Rose in a Storm

by Jon Katz

  Rose showed her mother the cruel storm, Sam, Katie, the fear, the coyotes, the death and danger on the farm, in the blizzard, her sense of being overwhelmed and the stirring of choice in her soul. And now, the black and icy fog that suffocated everything—sight, smell, sound, sense.

  Rose sensed that her mother shared these images, although she did not offer sympathy or soothing. Rose did not expect it, or even quite grasp the idea. A dog’s purpose was to serve, learn, and share, not to comfort or direct. Their spirits were independent of one another, their lives and fates their own.

  This was a waiting place, her mother made her understand, where the spirits of dogs came until they were called back. She herself had gone back and forth many times, and so would Rose. They would always meet here, as dogs that were connected to one another did.

  It was time for Rose to go back, her mother communicated to her. It was the fate of a working dog—any dog—to be called to serve, and then called again and again. Rest was only temporary. This was a healing place, a place to replenish the spirit and the will, to provide strength and endurance for the harder life on the other side.

  A place of reinvention.

  Rose felt her mind grow clear, her will and purpose renewed, her instincts sharpened and strengthened.

  After some time, her mother got up, touched Rose’s nose with her own, and vanished into the sea of blue shimmering, haunting lights that sparkled all around her. The puppies were gone with her.

  There was no good-bye.

  Rose turned and looked around her, at this beautiful and rich place, filled with smells and lights and sounds and colors—all of her senses engaged, yet peaceful. Then she slipped back into the lake, and glided, rather than swam, back to the other side. Rose sensed, up ahead, the farm and the raging storm waiting for her.

  * * *

  SHE TRIED to open her eyes, unsure of where she had been, or if she had really gone anywhere. Again she struggled to move, to breathe, but once more gave in to this strange state of resignation, of acceptance. She closed her eyes and all was black again.

  Then she stirred.

  Suddenly, Rose sensed movement above, felt pressure, heard braying, felt a soft muzzle on her nose. The ground seemed to move as she was pushed roughly to the side.

  She was dizzy, confused. Her head was still ringing from the cow’s kick. Her ribs ached from landing on the snow, and she was wheezing, wet, every breath a struggle. She shook her head and began what seemed a long climb up and out of a deep hole.

  She felt the nuzzle again. She heard a braying. She was being pushed, forced to get up. She opened her eyes and looked into the face of Carol, the donkey.

  She and Carol had little to do with each other. Rose did not like donkeys or horses; they were too independent and flighty, and they returned the feeling. Carol had even kicked her once, just like this cow—and tried more times than that.

  But now Carol was gentle, encouraging, much as Rose often was with Sam when he fell. The donkey’s message was clear. Get up. She had used her warm nose and hooves to move Rose, stir her.

  Rose gradually came to her senses, and she slowly got to her feet, looking back toward the cows.

  As she returned to full consciousness, she was suddenly back in the storm, on top of the mass of collapsed snow by the barn, trying to get her bearings, trying to grasp where she was, what had happened. But she couldn’t, not really. Images streamed through her mind—Sam, the wild dog, the sheep, the storm, the ice, the cows and steers, the goats, Winston.

  And then the image of the cows became clear. She turned to see how they were doing, and she heard their hearts beating, saw the steam coming from their noses. They were all right now.

  The wild dog came out of the barn and sat behind her. He clambered over the snow, as if to lead her somewhere, and she followed, weakly.

  He paused, turned to lick at her bleeding paws, to sniff at her, to push her along gently. She permitted this. He led her to the side of the barn, and through the opening. She followed him in, out of the worst of the wind and snow, and fell asleep on a bale of hay.

  Rose did not wonder how Carol had come to walk through the snow and awaken her. Or why. It didn’t matter.

  WHEN ROSE woke up later she was shaken, drained, startled by what she saw. It was now full daylight, and she was in the big barn. But she had no sense of how long she had been away from the house, in the snow, and then asleep. Every part of her was in pain, especially her sides, which ached with every breath.

  It was still snowing, but more lightly now. The wind was quieter. Rose could feel the storm beginning to ebb for the moment, though she knew there was more coming. She could also sense life was still far from normal, for her or the rest of the animals on the farm and in the woods.

  Snow had blown in through the sides of the barn. Two or three parts of the roof had collapsed, and debris was scattered across the floor. It was quiet, a dark jumble of machines, feed bags, wet hay, droppings, even rotting eggs. The cold staved off some of the smell and decay. But while the barn was hardly warm, it was still protected from the worst of the wind and snow and ice outside.

  It was, for now at least, a refuge for her, a place to regain her energy, prepare for what came next. There was also something close to gratitude, appreciation for the donkey that had somehow awakened her. The blackness had been closing in, and then, just as suddenly, there was light.

  Now, she heard a sharp series of cracks from the barn walls—the pipes in the water heating coil system, used to ferry water in the winter, had burst. Just a trickle of water came out, and the animals settled again quickly. Against the cold and wind picking up just outside the barn, the noise seemed minor.

  Things in the barn seemed different now. Rose felt the absence of animal movement, shifting, searching for food. It was quiet. Farm animals, especially sheep, were usually wary of Rose, but today there was the absence of fear. The animals—the chickens, the cats, and a cow that had squeezed in through the open door—were all looking at her, which was unusual. Her map seemed to sharpen.

  Either she had changed, or all of the animals were reacting to her differently.

  Rose had no real relationship with these animals—the cats, chickens, cows. Unlike sheep, they were more independent sorts and rarely needed to be herded or moved. Usually they seemed as confounded by her as she was by them. But here she was in this new reality, inside the barn in the middle of a raging storm with a mix of creatures who almost never would be found together in such close quarters.

  It was strange, if not unprecedented, this curious gathering. How odd it would appear to Sam if he could see it. The different species of the farm coexisted, but they were always in their own predictable places, always with their own kind, steered there by some kind of self-awareness that was at the limit of Sam’s, and most people’s, understanding of animal consciousness.

  Sam would have been amazed by a number of curious things. He would have seen Rose and the wild dog lying next to each other, licking each other’s wounds, cleaning each other’s fur, joined in a bond that only the two of them shared.

  In the rear of the barn, Brownie, the steer, had stuck his head in through one of the barn windows, blown open by the wind. He was reaching in to eat from a dwindling bale of hay, the other bales too far from the window for him to reach. Like the sheep, the cows and steers had no food, all of the feeders now shrouded in snow and ice.

  Sam would have seen the cat Eve lying near Winston, purring softly as the pompous rooster circled beneath the roosting hens. Inside the barn, the chickens still had some feed, but that was dwindling as well. And the chickens would never venture outside in a storm.

  The water buckets were all frozen. Snow blowing in from the windows was spreading across the floor of the big barn, which was dark with the power out, but brightened by the reflected light of the snow.

  A few barn swallows had taken refuge in the upper reaches of the barn. Rose looked up now and then as a mouse dared to make a move acros
s a hay bale.

  It was the wild dog who seemed to most need her time and attention. Rose sensed he was weakening further. He lowered his head, and, in that dank and cold place, she felt a chill and began to tremble. The moment became theirs, in the way of dogs, in their particular kind of language, beyond the awareness of people. The wind still blowing, they sorted through the smells in the barn, the sounds of mice and rats crawling in the corners.

  There was a sadness about the wild dog, a sense of gravity. Even covered in burrs, sores, and wounds, he was a handsome, proud dog, weary of his life alone, without work or purpose.

  This farm was the wild dog’s now, too. As long as he was able, he was grateful to once again have work. He had an innate respect and affection for this intense little dog. She was dutiful, serious, and smart, as he had once been—as he would be still while he lived.

  Rose was not so old, had not been through the same things. But in a way, she and the wild dog were peers now. Out on their own, living off their instincts, without human direction, and so much work still to be done.

  ROSE, STILL SHAKEN, made her way through the snow and ice to the farmhouse to check on Sam. She found him still on the sofa, sitting up and cradling his arm. She watched as he took more pills from the bottle near the table, and after that, he nodded off into a fitful sleep again.

  When she returned to the barn, she found it quiet, the chickens clucking and sleeping, the big steer munching on hay, the day edging along, even though the difference between day and night had become almost irrelevant in the fury of the blizzard.

  Rose could feel that the storm was vast, and not nearly over.

  The sheep, calling out from the pole barn, were already restive, hungry. The ewe was still calling out for her lost baby. The coyotes would surely return, hungrier, better prepared, strong and in greater numbers. The foxes would be hungry as well.

  By evening, the animals would be looking in earnest for food and water. There would not be any. The sheep would require her presence, to keep them calm, perhaps to fight off the coyotes. And they would expect her to lead them to food as she did every other day of their lives.

  The barn seemed suffused in soft light, a light warmed as if by the blood of the animals themselves. The wood, roof, and pipes in the barn all groaned, creaked, and hissed in a strange symphony, but the animals looked to Rose, sensing she was the leader.

  Brownie stopped eating, the goats stopped complaining, the chickens opened their eyes in their roosts and tilted their heads, cocked their eyes at Rose as if awaiting some instruction from her. The wild dog sighed, raised his head. Eve lay down in front of her. The swallows quieted in the rafters, and even the anxious cries and howls of the coyotes up on the hill seemed to grow softer.

  Rose was unnerved by the attention and focus. She did not know what was expected of her. The images racing through her mind slowed, changed, calmed. For a moment the storm simply was, and it seemed almost beautiful, and timeless.

  Rose and the animals sat in this way for a long time.

  BUT AS QUICKLY as this quiet had descended, life returned. The mood shifted once again, and this time of communion, of reflection, was over.

  Cold, hunger, fear—all began to insinuate their way back into Rose’s consciousness. Rose, like the other animals, was about life. Whatever had just transpired in the barn, all of their instincts were adamant about one thing: survival.

  As the morning wore on, the wind shrieked, the snow thickened again, the cold infiltrated through the cracks and crevices of the barn. The mice started skittering around, and the animals returned to their natural manners. Eve vanished into the rafters; Brownie began hungrily seeking hay again; and Winston once more sounded his ear-shattering crowing.

  Around midday, Rose heard a pop, then a hiss. She trotted outside and looked up to see a bright-blue ball shoot up from the farmhouse far into the sky. It burned more brightly than any moon or sun or star, and all she could see was that it came from the porch. She could not fathom what it was, but she watched it, transfixed, as it rose higher and higher and burned ever more brightly, even through the clouds and snow.

  The sheep began bleating, and she turned away from it, listening as it hissed its way back down to the ground, far out in the woods.

  Rose’s mind raced, a jumble of confused images, none of which really seemed to fit. There was no pasture, no hay in the feeders, no water in the troughs. No Sam on his machines to move things around.

  ROSE LOOKED for Sam, where her direction came from, where work began. She lowered her head for the long and tiring climb over the drifts to the farmhouse. Every step was difficult, and her coat was covered in snow, her eyes crusted, her breathing still painful as she worked her way toward the house, the wind blowing straight into her face.

  She was well outside the gate when she heard the wild dog’s warning growl from far behind her. She looked up and was surprised to find herself face-to-face with three coyotes, surrounding her in a circle.

  The coyote she knew was not among this group, and, looking into their eyes, it was instantly clear to her that they had not come for the sheep or the chickens. They had come for her. They were hungry, determined, deployed in killing mode, and began to howl and bark, signaling to one another that they had found a kill, they had found food and were now calling to the others for help.

  Rose did not calculate odds. She could run or fight—but she had never run, not from a sheep, or a ram, or a cow. She would not even have known how to do it. Standing her ground was simply what she did, and she lowered her ears and bared her teeth as one of the coyotes met her eyes in response.

  She knew the attack would come from the other two, that his role was merely to keep her focused, toward him. She prepared to fight and was as startled as the coyotes at the loud bang and flash of light that erupted from the farmhouse window. Almost before she could move, the coyotes were in flight, up the hill and into the woods.

  Sam shouted something from the window behind her, and she turned to get her bearings. Then she bounded to the back door of the farmhouse, and into the kitchen, where Sam, swathed in slings, limping, his face twisted in pain, was standing with his rifle by the back door.

  SAM’S HEART was racing, the adrenaline pumping hard enough that it masked some of the pain in his arm. He’d stepped outside to scan the horizon for the rescue he hoped was coming in the wake of his flare. There, he’d seen Rose face-to-face with three coyotes. Once she was inside, he told her to stay. She lay down and closed her eyes to rest. She was awakened when he got up and stumbled to the back door.

  “Rose,” he said. “I’ve got to get out there. I’ve signaled for help, which means I’ll be gone for a few days at least. But I’ve got to get some more hay to the animals. They’ll starve if I don’t get some food out to them.”

  She watched as he threw a parka over his shoulders amidst groans of pain. She followed him to the back door and stood in the doorway.

  “Rose, get out of the way,” he said. “I have to get out there. I can crawl if I have to—”

  Sam had come to see Rose as an extension of himself. He rarely even had to give her a command—she often anticipated him, but when he did, she responded instantly. He loved her for it.

  Now, he was shocked by what he saw. Rose was standing, her head low, almost in a working crouch. She was uttering a low growl, her teeth were bared. She was not moving.

  At first he thought she must be reacting to something behind him, or something she saw or heard outside. But he looked—no, she was looking right into his eyes. She was growling at him.

  He finally managed to sputter, “Rose! What are you doing? Bad girl! Get out of my way. What’s wrong with you?”

  He yelped in surprise as Rose lunged forward and nipped at his left hand when he tried to reach for the doorknob. He staggered back, and the door fell closed. When he reached out again, Rose went for his hand again. Sam shouted and fell back once more.

  “Rose! Let me out. What’s wrong with you? Di
d you get bit by something rabid?” Each time he opened the door, she lunged at him, growling and snapping.

  For a long time the door remained closed, and then he managed to open it a crack.

  He gave her a long look. He thought maybe she had gone mad. She met his gaze. The two stared at each other for what seemed a very long time.

  Sam looked at this creature, battered, matted, and clearly near exhaustion. She lowered her head but met his gaze. She was not mad. She had been with him every step of the way, through every minute of the storm. She’d rounded up the goats and cows when they had run off, she’d contained the sheep. He was surprised to notice the swelling on the right side of her head, a bump as big as a pear. Something had kicked her or fallen on her.

  And she had dug him out of the snow. He would be frozen, dead, in the snow if not for her. He remembered calling out to her, and somehow she had heard him. Now she was telling him something. He owed it to her to listen.

  Sam remembered her faithful love of Katie when she was sick. Rose was not only an animal he needed to run the farm, she was all he had.

  Looking at her eyes, runny from the snow and ice blowing into her face, he knew there was no way she would quit or back down. He couldn’t ever strike at her. And he could see that she was clearly taking a real beating working in the storm, something he had been too absorbed in his own troubles to fully notice.

  Soon they both would be heading out, away from the farm. He had to accept that. He couldn’t leave her in this awful mess.

  Rose did not waver. She was silent so long as he was still, but if he moved forward an inch, the growl rose from her throat. She is not letting me out, he thought. He looked at the blood on his hands, the blood on the sling, felt the awful pain in his arm and leg. He remembered his grandfather: Love the farm, but love yourself, too.

  He closed the door and hobbled back into the house, where he lay down on the sofa. “Okay,” he muttered. “We’ll wait for help.”