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

by Jon Katz

  She had successfully encountered Orson in a journey, Lesley said when I called. When she received messages from animals, she explained, she usually saw them sitting at the edge of a lake; if they wished to communicate with her, they would show her images they wanted her to see. Sometimes they chose not to. I had a strange visit with Orson, she said. The message I got was that he was released, that he was happy and free. Released from what? I asked, taken aback. From being Orson, she said. But he is worried about you. It was strange, I dont really know what to make of it. He wanted to tell me that he was still taking care of you, watching over you. I dont know what this means. I told her that Orson was dead and why. And I asked her to journey to see him again.

  Lesley came to the farm a few weeks later, and we sat in the living room, warming ourselves with a blaze in the woodstove and mugs of hot tea. My old barns loomed in their reddish, aging glory through the tall windows. The sun was fading, vanishing behind the hill. Rose never stuck around when company came, but this time she lay at Lesleys feet, not budging. Usually so restless and busy, she behaved as if she wanted to hear every word. Clem was dozing nearby, Pearl leaning against Lesleys leg, getting her neck scratched. She had met Orson again, Lesley said. He was sitting by the lake at first, but he was waiting for her, eager to show her another place: some dark woods up in the hills way above the farmhouse. There was darkness, then light; dense groves of trees, then brightness. I recognized this description as the woods through which Orson and I often rode on the ATV to meet Sirius, the Dog Star. This, Lesley explained, was Orsons new home, where his spirit lived. He remained powerfully connected to me, she said, but hed known it was time to go, and hed been ready to go. He was remaining behind, she said, to fulfill the terms of our contract, to meet his obligations, as he believed I had tried to meet mine. This was startling. Lesley didnt know of our trips to see the Dog Star, and Id certainly not used the word contract to describe the understanding I thought Orson and I had. Why was Orson staying behind? I asked. To help me finish my project, my new book. Even more unsettling. Lesley didnt know I was trying to write about my life with Orson. I told her about it, about what Id learned about the Dog Star and the dog days. Orson, she said, did not stay near his grave site, and now she understood why. His home was up in the woods, under the Dog Star. It made me unreasonably happy to think his spirit might still hover nearby. Would he stay here always? I asked. No, she said. Only until I was finished with the book; then he would move on. I could always connect with him there in the woods, but he would leave the farm, leave me. Did he ever come closer? Yes, Lesley said. Whenever I was writing, he was there with me, resting his head on my right foot. My heartbeat quickened. In recent weeks, Id often felt pressure on my right foot when I was working; in fact, I kept telling Pearl and Clem to get off, until I looked down and saw they werent there. I figured it might be a neurological symptom. It wasnt painful, particularly, just the sense of a weight. Paula thought I should mention it to the spinal surgeon when I next saw him in New York. We talked for a while about Orson, about this revelation that made no sense and, simultaneously, plenty of sense. Lesley said Orson was stressed, exhausted, spent by the pressure and stimulation of his troubled life in the human world. Sometimes, his brain felt overloaded; his head almost burned, it was so filled with sights and sounds and failures and responsibilities. But when shed seen him, she said, he was at peace. I was struck by the feeling in the room. A few friends had come by-Anthony and two of Orsons girlfriends, Nicole and Annie-and Id invited them to join us. Normally I cherish my privacy, but these people had shared my life and Orsons, and it seemed natural for them to be there and hear what Lesley had learned. Much more than me, they instinctively embraced the idea of a shaman, had no doubts or distance from it. There was no tension in the room, no hostility, anger, or regret. It was a serene gathering. Anthony, who left to go to work, said he felt it, too. In both our lives, gatherings of people were not always tranquil. But there was great trust in this room, complete safety. Still, sorrow engulfed me. I felt at that moment that humans-our demands and expectations, certainly including my own-had failed this creature at every point. And had eventually killed him, even though hed been of as great service to a human as any dog has. As Lesley told about Orson, still present up in the woods, lying on my right foot while I worked, fulfilling his contract to me, then ready to move on, I saw that Nicole and Annie were crying. I felt selfish. I had forgotten how many other people loved this dog. I wasnt crying, though. Orsons death seemed terribly sad to me, but Lesleys story didnt. Orson was released, free, at peace. Yet he was still watching over me, for a little while longer at least. What had happened to make him behave so uncharacteristically? I asked her. Why would he attack those people? Lesley wasnt sure. She believed that perhaps his recent troubles had given me a reason to relinquish him, a way for him to leave. This wasnt a conscious or deliberate plan, she said, or an idea he could put into words. Our connection was powerful, she said, timeless. But animals often find a way of getting humans to let go when its time. He had simply had enough.

  Word of this gathering spread through my hamlet, and I expected raised eyebrows and ridicule, of the kind I would probably have offered myself, a few months earlier. The news didnt generate scoffing, however, but great interest. Every other day, it seemed, women-and some men-were dropping off pictures of dogs, cats, goats, and horses they hoped Lesley could journey to and communicate with. I put a bowl near the front door to store the growing pile of envelopes. It began to feel perfectly normal-like driving over to get the paper or pick up groceries-to collect these pictures, write names and questions on the back, and send them to a friendly vet in Vermont, where Lesley would pick them up, read them, and then, when she was able, encounter this array of creatures. We had a regular shamanic communications network going, all sorts of animals getting visits and relaying messages. We all followed one anothers questions, waited for the shamans answers, discussed the implications. Actually, it was great. It was enthralling to think that Orson was resting on my foot, was feeling free and happy. To picture his presence up beneath the Dog Star gave me quiet joy. Even my grumpy old neighbor Carr, a farmer who has mocked me at every turn for the money I spend on vet care, the price I pay for my purebred dogs, and for even letting a shaman set foot on my property, heard of our shamanic communiques and came by with a picture of his ancient German shepherd Betsy, a veteran, battle-scarred farm dog he adored. Usually full of opinions and well-meaning suggestions about how to run my farm, Carr was quiet that morning. Shes got some tumor or something, the vet says, he told me, looking toward the ground. Betsy had always gone with him everywhere. I hate to ask, and I wouldnt blame you if you told me to go to hell, but maybe you could send this picture along to that friend of yours. Maybe she could let me know how Betsys really feeling, so I can make whatever decisions I gotta make. I nodded and patted Carr on the back. Nobody has a more difficult, or more loving, view of animals than a farmer. I told him I was sure Lesley would do her best and would call him. He never mentioned the encounter to me again, but a few weeks later, he took Betsy to the vet and put her down.

  It occurred to me as I wrote this concluding chapter that if Lesleys understanding of Orsons spirit was correct, then he intended to leave me, and Bedlam Farm, once I finished. That gave me pause. Probably I should have thought of it sooner, but I hadnt. The last word of the last chapter would be our final farewell. I dreaded it. I had tucked the ATV into one of the barns for the winter-a thick layer of snow and ice coated the ground-but when I pulled off the plastic cover and turned the key, it started right up. I swathed myself in scarves and hoods and thick gloves and rode up the hill. The ATV chugged through the snow easily, and I cut through the pasture, across the top of the hill, and into the woods. This was tougher going, but the ATV plowed through. There was too much snow to risk pulling off the trail, so I turned the machine off and went on through the trees on foot. I wished I had brought Rose or Clem. I hadnt thought to bring a cell phone. But I did not
feel alone. I walked the hundred or so yards into the woods and found, poking up through the snow, the rock where Orson and I sat on those misty dog day mornings. Up here I had no trouble showing emotions. It was bitter and the sun was sinking quickly. I couldnt stay long. So this was it, then, the end of our journey together, our tale of friendship and faithfulness. You gave me so much, I thought, and I gave you so little back. In one sense, isnt that the story of humans and dogs? Still, this should by rights be a happy story, not a sad one. His was a life to celebrate. Orson was a good dog; hed served me well. I had done the best I could for him, too. That it was not enough is the stuff of life itself. We can only try. We can feel certain of little. I closed my eyes and tried to journey to Orson, as Lesley had. I tried to picture him resting by a lake, to feel his spirit. Nothing. I dont have that gift. But I have others. I am a writer; I can tell stories. If I couldnt see Orson, receive messages from him, then I could imagine him. If I couldnt summon him, then I could make him up; that was my power, my own gift. I had been doing that all my life. So, since it would not come to me magically, I invented a final encounter with my dog, a way of staying with him a bit longer. My story, the one I made up:

  The woods are beautiful, bright and sunlit. I hear a flurry, light footsteps approaching in the snow. Orson comes out of the shadows to me, right over to the rock. Hes even more beautiful than I remember, so regal and proud, ears up, eyes wide. He doesnt throw himself at me, shower me with licks, jump into my lap. He simply comes close, comfortable with himself, finally able, I imagine, to be free of commands and demands, to do as he wants, not what people keep yelling at him to do. He is free to be the powerful, loving, intelligent, and instinctive creature he was born to be. Though I can see hes very pleased to see me, he doesnt spin around or paw at me for pats. That frantic, aroused quality is gone; he is quiet, different. I stroke his glossy coat and after a bit, he does nuzzle me, leans his head against my chest. Nice place, your new home, I say. We sit quietly together for a few minutes. He is available if I want to find him, he will come if I need him. Hes going away, but not leaving me in the sense I fear. None of this is spoken, just understood, and once I grasp that, we seem to be done. I dont know if theres a spirit world or if Orson inhabits it. I hope so, because that sounds like a better world for him than ours. But even in my own story, I cant know. But because this is my own story, I hug him one last time. Lesley is right: our closeness is beyond words, beyond consciousness, unbreakable.

  I walked back through the woods to the ATV and rode slowly back down the trail, across the pasture, past his grave, back down to the house. The Love Sisters were the first to come bounding out the door, tails wagging, thrilled to see me. Rose followed, in a bouncy mood, licking my hand. Its okay, she seemed to be saying. We are not him, but we are here and we love you too. Or perhaps thats just what I hoped she felt. It seemed as if I had been gone a long time. I dropped to the ground, hugged all my dogs, and then got up, brushed myself off, took off my boots. I made myself a cup of tea and headed back into my office. It was nearly dark now. The sheep were beginning their long nightly trek to the top of the hill, where they would cluster and spend the night. The donkeys were in the pole barn; to my dismay, theyd developed a habit of gnawing on the wooden ladder to the hayloft. Winston was leading the hens into the barn, to their perches. I glimpsed Mother peeking out the barn door, about to begin her murderous night patrols. I poked the fire in the woodstove and turned on the computer. Clem had settled on the sofa with her favorite plush pheasant, which would soon be shredded to bits. Pearl lay down next to me, and Rose darted into the crate next to my desk. I dont know if I imagined it, if I was still half inside my story, but I felt a twinge, pressure on my right foot. It could have been any of the dogs. It could have been my disintegrating spine. It could have been nothing. I didnt look. So this was it, the last turn in the life of a good dog. Good-bye, friend, and safe travels home.

  From top: Rose, Clem, and Pearl

  POSTSCRIPT Owning and loving a dog is a very individual experience. Orsons story was complex, his behavioral problems probably stemming from multiple sources. Some factors-his litter, his early training and socialization, genetics-predate his joining my household. The environment I provided, my own training attempts, my personality may also have had an impact. My choice for Orson was only that: my choice for my dog. Animal lovers have strong opinions on such issues; some will likely condemn my decision. I believe this kind of choice is intensely personal; there are simply no universal rules. When all is said and done, we are, each of us, on our own. If your dog shows behavioral problems, such as arousal or aggression, please consult a vet, trainer, or veterinary behaviorist. Many dogs can be successfully retrained, reoriented, or re-homed. I selected a particular option; there are others. Please also remember, however, that millions of Americans-many of them children-are bitten by dogs each year, some very seriously. This is a moral issue relating to people and dogs that, sadly, many of us who love dogs may have to address.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Thanks to my editor, Bruce Tracy, for insisting that I had to tell Orsons story, and for guiding me so carefully and sympathetically through its writing. Thanks to Richard Abate for fighting hard for me. I thank Dennis Ambrose and Ed Cohen for their careful copyediting and proofreading of my work. I dont really know how to appropriately thank the usual suspects: my wife, Paula Span, who has hung on to what shes taken to calling the runaway train that is Katz, and my daughter, Emma Span, for her love, humor, decency, and great mind. I thank Anthony Armstrong for giving me the gift of real friendship, even in middle age, when I had begun to despair of finding it, and for his hard work and artistry in restoring Bedlam Farm. His wife, Holly Beth, and daughter, Ida Jane, have provided me with love, support, and good times. I appreciate Peter Hanks for his photographic vision, which has helped bring my work to life, and for selling me Elvis, my Brown Swiss steer. Thanks also to Jane, Robin, and Dean Hanks for their support and encouragement since I landed in the country. I am grateful for the friendship of Becky MacLachlan; Meg, Rob, Hunter, and Elizabeth Southerland; and Bill and Maria Heinrich. I am grateful to Jesse and Ralph Corey. Life on Bedlam Farm would not be possible without my friend and helper Annie DiLeo, the Goat Lady of Cossayuna. I am fortunate to have the friendship and wisdom of Lesley Nase, who has opened my heart and mind to the spiritual world of animals. Thanks, too, to Stanley Mickiewicz, a friend and the proprietor of Bedlam Wood Restoration; to Ginny Tremblay, for first showing me Bedlam Farm and being so good a friend; to Alice and Harvey Hahn for helping care for this great old farmhouse; to Pat Freund for introducing me to the wonderful world of donkeys; to Nancy Higby and her Dirt Divas for restoring the gardens of Bedlam Farm. Two great dog breeders, Deanna Veselka of Wildblue Border Collies, and Pam Leslie and Heather Waite of Hillside Labradors, are responsible for the wonderful dogs who have so shaped my life. Thanks to the veterinarians of Borador Animal Hospital and the Granville Small Animal Veterinary Service, especially Mary Menard, Whitney Pressler, and Jeff Meyers. And to Stephanie Mills-Holtzman. And to the Granville Large Animal Service. I am grateful to Dr. Bernard Rawlins and Dr. Dan Richman of the New York Hospital for Special Surgery, and to Kathy Metzger of the Vermont Sports Medicine Center, for helping me move again. Thanks to John Sweenor for teaching me the beauty of ATVs, American cars, and aggressive tires. And, of course, I wont ever be able to really express my gratitude to Orson, the dog who launched me on this great journey, a debt I could never repay.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Thanks to my editor, Bruce Tracy, for insisting that I had to tell Orsons story, and for guiding me so carefully and sympathetically through its writing. Thanks to Richard Abate for fighting hard for me. I thank Dennis Ambrose and Ed Cohen for their careful copyediting and proofreading of my work. I dont really know how to appropriately thank the usual suspects: my wife, Paula Span, who has hung on to what shes taken to calling the runaway train that is Katz, and my daughter, Emma Span, for her love, humor, decency, and great mind. I thank Anthony Armstro
ng for giving me the gift of real friendship, even in middle age, when I had begun to despair of finding it, and for his hard work and artistry in restoring Bedlam Farm. His wife, Holly Beth, and daughter, Ida Jane, have provided me with love, support, and good times. I appreciate Peter Hanks for his photographic vision, which has helped bring my work to life, and for selling me Elvis, my Brown Swiss steer. Thanks also to Jane, Robin, and Dean Hanks for their support and encouragement since I landed in the country. I am grateful for the friendship of Becky MacLachlan; Meg, Rob, Hunter, and Elizabeth Southerland; and Bill and Maria Heinrich. I am grateful to Jesse and Ralph Corey. Life on Bedlam Farm would not be possible without my friend and helper Annie DiLeo, the Goat Lady of Cossayuna. I am fortunate to have the friendship and wisdom of Lesley Nase, who has opened my heart and mind to the spiritual world of animals. Thanks, too, to Stanley Mickiewicz, a friend and the proprietor of Bedlam Wood Restoration; to Ginny Tremblay, for first showing me Bedlam Farm and being so good a friend; to Alice and Harvey Hahn for helping care for this great old farmhouse; to Pat Freund for introducing me to the wonderful world of donkeys; to Nancy Higby and her Dirt Divas for restoring the gardens of Bedlam Farm. Two great dog breeders, Deanna Veselka of Wildblue Border Collies, and Pam Leslie and Heather Waite of Hillside Labradors, are responsible for the wonderful dogs who have so shaped my life. Thanks to the veterinarians of Borador Animal Hospital and the Granville Small Animal Veterinary Service, especially Mary Menard, Whitney Pressler, and Jeff Meyers. And to Stephanie Mills-Holtzman. And to the Granville Large Animal Service. I am grateful to Dr. Bernard Rawlins and Dr. Dan Richman of the New York Hospital for Special Surgery, and to Kathy Metzger of the Vermont Sports Medicine Center, for helping me move again. Thanks to John Sweenor for teaching me the beauty of ATVs, American cars, and aggressive tires. And, of course, I wont ever be able to really express my gratitude to Orson, the dog who launched me on this great journey, a debt I could never repay. This file was created with BookDesigner program bookdesigner@the-ebook.org 2/11/2008