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

by Jon Katz

  Pearl wove herself into my life as seamlessly as any creature could have. She did need more surgery, and we both did go through some long and painful rehabilitation. Whenever we went to the vet, Pearl would head straight for the operating room, even if she just needed a rabies shot. She came everywhere with me, on shopping trips, to readings and talks. Wherever we went, shed find some sucker and, within seconds, be lying on her back getting her belly rubbed. She had fans and friends everywhere. My dog life had quieted, even with this new addition. Rose seemed calmer after Orsons death. She spent more time next to me in my office, or sitting quietly in the garden, sometimes playing with Clem, more often keeping an eye on the flock. She accepted Pearl without rancor or fuss. And Pearl and Clem, who were aunt and niece, bonded instantly, gnawing happily on each other, playing tug of war. I called them the Love Sisters. Almost anybody who knew me, from UPS drivers to landscapers and friends, had learned to approach the front-yard gate warily, a legacy of Orsons ferocious hubbub. Suddenly, it was a different experience. Instead of Orson, the Love Sisters were waiting, wriggling and wagging for treats and hugs. The local garden center often invited both of them for the day, to sit in the doorway and greet customers. Friends like Annie and Nicole-two of Orsons former girlfriends-came by to cuddle the girls and to help with Pearls rehab. Town highway workers stopped to give the Labs biscuits. Pearl couldnt run much those first few months-even getting to her feet after a nap took some effort-so she curled up next to me while I worked. She had every reason to be grumpy and aloof, but instead she was affectionate, forgiving, and calm. At the vets office, they called her Perfect Pearl. Of course, I couldnt run around much, either. Sometimes, when we encountered the slowly recovering Winston on our walks, I wondered at the spectacle of the three of us, limping and lurching around the farm. Pearl had lived in a kennel her whole life; she seemed to relish being part of a family. She was so gentle I could bring her anywhere; none of the other animals on the farm minded her presence. She accompanied me to the barn to see the chickens, sheep, or donkeys. Clem showed her the dark side of Lab life, where to find the biggest piles of tasty donkey droppings, how to roll in decaying animal carcasses or-even better-drag them into the house. She loved to come sheepherding with Rose and me. While Rose moved the sheep around, Pearl would sit beside me, her head swiveling as Rose raced up and down the meadow. I thought she seemed puzzled as to why any dog would race around like that. She preferred to spend herding time leaning against my leg and waiting for a belly rub, then go back indoors for a siesta. Pearl had enormous presence and dignity, the bearing and focus of an experienced show dog. She generally left the hard running and grunt work to the other dogs. She was as different from Orson as a dog could be. Her very simplicity was healing. She just wanted to love and be loved, and had no agenda beyond that. She needed virtually no training; caused no trouble; demanded no more attention than I wanted to give. She did want to be with me, and I accommodated her. When I worked, she lay by my right side; when the winter approached, she lay as close to the woodstove as she could get. There were titanium screws and other hardware in her leg; I figured they probably got cold in the winter. It felt from the first as if she had lived with me forever. I dont believe that dogs choose us, as you sometimes hear their besotted owners say. But I do think dogs and other animals enter our lives for a reason, and in some cases, if youre paying attention, you can figure out what the purpose might be. Orson radically altered my life: He came at a pivotal time and provoked-with no conscious part in the process, Im sure-a series of actions and reactions that caused me to change almost everything about the way I lived and worked and thought. Pearl was a dog hungry to leave behind her successful but transient life as a show and breeding dog and find someone to attach to, I was sure. That the someone was also pain-riddled, crippled, and sadly bereft was probably coincidental. This was her work. Unlike Orson, she was neither dominant, territorial, nor unpredictable. If his spirit was fiercely protective and instinctual, hers was unfailingly soothing and agreeable. Affection was her calling. You could not look at that dogs face and fail to smile, and between Orsons death and my physical troubles, I hadnt smiled much for a while. I didnt know, when he arrived, how much I needed Orson, but I did know I needed Pearl. When I was sad or unhappy, I would sit on the floor and shed come limping over and put her head on my shoulder, lick me once or twice on the chin, then collapse onto the floor herself for tummy rubs. Her own rehab continued, painfully and slowly. I learned how to massage her legs and gave her medication, and we went to see the same holistic Vermont vet whod done so much to calm Orson, for acupuncture and chiropractic. As the weeks passed, Pearl grew stronger, more supple, more active. She began chasing sticks a bit. In fact, I started taking Pearl along to my own physical therapy appointments. Entering the small building, she went to patients, resting her head next to them. If they ignored her, she moved on. One sixteen-year-old had suffered awful knee damage in an accident, and his rehab-as he laboriously pedaled a stationary bicycle-was painful even to watch. Pearl zeroed in on him instantly; I loved to see him smile at her approach. An elderly woman trying to manage advanced arthritis always stayed to cuddle Pearl while I went through my own exercises. Soon, patients were calling to see when Pearl was coming. The therapists made it clear that I was not to show up without her. She and I hobbled into the deep winter together. And, slowly, things did start to brighten. Anthony bought a house on a hilltop, began a crash program to rebuild it, and let me run a forklift now and then. (I only put one hole in a wall.) Winston survived, thanks to Annie, who built him a low perch and rigged up a heat lamp for the coldest nights. His crow was markedly weaker, but it was wonderful to hear it. My back improved. Pearl and I went to physical therapy twice a week, and the exercises, heat, and massage began to work some magic. By the time the snow came, I was walking better than I had in a couple of years. I still faced limitations on what I could do. But there were stretches of the day when I was not in pain, and that made life better. To my familys relief, I issued fewer instructions as to the postmortem fate of my animals. Clem, sensing an opportunity, started sleeping at the foot of my bed-at least until I dozed off myself, at which point she was prone to seizing my pillow and stretching out luxuriously. We tussled over blankets and space, but I loved waking up to her slurps on my face. I visited Orsons grave almost every day, sometimes riding up on the ATV, sometimes walking up the pasture, now that I could. I said hello, briefly told him what was going on. It was a nice spot with a good view. On a farm, the miraculous cycle of life and death, loss and rebirth, keeps pulling you along, even if youre not really in the mood to go. So, of course, do dogs. The tenor of life with my dogs had changed dramatically. If I no longer had a dog who could transform my life, I also no longer had one who would burst through a glass window, or frighten or harm anyone. There was less tension in Bedlam, fewer shouts and corrections, less anxiety and vigilance. My other dogs could not replace Orson, nor fill the void he left, yet in a curious way his departure had given me the life with dogs Id always dreamed of. Be careful what you wish for. On a farm, there is no stasis, however. Nothing stays the same three days in a row. I noticed the first rat in the fall, a big fat thing cheekily walking right by the barn door. When I yelled at him, he didnt move. I tossed a rock; he still didnt scramble. I put the word out, therefore, on the country bullshit grapevine. In West Hebron, all news was broadcast via the Bedlam Corners Variety Store. Soon enough, I got a call from a farmer who had a cat he wanted to get rid of.

  I was never much drawn to cats, and even if I had been, Orson was not. They seemed to me slithery and remote. I didnt really get having an animal you couldnt herd sheep or take a walk with. What use were cats? But the rats were invading, and so sizable that early on I mistook one for a rabbit. The farmers told me there was nothing much to be done: Rats, naturally drawn to farms, were smart, hardy, and tough to get rid of. There were countless holes in stone walls and rotted silos they could nest in. They figured out traps. And I couldnt spread poison
s around a barnyard full of dogs, sheep, donkeys, and chickens. The farmer whod called was about to weed out his own posse and had one in mind for me, because she was accustomed to dogs. Young, scrawny, and mottled (cat lovers would call her a tortoiseshell), she got her name-Mother-from her habit of caring for kittens, whether they were hers or not. Upstate, barn cats are mythic figures. Elusive and reclusive, they prowl barns and pastures, sleep in haylofts, wage war on rodents and snakes. They die often-and frequently brutally-from disease, neglect, and abuse; from poison or stray dogs or attacks by predators like foxes and coyotes; from target practice by kids or hunters. They get hit by cars or, in the worst cases, waste away from starvation and exposure. When their numbers increase (few are spayed or neutered), they often are shot. Some of the softer farmers put heat lamps in their barns or let their barn cats into basements and mudrooms on sub-zero nights. Most dont. Did I need a barn cat? Rose ran the farm and didnt like cats either, though she was less adamant about that than Orson. But the rat population was booming. So, with many misgivings, I agreed to take Mother, and my neighbor drove her over in a cardboard box. I had the distinct feeling that if I hadnt taken her she wasnt headed for a shelter. Mother was surprisingly friendly. She took to me right away. She loved to be stroked and scratched, and she purred when she saw me and curled around my legs. She was always ravenous and seemed astounded by the cans of cat food I ferried out to her in the barn. She was also instantly businesslike, scoping out the rats the second she arrived. I took her to the vet and had her spayed and immunized, then put a collar on her, so strangers would know she wasnt a stray. Rose was not hospitable. The minute Mother returned from the vet and entered the barnyard, Rose roared down the pasture hill to drive off this unimpressive-looking intruder. It was one of Roses rare errors in judgment. The cat sat perfectly still until the charging border collie was about four inches away, then she calmly turned and raked the dogs nose with one sharp swipe of her paw. Rose, unlike Orson, was not one to make the same mistake twice. From that point on, even when Mother was right in front of her, Rose pretended not to notice. Mother staked out the barn and the barnyard right away, sashaying back and forth at the gate, taunting the dogs, strutting her stuff, almost daring anybody to start something. Nobody did. From Mothers first day, the rodent carcasses began piling up. She left the first right by my back door; it was enormous. Daily offerings followed. This caused accompanying minor problems when Clem and Pearl, wagging delightedly, began bringing the corpses into the house. But the pest population plummeted. I was impressed; this cat delivered. Greeting Mother quickly became part of my morning routine. I left a bowl of dry kibble in an empty stable, but I also brought her a dish of canned cat food each day. Mother was always waiting for me, purring, meowing, circling. I put out a de-icer bucket so that she would always have water, even on bitter-cold nights. And I brought occasional snacks, table scraps, or a cup of warm milk. As with dogs and donkeys, food went a long way toward establishing a good relationship. Mother seemed quite content in the barn. Unlike a dog, she had no need for or interest in sharing my life. Yet we had a real understanding, a lot of mutual affection. As winter approached, I worried about the cold-Id always heard that cats hated the cold-even though Mother was filling out and growing a thicker coat. With a friends help, I made her a sort of igloo in the barn loft, a cozy construction of hay bales with a fuzzy blanket underneath. I sometimes wondered, as the temperatures dropped, whether I should let Mother into the house. Every dog Ive ever had would have happily come inside. But Mother didnt seem to care. She was happy in her space and happy to leave me in mine. She was willing to accept occasional gifts, but she didnt need my charity. Every now and then she disappeared for a day or two, and I went out to the barn, anxiously calling her name. You could not, I realized, have it both ways. A barn cat was not really a pet. In the tradition of barn cats, Mother eventually reappeared, and no one knew where shed been or why. But the rats-at least the live ones-disappeared. Once in a while, when I took out the garbage or left the dogs behind to stroll under a full moon, Mother appeared at my side and strolled along with me. Hey, Mother, I said. She rarely met my gaze, but she walked along with her tail up, her eyes sweeping the darkness. I was happy to have her company.

  There was life after death, it seemed. Pearl was a different kind of dog from Orson, and Mother a different kind of animal altogether. They bolstered me, Pearl with her inexhaustible affection, Mother with her novelty, a new kind of connection to the animal world. In retrospect, their animal natures marked the end of that darker time; they brought their own brands of comfort. If they could not replace Orson, they did show me that Orson was not the only animal that could take me outside myself. Around that time, a message turned up on my answering machine from Lesley, the shaman. She wanted to come talk to me.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN Home to the Dog Star C onventional wisdom holds that the older people get, the more sagacious they become. This has not been my experience. The older I get, the less I think I know, the less certainty I have, the more I realize how much we dont know and will never understand. My friend Anthony, young and filled with energy, is drawn to detailed plans; if theyre good plans-his often are-they will work, he thinks. Im convinced most plans are doomed, hubristic notions just waiting to unravel. Orson is the classic example, the product of my plans that failed and failed and failed. Yet his good works on my behalf transcend death. It took me some time to see it, but I know that hell always be taking care of me, in one sense or another, whether hes with me or not. Orson reenergized my work. He reconnected me to nature, brought me to the farm, introduced me to the pleasure of other animals, led me to true friends, cracked open my consciousness, deepened my spirituality and sense of possibility. Three years ago I would have no more been yakking on the phone with a shaman than I would be playing in the NFL. Nor would I have grasped the concept of an animals spirit guiding and helping me, something I now see and feel almost daily. Orson helped me, deep into my sixth decade, to stay open, to not shut down. In many ways, that may turn out to be his greatest gift. Im not a shaman and I dont wish to be; I dont have those special qualities. But I love the stories people like Lesley bring back from some other world. I cant say if these stories are true. I dont measure Lesleys every word against the literal facts; to do that is to miss the point, to blind oneself to the possibility of a greater truth. Reality is not about how Lesley learns something and when she learned it, its about her ability to sense what an animal might feel or know, and to translate that for people like me. I no longer doubt that there are people with gifts I dont have, who know things I dont know. Lesley is one of those. After Orsons death, Lesley took a number of journeys with Orson; some I requested, some occurred spontaneously. What she learned and experienced was mesmerizing. More than anything else, I found her reports profoundly healing. I learned early in life that its dangerous to show emotion, so I generally dont; maybe I never will. Lesley understood that that didnt mean I couldnt feel. She saw the broken parts of me, just as she saw the broken parts of Orson. She saw what we meant to each other, how those broken parts fit together like pieces of a puzzle. She helped me to come to terms with what had happened when I couldnt do it by myself. Lesley had visited the farm; shed met Orson. She knew he had problems; she knew hed attacked and bitten several people. When we met, she hadnt read any of my books; we hadnt talked much about my life or my past. Yet in a short time, she had come to know me well, to understand my concerns and choices. I trusted her, something that doesnt come easily to me. She called herself a shaman but I thought of Lesley as an intuitive. She grasped the spirit and sense of animals-and people-better than almost anyone Id met. In the days before Orsons death, I had talked to almost no one but Paula and Anthony about what I was thinking, what I had decided to do. Yet Lesley had picked up on it. Ill pass along what she told me. I relate the story faithfully, but I cant say whether or not its true. Youll have to decide that for yourself, and make of it what you will.