me ever since I arrived to buy an ATV, an all-terrain vehicle-or four-wheeler, as theyre called upstate. ATVs are somewhat controversial. Teenagers or irresponsible drivers can steer them into grisly accidents. And environmentalists hate the idea of noisy machines penetrating quiet wooded places, burning fossil fuel and spewing fumes. I hated the idea for different reasons: ATVs offended my middle-aged ego. Theyre like golf carts, I sniffed. I dont need a machine to get around my own farm. Increasingly, though, I did. If I didnt rest my now bad leg, I wouldnt recover. If I couldnt recover, how could I maintain this wonderful, but physically demanding, life in this lovely place? One day John drove up with his own ATV on a trailer and rolled it out for me to test-drive. It was fun maneuvering the thing down the wooded paths and around the rolling meadow. And it was a pleasure to climb up into the pasture without hurting. But I already had a farm truck and an SUV and didnt relish calling Paula to suggest buying still another vehicle. John and Anthony both argued that I needed one. ATVs were useful, they said, good for hauling hay and firewood and trash. It was also fun to go trekking to nearby farms or into the woods. One thing Id noticed-and often argued with environmentalist friends about-was that people like Anthony dont use such contraptions to despoil nature but to experience it. He and his friends are constantly out in fields and woods on four-wheelers and snowmobiles; he tosses his daughter, Ida, into her seat and heads out for picnics and river explorations. I dont think I can buy one right now, I protested to John. But my heart was sinking. Doctors can say what they want, but there was no way to maintain a farm with three dogs, three donkeys, three chickens, and a lot of ewes in labor while staying off ones feet. So a few days later, I went to the dealer with John and, as both he and Anthony knew I would, returned with a Kawasaki Prairie. John gave me a long lesson on operating it safely; Anthony showed me how to climb steep hills and make turns. Then I was alone with it, a snappy dark-green model with wide, steady tires. The machine was almost shockingly simple to use: You turned the key, adjusted the choke, and then drove off, using a throttle near your right thumb. John had insisted I buy a helmet; he also installed a rear seat, in case Paula, Emma, or a dog needed a ride. The dogs gathered around the ATV curiously. I couldnt envision a dog riding in that seat, but I was wrong. Orson hopped up and planted himself in it as if hed been born there, waiting for me to take him four-wheeling, apparently. So I climbed on, trying to spare my painful leg. He put his head over my right shoulder, to navigate, and off we puttered, slowly, down a path into the woods. Omigod, I remember thinking as we launched, the wind in my face, Orsons head on my shoulder. Ive wasted my life. Orson was completely at ease. With his tremendous agility, he kept his footing over every bump and turn. I accelerated a bit and we zipped around the meadow. When I pulled back into the driveway, having kept our first excursion brief, Orson waited until he was sure I wouldnt change my mind and crank the thing up again. Then he leaped down, looking delighted with himself. The dogs instantly loved this new contraption. They loved the running, and the sense of adventure. Rose, who wanted no part of riding, was happy to take up point position about a dozen yards ahead. She never had to break a trot to keep well ahead of me, no matter how fast I went. Clementine, surprisingly fleet for a Lab, trotted right alongside or to the rear. Orson sometimes ran but usually rode. We found new streams and trails in the woods, stopped for picnics. I started packing sandwiches and treats, plus water for us all. The border collies never tired of running alongside, but after a few miles, Clem did, so I sometimes lifted her onto the seat. Orson had a shaman and two vets, one holistic and one traditional. He had been studied by behaviorists and trainers. His diet included Chinese herbal supplements. Id trained him year after year. Ive read countless books, tried innumerable treats, methods, and programs, talked to vets, behaviorists, herders. I can honestly say that none of those efforts changed this strange dog as dramatically as my ATV. The Helldog, as he was known in my family, became: Hell on Wheels. The ATV somehow meshed happily with his crazy self. He had found his work-intense, exciting, in close proximity to me. Unlike sheepherding, which he had to watch from a distance, on the ATV he was in the center of the storm, right where he always wanted to be. The machine gave him the chance to run like a fiend, which he loved, and then to navigate, which he loved even more. And there was no way to do it wrong or screw it up. It was all positive, all the time. Every morning when I came outside, he took up position on the rear seat, awaiting travel instructions. If we were doing something else, he jumped down and followed along. If we were ATV-ing, he was in heaven. Hed never loved working with sheep nearly so much. The border collie who needed work had found some, and it calmed him even more than Chinese herbs. Over the past months, Rose had pushed Orson aside a bit. Shed gained importance because she was so indispensable, and because dealing with the sheep was so big a part of farm life. Clem was irresistible to everyone; people lined up to see and cuddle with her. But this machine provided Orsons triumphal comeback. I didnt really know how it related to whatever had been bothering him. But I know he was a different dog, less frenetic, more at ease. The ATV had other purposes. It would give my leg a chance to begin healing. The
wagon that attached to the rear was useful; I used it to haul manure for the gardens, bales of hay, firewood for the stoves. Aboard the ATV, I drove up to the top of the pasture each morning and night to check on the ewes and lambs, visit the donkeys, and monitor fences that cant be seen from the house. I surprised coyotes, rescued a ewe stuck in a thorn bush. But the machines greatest contribution was harder to quantify or describe. One early summer morning, I left Rose and Clem in the yard. Orson hopped up onto the ATV and we roared off. I had packed my lunch and a marrow bone for him. At the top of the pasture, we motored over to the brown Adirondack chairs, with their thrilling view. In the past, Id clambered up there almost daily, but since my other leg started hurting I rarely used those chairs. At the top of the hill, I took in the lovely breeze, unpacked my sandwich, and gave Orson his bone to gnaw on. We watched the puffy clouds move slowly over the fields, listened to crickets and cicadas. After a while, Orson put his head on my foot and napped. I had a strong feeling I rarely got from this difficult creature: peace. It was nice. In June, I decided Orson and I were ready to take our act on the road. I checked the firmness of the belts holding the backseat in place, and waved Orson aboard. We headed down the dirt road and into town, right down the middle of Route 30. Strictly speaking, this was not legal. But it sure was fun. A rottweiler roared out of a yard and gave chase. In any other context, there would have been a brawl, a drama, with barking, charging dogs, and anxious humans. But this time, Orson looked down at this dog with contempt and just blew him off. Orson barked once or twice; I yelled insults; we cruised on. We drove by Mrs. OMalley sitting in her garden and watched her jaw drop. We zipped past the Presbyterian church and waved at the Reverend Hoffman. We saw Don Coldwell in his workshop, crafting more Adirondack chairs. When we pulled up to the Bedlam Corners Variety Store, Marie came out and gave me a soda. How did you get here? she asked, incredulously, staring at Orson, who seemed to relish his role as grand marshal of his own parade. ATVs are not supposed to go cruising down highways. Next, keeping to the side of the road, we headed for Gardenworks, the sprawling garden and farm center at the edge of town. As we roared up to the front door, its owner, Meg Southerland, blinked and smiled. Orson hopped off for some water, which his fans among the staff were happy to provide, and I proudly showed off my new vehicle. Everyone looked around for the trailer that had transported it from the farm, but of course there wasnt one. You didnt, said Meg, whod grown used to my odd adventures but was nonetheless alarmed. I did. After a few minutes spent visiting, though, it was time to head home. I didnt want to press my luck and run into a sheriffs deputy or state trooper. But we were almost alone on the road, it turned out, chugging back down Route 30, past the variety store and the church, past Mrs. OMalley and the rottweiler, and up the hill to the farm, where Clem and Rose were in the yard, waiting to greet us. How strange a sight we must have been, man and dog. All we needed were silk scarves to look like flying aces, like Snoopy and the Red Baron. It was a victory march. Orson could not have been happier, prouder, more at ease. Perhaps we both sensed it was some kind of high-water mark, after all our hard work, training, needles, tests, and herbs. I have never loved him more than at that moment. If parts of Orsons soul remained scattered, maybe wed picked up one or two on our procession. Id have to check with his personal shaman. Meanwhile, we were a happy duo.